"Which I fear they will not do," replied the girl, shaking her head. "You speak very apprehensively," I said. "What is there really to fear? Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once. They would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets." "No!" she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in sudden terror. "I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph. It would serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation. But the culprits would never be brought to justice. They are far too clever, and their conspiracies are too far-reaching. No, remain patient. Take the greatest care of your own personal safety--and you may yet be able to combat your enemies with their own weapons." "I shall be able, Sylvia--providing that you assist me," I said. She held her breath, and remained silent. She evidently feared them. I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity. Apparently she feared to incriminate herself. Could it be possible that she had only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the next room by that fatal chair! Yet it was all so puzzling, so remarkable. Surely a girl with such a pure, open, innocent face could not be the accomplice of dastardly criminals! She was their friend. That much she had admitted to me. But her friendship with them was made under compulsion. She urged me not to go to the police. Why? Did she fear that she herself would be implicated in a series of dark and terrible crimes? "Where is your father?" I inquired presently. "In Scotland," was her prompt reply. "I heard from him at the Caledonian Hotel, at Edinburgh, last Friday. I am staying here with Mr. Shuttleworth until his return." Was it not strange that she should be guest of a quiet-mannered country parson, if she were actually the accomplice of a pair of criminals! I felt convinced that Shuttleworth knew the truth--that he could reveal a very remarkable story--if he only would. "Your father is a friend of Mr. Shuttleworth--eh?" I asked. She nodded in the affirmative. Then she stood with her gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the sunlit lawn outside. Mystery was written upon her fair countenance. She held a dread secret which she was determined not to reveal. She knew of those awful crimes committed in that dark house in Bayswater, but her intention seemed to be to shield at all hazards her dangerous "friends." "Sylvia," I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, "why cannot you be open and frank with me?" She allowed her hand to lie soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond as though her thoughts were far away. "I love you," I whispered. "Cannot you see how you puzzle me?--for you seem to be my friend at one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies."