t they are missing.

Many a London house with deep basement and a flight of steps leading
to its front door could, if its walls had lips, tell a tragic and
terrible story.

For one assassination discovered, ten remain unknown or merely vaguely
suspected.

How many thousands of pounds had these men, Forbes and Reckitt,
secured, I wondered? And how many poor helpless victims had felt the
serpent's fang and breathed their last in that fatal chair I now
occupied?

A dog howled dismally somewhere at the back. The men had told me that
no sound could be heard beyond those walls, yet had I not heard
Sylvia's shrieks? If I had heard them, then she could also hear me!

I shouted her name--shouted as loud as I could. But my voice in that
small room somehow seemed dulled and drowned.

"Sylvia," I shouted, "I am here! I--Owen Biddulph! Where are you?"

But there was no response. That horrible snake rose erect, looking at
me with its never-wavering gaze. I saw the pointed tongue darting from
its mouth. There--before me--soon to be released, was Death in reptile
form--Death the most revolting and most terrible.

That silence appalled me. Sylvia had not replied! Was she already
dead--stricken down by the fatal fang?

I called again: "Sylvia! Sylvia!"

But there came no answer. I set my teeth, and struggled to free myself
until the veins in my forehead were knotted and my bonds cut into the
flesh. But, alas! I was held as in the tentacles of an octopus. Every
limb was gripped, so that already a numbness had overspread them,
while my senses were frozen with horror.

Suddenly the lamp failed and died out, and the room was plunged in
darkness, save for the zone of light shed by the unflickering flame of
the candle. And there lay the weird and horrible reptile coiled,
awaiting its release.

It seemed to watch the lessening candle, just as I myself watched it.

That sudden failure of the light caused me anxious reflections.

A moment later I heard the front door bang. That decided me. It was as
I had feared. The pair of scoundrels had departed and left me to my
fate.

The small marble clock upon the mantelshelf opposite struck three. I
counted the strokes. I had been in that room nearly an hour and a
half.

How did they know of Jack Marlowe and his penchant for cards? Surely
the trap had been well baited, and devised with marvellous cunning.
That cheque of mine would be cashed at my bank in the morning without
question.