The man with the pimply face placed his hand within my breast pocket and took therefrom its contents with such confidence that it appeared certain I had been watched while writing the cheque. He selected it from among my letters and papers, and, opening it, said in a tone of satisfaction-- "That's all right--as far as it goes. But we must have another thousand." "You'll have nothing from me," I replied, sitting there powerless, yet defiant. "I don't believe Marlowe has been here at all! It's only a trap, and I've fallen into it!" "You've paid your friend's debts," replied the man gruffly; "now you'll pay your own." "I owe you nothing, you infernal swindler!" I responded quickly. "This is a pretty game you are playing--one which you've played before, it seems! The police shall know of this. It will interest them." "They won't know through you," laughed the fellow. "But we don't want to discuss that matter. I'm just going to write out a cheque for one thousand, and you'll sign it." "I'll do nothing of the sort!" I declared firmly. "Oh yes, you will," remarked the younger man. "You've got money, and you can easily afford a thousand." "I'll not give you one single penny," I declared. "And, further, I shall stop that cheque you've stolen from me." Reckitt had already seated himself, opened my cheque-book, and was writing out a draft. When he had finished it he crossed to me, with the book and pen in hand, saying-- "Now you may as well just sign this at first, as at last." "I shall do no such thing," was my answer. "You've entrapped me here, but you are holding me at your peril. You can't frighten me into giving you a thousand pounds, for I haven't it at the bank." "Oh yes, you have," replied the man with the red face. "We've already taken the precaution to find out. We don't make haphazard guesses, you know. Now sign it, and at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you shall be released--after we have cashed your cheques." "Where is Marlowe?" I inquired. "With the girl, I suppose." "What girl?" "Well," exclaimed the other, "her photograph is in the next room; perhaps you'd like to see it." "It does not interest me," I replied. But the fellow Forbes left the room for a moment and returned with a fine panel photograph in his hand. He held it before my gaze. I started in utter amazement. It was the picture of Sylvia! The same that I had seen in Shuttleworth's study. "You know her--eh?" remarked Reckitt, with a grim smile. "Yes," I gasped. "Where is she?" "Across the road--with your friend Jack Marlowe." "It's a lie! A confounded lie! I won't believe it," I cried. Yet at that moment I realized the ghastly truth, that I had tumbled into the hidden pitfall against which both Shuttleworth and Sylvia had warned me. Could it be possible, I asked myself, that Sylvia--my adored Sylvia--had some connection with these blackguards--that she had been aware of their secret intentions?