His wife was dead, repeated Van Zwieten, without showing much sympathy, "and he came down to tell you!"
No, he came to tell Malet.
And kill him?
Scarse shook his head. "I am telling you the truth," he said. "If Robert were guilty I should admit it. The poor fellow is crazy, as you know, and at the worst can only be put away in an asylum again. I am not afraid for him, but I fear a public scandal, which might shake my position and force me to resign my seat. No, Robert did not kill the man. But he met him and told him the truth."
About what hour was that?
Shortly after nine o'clock. I met Robert wandering in the orchards at a quarter past, and I took him home with me. Malet, according to the doctor's evidence, was shot about half-past nine. At that time Robert was conversing with me in my study.
But he met Malet, insisted Van Zwieten, rather disappointed at this statement, which he had every reason to believe was true.
Yes, he met Malet, and told him that his victim was dead. Malet grossly insulted Robert, and there was a quarrel. Unable to restrain his anger, Robert threw himself on Malet, but being an old man and feeble, he was easily overpowered and thrown to the ground. Robert told me this, and I believe it is the truth, because I found his crape scarf was torn--no doubt in the struggle. Malet left him lying on the wet grass and went off. He must have been shot almost immediately afterward.
By whom? asked Van Zwieten, keenly.
Ah! that is the question. I have my suspicions, but I may be wrong. But when Brenda came home with the news of a murder I guessed that the victim was Malet. The servants came to my study door and found it locked. Robert was with me then, and I had locked the door because I did not want him to be seen. They thought it was you I was talking to, and I said it was you. When afterward you came in by the front door they knew, of course, that I had lied. Brenda asked me about that, and I still declared that you had been with me, but that you had gone out of the study window to the front door. I told her also that I was the man seen by Harold Burton.
Why did you do that?
Can't you guess? To save Robert. He had a grievance against Malet, he had been struggling with him, and there was every chance that he might be accused of the murder. There was only my evidence to prove his alibi, and as I was his brother I dreaded lest my word should be insufficient. While the servants were with Brenda in the kitchen I went back to my study, put a coat of my own on Robert, and gave him a soft hat to pull down over his eyes. Then I gave him money, and told him to catch the ten-thirty train from Chippingholt to Langton Junction.
Which he did, said Van Zwieten. "I was watching all that business through your study window. I followed Robert, wondering who he was, and watched him go off by the train. Then I came home to the house and was admitted, as you know."
Why did you not speak to me?
It was not the proper moment to speak. I did not know who Robert was, and until I entered the house I knew nothing about the murder. I also guessed the victim was Malet, and I thought you must have hired this man to kill him, and having finished with him, had got him safely out of the way.
Ah! you were anxious to trap me! cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Well, you know the truth now, and you can do nothing. I burned the crape scarf and I told Brenda I was the man Harold had seen. If you choose to make a scandal, I shall tell my story exactly as I have told it to you, and prove Robert's innocence. At the worst he can only be put under restraint again."
I don't wish to make any scandal, said the Dutchman, mildly, "more especially seeing that your daughter is to be my wife. You can rely on my silence if only on that account. But I'm glad I have heard this story now. I want to know who killed Malet."
That I can't say, said Mr. Scarse, gloomily. "But I suspect the wife!"
Lady Jenny!--and why?
Robert had a note written to her saying his wife was dead--he brought it with him. He sent it up to her by a boy that same evening. Of course the boy thought that Robert was me.
I see! cried Van Zwieten, with a shout. "Robert wanted to stir up Lady Jenny into killing her husband. He is not so crazy, to my thinking. But I don't see how the intelligence of the wife's death would achieve it," he added, shaking his head gravely. "Lady Jenny knew all about the matter, and hadn't harmed her husband. There was no reason why she should do it on that particular night."
That is what puzzles me, replied Mr. Scarse. "Lady Jenny was out on that night. She did not go to the Rectory to see Captain Burton as she had intended. For that she gave the very unsatisfactory reason that she was caught in the storm. Is it not probable that she met her husband and killed him?"
No. She would not carry a revolver. If they had already met and quarrelled about this dead woman, then it is possible she might in her jealous rage have made an attack upon her husband with anything to her hand. But a revolver would argue deliberation, and there was nothing sufficiently strong in the note your brother had prepared for her to urge her to deliberate murder.
Burton found a piece of crape in the dead man's hand, argued Scarse, "and Lady Jenny was wearing crape for her father. There might have been a struggle, and the piece might have come off in his hand."
Nonsense, Scarse. Ladies don't do that sort of thing. Besides, your brother wore crape too, and it is more likely that it was torn from his scarf. Malet might have kept it in his hand, without being conscious of it probably, when he went to his death.
Then you think Lady Jenny is innocent?
It looks like it, Van Zwieten said with a queer smile; "but I'll let you know my opinion later on," and he rose to go.
You will keep my secret, entreated Scarse, following his visitor to the door.
Assuredly. I can make no use of it. I thought to find your brother guilty, but it seems he is not. The mystery deepens.
But Lady Jenny?
True--Lady Jenny. Well, we shall see, and with this enigmatic speech the Dutchman withdrew.
Mr. Scarse went back to his chair, and until midnight sat looking drearily into the fire. But he was sufficiently thoughtful to send a letter to Brenda telling her of his safety in spite of the Trafalgar Square mob.
For the next few days he went about like a man in a dream. Although he knew very well that Van Zwieten would hold his tongue--for he had nothing to gain by wagging it--he blamed himself for having been coerced into a confession. To him the Dutchman was almost a stranger. He had been drawn to the man because he was going out to the Transvaal as an official, and Mr. Scarse had always sympathized with the little state in its struggle for independence. The Dutchman had drawn so pathetic a picture of that struggle, had spoken so feelingly of the Boers as a patriarchal people who desired only to be left tending their flocks and herds, that the English politician was touched. He had sworn to do all in his power to defend this simple people, had become extremely friendly with Van Zwieten, and in proof of that friendship had asked him down to Chippingholt. There the Dutchman, by spying and questioning, had learned so much of his family secrets as to have become his master. As such he had forced him into a confession, and Mr. Scarse felt--if a scandal was to be avoided--that he was at the man's mercy.
Of course Brenda would be the price of his silence. Formerly Scarse had been willing enough that his daughter should marry Van Zwieten. It would be a noble work for her to aid him to build up a new state in South Africa. But now he saw that the Dutchman was by no means the unselfish philanthropist he had supposed him to be. He was tricky and shifty. His was the iron hand in the velvet glove, and if he became Brenda's husband it was by no means improbable that he would ill-treat her. It did not seem right to force her into this marriage when she loved another man. After all, she was his daughter--his only daughter; and Scarse's paternal instinct awoke even thus late in the day to prompt him to protect and cherish her. If he felt for poor Robert and his woes, surely he could feel for the troubles of Brenda.
Musing thus, it occurred to him that he might frustrate any probable schemes of Van Zwieten by telling the whole truth to Brenda. Then let her marry Harold and defy the man. At all events he determined that Brenda should be introduced to the family skeleton, and accordingly one afternoon he drove to Kensington. Mrs. St. Leger was out, so was the colonel, and he found his daughter alone.
When he entered--for all the world like an old grey wolf--for his troubles had aged him--Brenda came forward with a look of astonishment in her eyes. Usually her father was not so attentive as to pay her a visit; and she could not conjecture the meaning of the tender expression on his face. As a matter of fact Mr. Scarse was realizing for the first time that this tall, beautiful girl was his daughter. But she could not divine this, and her welcome to him was, as usual, quite cold.
How are you, father? she said, kissing him in a conventional way. "I am glad to see you, but I expected Harold, and was quite astonished when you came in."
And disappointed too, I suppose, said Scarse, in a low voice.
Something in his tone struck her sensitive ear as unusual. "No, I am glad to see you," she repeated, "but--but--but, you know, father, there was never much love lost between us."
Ah, Brenda, I fear that too much love has been lost. I wish to speak openly and seriously to you, Brenda--he looked at her piteously--"but I don't know how to begin."
Are you not well, father?
Yes, yes, I am quite well, he replied, leaning on her shoulder as she led him to the sofa. "But I'm worried, dear, worried. Sit down here."
Worried--what about? She sat down, but could not as yet grasp the situation. It was so novel, so unexpected.
About you--about myself. My dear, I have not been a good father to you.
Brenda stared. Were the heavens going to fall? So astonished was she by this wholly unexpected show of tenderness that she could make no answer. He looked at her anxiously and continued, "I fear I have been so engrossed by my duty to my country that I have forgotten my duty to you, my child. I should not have left you so long at school away from me. No wonder you have so little affection for me. I am not much more than a name to you. But I see now how wrong I have been, Brenda dear, and I want to do my best to make amends to you. You will let me?"
Father! she cried, all her warm and generous heart going out to him in his penitence. She threw her arms round his neck. "Don't say any more, dear. I have to ask your forgiveness too, for I have not been all a daughter should be to you."
Ah, Brenda, it is my fault. I kept you from me. But that shall not be now, dear. I have found my daughter and I will keep her. Kiss me, Brenda.
She kissed him, and her eyes filled with tears. In that moment of joy in finding her father she forgot even Harold. These words of tenderness were balm to her aching heart, and, too deeply moved to speak, she wept on his shoulder. Henceforth she would be different--everything would be different. And the man himself was scarcely less moved.
How foolish I have been, Brenda. I have lost the substance for the shadow.
No, no, father. I love you. I have always loved you. But I thought you did not care for me.
I care for you now, Brenda. Hush, hush, do not cry, child.
You won't ask me to marry Mr. van Zwieten now, father?
No, replied he, vigorously. "I intend to have nothing further to do with that man."
Ah! she exclaimed, raising her head. "At last you have found him out!"
No, dear, I have not exactly found him out, but I have come to the conclusion that he is double-dealing and dangerous. You shall not marry him, Brenda. You love Harold, and Harold shall be your husband. But I must not lose my daughter, he added tenderly.
You shall not, father. You shall gain a son. Oh, how happy I am! and laying her head upon his shoulder she wept tears of pure joy.
For some moments he did not speak, but held her to him closely. He, too, was happy--had not felt so happy for years. How he regretted now having kept this warm, pure affection at arm's length for so long. But time was passing, and Mrs. St. Leger and the colonel might be back at any moment, and he had much to tell her.
Listen to me, Brenda dear, he said, raising her head gently. "Do you remember the man so like me whom Harold saw?"
The man with the crape scarf? Of course I remember him, father. She looked steadfastly at him, expecting a revelation since he had so unexpectedly introduced the subject. "I saw him in Trafalgar Square on the day of the meeting."
And you knew that it was not me?
Yes; but he was so like you, that had he not been on the platform I might easily have mistaken him for you, like Harold did.
Had you spoken to him you would have found out your mistake, sighed Scarse.
I wanted to, but Mr. van Zwieten took him away.
I know--I know. Brenda, I deceived you about that man for your own sake and for mine. I took his sins on my shoulders that he might not get into trouble.
What? Brenda's voice rose almost to a shriek. "Did he kill Mr. Malet?"
No, no, replied her father, eagerly. "I can prove to you that he did not. But, Brenda, do you not wonder why he is so like me, and why I take so deep an interest in him?"
I do wonder. I thought he might be a relative. But you denied it, and Aunt Julia said she had no relative but you.
Mr. Scarse drooped his head. "Julia? Ah, she is still bitter against poor Robert!"
Robert?--who is he?
My twin brother, Brenda--your uncle!
Oh! Brenda threw up her hands in surprise. "And I never knew."
No one knows but your aunt and myself, and she denies him--and Van Zwieten knows.
Oh, father! How can he know?
I told him, replied Mr. Scarse, quietly. "I was forced to tell him, lest he should imagine the truth to be worse than it is. And he might have got me into trouble--and not only me, but poor, mad Robert."
Mad! Is my uncle mad?
Yes, poor soul. Now I will tell you what made him mad--the same story that I was forced to tell Van Zwieten.
Brenda looked anxiously at her father and placed her hand in his. Grasping it hard, he related the sad family history he had told the Dutchman, suppressing nothing, extenuating nothing. Brenda listened in profound silence. At times her eyes flashed, at times she wept, but never a word did she say. When her father had finished her sorrow burst forth.
My dear father, how good you are! To think I have been such a bad daughter, and you with all this worry on you! Oh, forgive me, forgive me! and she threw herself sobbing into his arms.
My dear, there is nothing to forgive. I have told you why I bore this trouble in silence--why I told Van Zwieten.
Thank God you don't want me to marry him, sobbed Brenda. "Harold and I are going to be married quietly at Brighton."
Better wait a while yet, said Scarse, nervously; "it will drive Van Zwieten into a corner if you marry now, and you don't know what he may do then."
He can't do anything, father. If he does attempt it I have only to tell Lady Jenny; she can manage him. Harold has gone to see her about it.
Somewhat astonished at this, Scarse was about to ask what way Lady Jenny could control Van Zwieten when the door opened and Captain Burton walked in, looking considerably more cheerful than when Brenda had seen him last. He pulled up short at the amazing sight of the girl in her father's arms.
Harold! she exclaimed. "Oh, how glad I am you have come! I have so much to tell you; and father--father----"
Father has just discovered that he has a dear daughter, said Scarse, holding out his hand to the astounded young man. "Yes, Harold, and I consent to your marriage gladly."
But what about Van Zwieten? gasped Captain Burton, utterly at a loss to understand this sudden change of front.
He shall never marry Brenda. I'll tell you all about it.
Wait one minute, father, cried the girl. "Harold, did you see Lady Jenny?"
Yes, Brenda, I have seen her. It is all right; she can manage Van Zwieten. No, I won't tell you now. She particularly wishes to do that herself.
The clever criminal who wishes to escape the law does not seek provincial neighborhoods or foreign climes. He remains in London; for him no place is so safe. There a man can disappear from one district and reappear in another without danger of recognition by unwelcome friends. Of course the pertinacity of the police may do much to complicate matters, but the history of crime goes to show very clearly that they are by no means infallible. But about them Van Zwieten troubled himself very little. Certainly he changed his name to Jones, for his own, in those anti-Dutch times, smacked overmuch of Holland. But for the rest his disguise was slight. From St. James's he changed his address to a part of Westminster where none of his West End friends were likely to come across him; and as Mr. Jones he carried on his plotting against the Empire with every sense of security. And in such security he saw only a strong proof of John Bull's stupidity. An Englishman would have seen in it a glorious example of freedom.
In a side street Van Zwieten, alias Mr. Jones, dwelt on the first floor of a quiet house let out in lodgings by the quietest of widows. And Mrs. Hicks had a good opinion of her lodger. It is true he was somewhat erratic in his movements. For days he would go away--into the country, he said--and even when in town would be absent for many hours at a stretch. But he paid well and regularly, was not exacting about either his food or attendance, and behaved altogether in the most becoming manner. He certainly saw a great number of people, and they called on him principally at night, but Mr. Jones had kindly informed her how he was writing a great book on London, and how these people were gathering materials for him. Had Mrs. Hicks known the kind of materials they were collecting, she might or might not have been astonished. Certainly she would have been but little the wiser.
A decent, if narrow-minded little person, Mrs. Hicks knew little of politics and still less of spies. These latter--on those few occasions when they had presented themselves to her mind--she pictured as foreign persons given to meeting by candlelight with mask and cloaks and daggers. That the kind gentleman who was so polite to her and so kind to her fatherless children should be a spy assuredly never entered Mrs. Hick's head.
Van Zwieten--it is more convenient to call him so--sat in his rooms one night in the second week in October. His face wore a satisfied smile, for a great event had taken place. Free State and Transvaal, under the sapient guidance of their Presidents, had thrown down the gage of defiance to England, and the Federal armies were overrunning Natal. Scarse and his following were dreadfully shocked at this sample of simplicity on the part of their "innocent lamb." It was all out of keeping with Mr. Kruger's pacific intentions as extolled by them. Indeed, they found it necessitated a change of tactics on their part, so they right-about faced and deplored that war should thus have been forced on an honest, God-fearing man. In all sincerity they tried to divide the country on the question of the war; and in Brussels Leyds was doing his best to hound on the Continental Powers to attacking England. Altogether Van Zwieten was very well satisfied with the outlook. What with the unprepared state of the British in Natal, Leyds on the Continent, Scarse and his friends in London, it seemed as though the Boers, by treachery and cunning and the due display of armament--as formidable as it was wholly unlooked for--would come safely out of the desperate adventure to which they had committed themselves. Van Zwieten's part was to send off certain final information to Leyds for transmission to Pretoria, and then to leave England.
But Van Zwieten was not going out to fight for his adopted country. Oh, dear, no! He had ostensibly thrown up his appointment in the Transvaal--which in truth he had never held--in great indignation before the war began. Proclaiming himself as a neutral person anxious to reconcile the English and the Boers, he had solicited and obtained the post of war correspondent on a Little England newspaper called The Morning Planet. This paper, whose columns were filled with the hysterical hooting of Scarse and his friends, was only too glad to employ a foreigner instead of an Englishman, and Van Zwieten received good pay, and an order to go to the front at once.
Now he was occupied in burning a mass of papers, gathering up the loose ends of his innumerable conspiracies, and looking forward to a speedy departure. All his spies had been paid and dismissed. He had one more letter to despatch to the patriotic Leyds, and then he was free to turn his attention to his private affairs.
These were concerned chiefly with an attempt to force Brenda into giving up Burton and accepting his hand, by threatening to denounce her father and his brother. He had never for a moment intended to keep the promise he had made to Scarse. He was too "slim" for that. He possessed knowledge which would serve him to his own ends, and he intended to use it for that purpose. Burton, too, was to leave with his regiment next day, and was already at Southampton. And once he was parted from Brenda there would be a better chance of bringing her to see reason. Van Zwieten smiled sweetly as he thought on these things, and gave himself up to the contemplation of that rosy future when the Republics conquered England, as they assuredly would. He forgot that very significant saying that man proposes and God disposes. But Van Zwieten was a heathen, and had very little belief in an overruling Providence.
He knew how to make himself snug did this Dutchman. His room was large, and comfortably if not luxuriously furnished. Wall paper, carpet and curtains were all of a dark green tone. Two windows led on to a light iron balcony, but at present these were closed and the curtains were drawn. The firelight--he had lighted a fire because the evening was chilly--shed its comfortable glow on the two easy-chairs wherewith he had supplemented the furniture of Mrs. Hicks. To him belonged also a tall press with pigeon-holes filled with papers, and a knee-hole desk with many drawers and brass knobs. On this latter the lamp was placed, and its crimson shade shut off the light beyond the immediate circle cast on the desk. On the mantel glittered a gimcrack French clock, and three extraordinary ornaments with brass pendants. But altogether the room was decidedly comfortable, and as Mr. van Zwieten did not pay for it out of his own pocket, maybe he enjoyed it all the more on that account.
At the present moment he was shifting papers from the pigeon-holes into an iron box, destroying some, and burning others, and executing the business with ease and despatch.
While he was thus employed a timid knock came at the door. He knew the knock well, and he knew that behind it was Mrs. Hicks. He did not desist from his occupation because he held her of but small account. It would have been otherwise had the knock been sharp and peremptory.
Well, Mrs. Hicks, he said graciously as the pale widow glided in, "what is it?"
If you please, Mr. Jones, there is a man waiting to see you.
"A man--a gentleman? A common person, sir, in a rough coat, and a cap and big boots. I don't think he's a gentleman, as he speaks rough like, and his black hair and beard look very untidy, Mr. Jones. I was once a lady's maid, sir, so I ought to know a gentleman when I see him.""
"Show him up, said Van Zwieten, curtly; then, as she left the room, he made certain preparations. He closed the press doors and the lid of his iron box, seated himself at his desk, and glanced into a drawer to be sure that his revolver was handy. In Van Zwieten's walk of life it was necessary to be forearmed as well as forewarned.
The man who shortly afterward came tramping into the room fully bore out Mrs. Hicks's description. He was of medium height and rather stout, and was roughly dressed in coarse blue serge, and had a tangle of black curls and a heavy black beard. He was not a prepossessing object. In response to Van Zwieten's invitation he shuffled into an armchair by the desk, and pushed it well back into the shadow. The act, though skillfully done, roused the Dutchman's suspicions. But he was accustomed in his delicate profession to deal with curious customers, and he showed no surprise. He did not even shift the shade of the lamp. But very much on the alert, he waited for the stranger to state his business.
Is your name Jones? asked the man, in a gruff, surly voice.
Yes, that is my name. And yours?
Dobbs--Augustus Dobbs. I should have brought a letter to you, but I didn't. It's better to do my own business off my own hook, I reckon.
Are you a Yankee? asked Van Zwieten, noting the expression and a slight twang.
I guess so. I come from N'York City, I do; and I fancy a run out to the Transvaal to have a slap at the Britishers.
Indeed! said the Dutchman, staring blankly at his visitor, "and what have I to do with your ambitions in that direction?"
The man drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and Van Zwieten noted that the hand was white and well cared for. This, in contrast to the rough dress and harsh voice, made him more circumspect than ever. He began to suspect a trap, and wondered which of his enemies--for he had many--could have set it.
Do you know a man named Mazaroff? asked Mr. Dobbs, after a pause.
No, replied Van Zwieten, lying cheerfully; "never heard of him."
He's a Russian.
The name sounds like it.
Dobbs looked disappointed and turned sullen. "He knows you, Mr. Jones!"
Indeed, that is not improbable. Did he send you to me?
Yes, he did. Dobbs had dropped his American accent by this time, and only used it again when he recollected himself. "Mazaroff said you paid well for certain information."
What kind of information?
About the war. He leaned forward and spoke in a gruff whisper. "What would you say to a plan of the whole campaign against the Boers?"
Van Zwieten smiled blandly. "Of what possible interest can that be to me?"
Mazaroff said you would be prepared to pay well for such information.
He knows me then better than I do myself, replied Van Zwieten. "Better than I know him, for indeed I have no knowledge of your Russian friend. But this plan of campaign, Mr. Dobbs, how did it come into your possession?"
Dobbs looked round mysteriously, and rising in his chair, leaned toward Van Zwieten. "I stole it," he said softly, "and I am willing to sell it--at a price. Think of it, Mr. Jones, a plan of campaign! Symons's plans! The Boers would be able to frustrate it easily."
Van Zwieten looked his man up and down with a smile. His gaze alighted on those well-kept hands, which his visitor had placed on the desk to steady himself as he leaned forward. On the third finger of the left hand was a ring, and Van Zwieten recognized it. It was a gold signet ring with a crest.
The moment he set eyes on it, the spy jumped to a conclusion, which happened to be the right one. He knew now who his visitor was, and he played him as a skillful angler plays a trout. Not a muscle of his face moved, not a flush or a look betrayed his newly-gained knowledge. But he smiled behind his golden beard to think that he was master of the situation.
So Mr. Mazaroff told you that I bought such things? he said negligently.
Yes, and that you paid a large price for them.
Ah! and what would you call a fair price for these papers?
Say a thousand pounds.
That is a very large price indeed. Too large, I fear, for me, said Van Zwieten, most amiably. "Perhaps you can see your way to make it lower?"
The visitor could not refrain from a movement of satisfaction, which was duly noted by the astute Dutchman.
Well, he said, "I will do what I can to meet you." Van Zwieten smiled. He saw that the man was growing excited, and that in his excitement he would probably betray himself.
That is accommodating of you, Mr. Dobbs. But how can I be certain this plan is genuine?
You can be perfectly certain, for I stole it from the War Office!
Indeed. That is certainly first hand. But how did you, an American, get into the War Office?
I have been a porter there for some time, said Dobbs, glibly. "I am allowed access to all the rooms. I saw those papers on a desk, and I took them. Mazaroff told me you paid well, so--well, I came to you. Come, now, you shall have them for five hundred pounds."
Too much, Mr. Dobbs.
Three hundred, said the man, trembling with eagerness.
Ah, that's more reasonable. Have you the papers with you?
No, but if you will come to my lodgings I will give them to you. But I must have the money first.
Certainly. Will a check do?
Oh, yes, a check will do right enough.
Van Zwieten produced a check-book and bent over it to hide a smile. He drew the check, but before signing it looked up. "Of course this rather inculpates you," he said. "I suppose you know what it means if you were caught at this game?"
I'm willing to take the risk, said Dobbs, nervously.
Quite so. Just see if I've got your name correctly. Burton, isn't it?
What do you mean?
Wilfred Burton.
I--I--don't understand----
Van Zwieten deftly twitched the beard off the face of his visitor and snatched the shade off the lamp. "Do you understand now?" he said, laughing. "Look in the glass, sir, and see if Augustus Dobbs is not Wilfred Burton?"
Wilfred was ghastly pale, but more with rage at the failure of his scheme than with fear. With a cry of anger he sprang up and whipped a revolver out of his pocket. But Van Zwieten, on the alert for some such contingency, was quite as quick. He also snatched a revolver from the drawer, and with levelled weapons the two men faced one another. Van Zwieten was as calm as the other was excited.
You are very clever, Mr. Burton, he said mockingly; "but when you are in disguise you should not wear a signet ring. I observed your crest on the letters written to Miss Scarse by your brother. Come! how long are we to stand like this? Is it a duel? If so, I am ready."
Wilfred uttered an oath and slipped his weapon into his pocket. With a laugh Van Zwieten tossed his into the drawer again, and sat down quite unruffled.
I think we understand one another now, he said genially. "What induced you to play this trick on me?"
Because you are a spy, replied Wilfred, fiercely; "and if I had my way I would put a bullet through you."
Well, and why don't you? mocked an Zwieten. "Do you see that iron box?--it is full of papers which might be of the greatest interest to you. Shoot me and take possession of it. Your Government would reward you--or hang you!"
They'll hang you if they learn the truth. We are at war with the Boers, and you are a Boer spy. A word from me and you would be arrested.
I dare say. There are enough documents in that box to hang me. I dare say you bribed Mazaroff and learned my business, also my address here as Mr. Jones. But I am not afraid--not that! Van Zwieten snapped his fingers "You can walk out and call up the police if you like."
And what is to prevent my doing so?
Two things. One is that I leave immediately for the Transvaal. Oh, yes, my work here is done, and well done. I have found out how unprepared you English are for this war. You talk big, but there is nothing at the back of it.
Confound you! cried Wilfred, his white face flushing, "you'll find out what is at the back of it when we hoist the British flag at Pretoria. What is the second thing?"
Your brother. You love your brother, no doubt, Mr. Burton. He sails to-morrow with his regiment from Southampton. Quite so. Well, Mr. Burton, it is a good thing he is going. It is better he should be shot than hanged.
Hanged! Wilfred sprang from his seat with a bound.
The morning after the murder, continued Van Zwieten, without taking any notice, "I examined the place where Malet was shot. Ah! you blind English, who see nothing even when it lies under your nose. I am Dutch. I am sharp. I looked--and looked--and I found this!" He slipped his hand into the open drawer of the desk and produced a heavy revolver of the army pattern. "This, Mr. Burton--with which your brother shot Mr. Malet."
You--you can't prove it is Harold's, said he, white but calm.
Easily. Here is a silver plate on the butt with his name. Now, what do you say?
That my brother is innocent. The revolver is his, but some one else fired the shot.
Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid you will find it difficult to get a jury to take that view, Mr. Burton. Your brother quarrelled with Malet--he was overheard to threaten him--he was out in the storm and could not account for his time--and here is his revolver. With all that evidence I could hang him. But you know--well, I'll be generous. Hold your tongue and I'll hold mine. What do you say?"
Wilfred looked piercingly at Van Zwieten, who had dropped his bantering tone and was in earnest. "Harold is innocent," said he, "but--I'll hold my tongue."
When Wilfred had taken his departure, Van Zwieten drew a breath of relief. He had only escaped a great danger by virtue of his ready resource and the excitability and hot-headed impulsiveness of his adversary.
Without doubt Wilfred's plan--and a harum-scarum plan it was--had been to decoy him into an ambush of police, on the pretence of selling him the so-called State papers, and when he had irretrievably betrayed himself, to have had him arrested as a spy. Thanks only to his skill in penetrating the disguise of his visitor, Van Zwieten had evaded this peril; but he had been in greater danger than even Wilfred knew.
The papers in the iron box were sufficient to prove him a spy ten times over. Had Wilfred only been astute enough to have procured a search warrant on the evidence of Mazaroff, and with the assistance of the police to have raided the premises of the so-called Mr. Jones, these papers would have been discovered, and Mr. van Zwieten's little games put an end to for the time being.
But Wilfred had let the golden moment go by, and the Dutchman was safe from his worst enemy--that is from the one who wished him most harm, and who knew most to his disadvantage.
There was no doubt that Wilfred was now powerless to move against him. By skillfully suggesting that Harold had committed the murder,--which was untrue--and producing the revolver inscribed with Harold's name, which had been found near the scene of the murder,--which was true--Van Zwieten had effectually stopped the mouth of Mr. Wilfred Burton. If that young man now denounced him to the authorities he would do so at the risk of having his brother arrested. And in the face of such evidence it might be that Harold would be found guilty. In any case he would be prevented from sailing for South Africa. But Van Zwieten, while looking after himself, had no wish that things should go thus far. He was most anxious that Captain Burton should go to the front, for if chance did not aid him, he had quite determined to have him specially shot in action.
At present things were going as he wished. Wilfred was coerced into silence, he himself was safe, and Harold was about to go to his death in Natal. There remained only Brenda to deal with, and with her Mr. van Zwieten hoped to come to an understanding very shortly now.
The rest of the night he spent in burning such papers as he did not require and in packing the remainder in the iron box. It was of no great size this box, and one man could carry it away with ease. Van Zwieten locked it, and then stowed it away on the top of the tall press, in a hollow formed by the ornamentation of the crest. Into this the precious box just fitted; and thus carelessly deposited, he took it to be far safer than any more elaborate attempt at concealment could make it. A thief would assuredly make for the safe first and foremost, so would the police, while neither would think of looking on the top of the press. Not that Van Zwieten expected either thieves or police, for that matter; but it was his habit to place the box there, and what had happened in no way caused him to depart from his usual custom.
Having thus finished his work, he went to bed and slept for a few hours. And as he closed his eyes his thoughts were altogether pleasant.
I shall go down to Southampton to-morrow, they ran, "and see Burton off for the front. I sha'n't exactly relish being witness of his very tender leave-taking with Brenda but it will be some satisfaction to know it's for the last time. She won't see him again. We'll be married at once and I'll follow close on his heels. If he only knew! If she only knew! But that is what shall be. I, Van Zwieten, have spoken. Then, once in the British camp, I can both serve these brave little Republics and make sure that Captain Harold Burton is made short work of. That will be very easily done. And then when all is over, and these British hogs are driven into the sea, I'll come and fetch my little wife, and there, amid the glorious expanse of the veldt, we shall live together happily ever after." A beautiful little castle of cards truly, but one which, had he only known, was destined to be very much knocked about by Fate, over which not even he, Van Zwieten, had control.
Next morning he was up betimes, and handing the key of his rooms to Mrs. Hicks with strict injunctions to admit no one, he set off for Waterloo Station. He knew that he could trust his little landlady, and he judged it wiser to do so than to lock up and take the key in his pocket, for of that even she might have been suspicious.
On his way to the terminus he again relapsed into a gentle and wholly self-congratulatory reverie; and with a religious zeal worthy of a follower of Oom Paul he fished from the deep recesses of his memory a text bearing on the destruction of the unrighteous--to wit, in this instance, Messieurs Wilfred and Harold Burton.
The ancient town of Southampton was gay with flags, crowded with people, and bubbling over with excitement and bustle. Through the streets marched the troops in khaki, with resolute faces and swinging tread, while those whose rights they were going to defend cheered them, poured blessings on them, and sought to enliven them with frequent snatches of patriotic song. Not since the days of the Crimea--a dim memory even to the older generation--had there been such excitement. And the great transport lay there--a floating barracks--ready and impatient to carry these brave fellows overseas to vindicate the name of Britain as a civilizing and protective power. Oom Paul had been given rope enough; now he was going to hang himself, or be hanged, as he assuredly deserved to be.
Maybe Van Zwieten thought otherwise. He surveyed the excited throng with his usual bland smile, and pushed his way through their midst down to the quay. Knowing, as no one else did, the true power of the Republics, he smiled grimly as he thought how soon all this joy would be turned into mourning. But what Mr. van Zwieten did not know--what he could not realize--was that the more terrible the danger threatening a Britisher the more does he set his back to the wall, and set his teeth to meet it and to conquer.
In the bright sunlight the troops embarked, speeches were made, healths were drunk, and many a hand gripped hand. On board the transport the officers were busy looking after their men and superintending the horses being taken on board. Brenda, quietly dressed, and doing her best to keep up her spirits, was leaning on the arm of her father, and longing for a few last words with Harold. But Captain Burton--a fine, soldierly figure in his khaki uniform--was on duty, and could not be spared for the moment.
Much as Mr. Scarse disliked the war and reprobated the causes which had led to it, he had come down with Brenda to see the last of Harold; but in the face of all this he could not but lament inwardly that the good offices of the peace party had not prevailed. This stir and military activity was surely out of all proportion to the business in hand--the subjugation of a mere handful of farmers! But Mr. Scarse forgot that wasps are not so easily crushed--that the larger the fist that tries to crush them the greater the chance of its being stung. While thus meditating on the iniquity of his country, he felt his daughter start, and when he looked at her he saw that she was white and trembling.
What is it, Brenda? he asked nervously, for he had not been the same man since his interview with the Dutchman.
I have seen Mr. van Zwieten, she replied faintly. "He is yonder in the crowd. He smiled in that horrible way of his when he caught my eye."
Never mind, Brenda. Van Zwieten can do no harm now; and shortly we shall be rid of him altogether. He is going out to the Cape.
To Pretoria, you mean.
No, I mean to the Cape, returned her father. "Rather to my surprise, I hear he has given up his appointment in the Transvaal, and has thrown in his lot with this misguided country. He goes with Lord Methuen as the correspondent of The Morning Planet--to report the massacre of his unfortunate countrymen, I suppose."
I don't believe he is on our side, Brenda said vehemently. "At heart he is a traitor, and has been living in London spying for the benefit of the Boers--so, at least, Wilfred tells me."
Wilfred is an excitable boy. Can he prove this wild charge?
Not now; but he intends to do so later.
He never will. Believe me, I don't like Van Zwieten, and I regret very much that I ever made a friend of him, but I don't think he is a spy.
I'm sure he is!
How can you be sure?
Because I hate him, replied Brenda, with true feminine logic. "And if he is going to the front, I'll tell Harold to keep a sharp eye on him."
It might be quite as well, dear, replied her father, "forewarned is forearmed; and when he learns the truth about you, it is quite possible he might attempt some plot against Harold."
I'm not afraid. Harold can protect himself even against such a scoundrel as Van Zwieten. Here is Harold, father. How splendid he looks!
Brenda might well be excused for her enthusiasm. Captain Harold Burton did make a most striking and soldierly figure in his close-fitting khaki uniform. He was trim and natty in his dress, bright and ardent, and full of enthusiasm for the work before him. Brenda would have had him a trifle more subdued since he was about to leave her; but she had no cause to complain when he said good-bye. He felt their parting as much as she did, even though as a man and a soldier he was more able to conceal his emotions.
Come down to my cabin, Brenda, he said, taking her arm, "I have got ten minutes to spare. We start in half an hour."
I won't come, Mr. Scarse said, waving his hand. "Take her down, Harold, and get it over."
The two went below amongst the busy throng of stewards who were darting about getting the cabins in order. Into one on the starboard side Captain Burton led his wife. He shared it with a brother officer, who was at that moment on duty. Harold closed the door. The girl was crying bitterly now. He took her in his arms.
Don't cry, dear little wife, he said tenderly. "Please God, I'll come back to you safe and sound."
Oh, Harold, you will, I know you will! she said earnestly. "Nothing will happen to you. I dreamed it did, Harold, and dreams always go by contraries, you know. Dearest, if only I were coming with you, I wouldn't mind."
Dear Brenda, it is better as it is; besides, I should have had to leave you at Cape Town. You could not have come to the front. No, dear, you stay with your father, and pray for a speedy end to the war. Remember you are my wife now, Brenda, so I have no fear of any harm coming to you through that scoundrel Van Zwieten.
He is here, Harold. I saw him among the crowd. I have no fear for you, dear, there at the front; but--well, I am afraid of Van Zwieten's treachery.
But he is in England, dearest; he can't hurt me out there.
He is leaving for the Cape almost immediately. Father told me so.
Well, then, laughed Harold to comfort her, "if I see him in the ranks of the enemy I'll shoot him before he can take sight at me. Will that do?"
Harold, he won't be in the ranks of the enemy.
Why not? The fellow is a Boer--or to all intents and purposes will be when he takes up his Transvaal appointment.
That's just it. He has given up the appointment and is going out as correspondent to The Morning Planet.
Captain Burton wrinkled his forehead. "I don't like this sudden conversion," he said decisively. "Wilfred believes the fellow is a spy."
And so do I, dearest--from the bottom of my heart.
Well, if he's going to hang about our camps for the spy business I'll make short work of him.
Be careful, Harold--oh, be careful. He is a dangerous man.
I shall know how to manage him out there. Wilfred is coming out, you know, in a week or so, and I'll get him to tell me all he knows about Van Zwieten. If he is a spy, we'll watch him and have him slung up. I'll keep my eyes open, Brenda. And if he tries on any games before he leaves England, just you see Lady Jenny.
What can she do?
A great deal. She wouldn't tell me how she meant to manage him, but she told me she would bring him to his knees. That was why I determined to marry you before I left. Now that you are my wife, Lady Jenny will look after you. You must promise me, dear, that you'll go at once to her if he should cause you the least uneasiness.
I promise, dearest, for your sake. Oh, Harold, how I wish I was going!
Yes, dear, I know you do. But you are a soldier's wife now, and they do their work at home. I have made my will leaving all I have to you, Brenda and if I don't come back--his strong voice trembled--"you will have enough to live on. At all events, your father has the will."
Harold! Harold! she cried, weeping on his breast, for this parting was very bitter to her, "how can I bear it, darling? Dearest, be careful of your dear life for my sake--for me, your wife."
Hush, dear, hush, I am in the hands of God. He pressed her closely to him and kissed her in silence. Then he looked upward and said a silent fervent prayer. They clung to each other with aching hearts, too deeply moved, too sorrowful for words. Then the tramping of feet overhead, the sound of cheers, the shrill voice of the bo'sun's whistle, made them start up. "Brenda," whispered Harold, pressing her again to his heart, "good-bye, my own dearest."
Oh, Harold! Harold! Good-bye, darling! God bless you and bring you back to me.
On deck he led her to her father who was standing by the gangway, and placed her in his arms. "Take care of her, sir," he said in a low voice, then hurried away at the call of duty.
Father and daughter descended the gangway to the wharf. She stood as in a dream, with streaming eyes, among other women, and looked at the great ship. The shouts of the crowd, the glitter of the sunshine, the many-colored bunting, seemed like a cruel mockery to her aching heart. Her Harold was gone from her--and God knew when he would return. And everywhere the women wept and strained and ached at parting with their dear ones.
The transport was like a hive at swarming-time. The soldiers were hanging over the bulwarks and clinging to the rigging. Hats and handkerchiefs waved, women wept and men cheered. Then amidst all the noise and movement the blades of the screw began slowly to churn the water. As the seething white foam swirled astern, the band struck up "Auld Lang Syne," and the great ship swung majestically into mid-stream, her engines throbbing, and black smoke pouring through her funnels from the newly stoked furnaces below. Brenda, for weeping, could hardly see the grey monster gliding over the glittering waters; nor, strain as she would, could she make out her Harold's dear face amongst those hundreds of faces turned shoreward. The band changed the tune:
"I'm leaving thee in sorrow, Annie, I'm leaving thee in tears.
"My God! exclaimed Brenda, almost hysterical now as she clutched her father's arm.
Miss Scarse, said a voice at her elbow.
Brenda looked up with a tear-stained face, and a look of horror came into her eyes as she saw Van Zwieten's hateful, calm face. "You! you! Ah, Harold!"
Go away, sir, go away, said Mr. Scarse, curtly. Then he began to push through the crowd with Brenda clinging to his arm.
I must speak to Miss Scarse, insisted the Dutchman, following.
The old man turned on him like a wolf. "There is no Miss Scarse," he said firmly. "My daughter is now Mrs. Harold Burton."
As the full meaning of those words came upon him, Van Zwieten paled. His wicked eyes flashed fire, and he uttered an oath which, being in Dutch, was happily unintelligible to those around him. For the moment he could neither move nor speak; and seeing his momentary helplessness, Mr. Scarse, with Brenda on his arm, hurried on through the crowd.
Before the Dutchman could recover his presence of mind, there were already two or three lines of people between him and those whom he had fondly thought his victims. They had tricked him in spite of all his caution; even Scarse, whom he had been so sure of, had turned against him. But he would be revenged, and that speedily. Conjecturing that they would probably go to the railway station, Van Zwieten hurried thither. If he did not find them in the London train, then he would wait till he did. In any case he swore to get at the truth about this marriage. Their punishment should follow.
On his part, Mr. Scarse, seeing the devil which looked out of the Dutchman's eyes, knew that the man thus baffled was prepared to go to any lengths; and that being so, he was only too anxious to escape from so dangerous a neighborhood.
Taken up with her own sorrow, Brenda had paid no attention to the presence or foreboding glance of Van Zwieten, but submitted blindly to be guided through the crowd. All she longed for was to get to some quiet place where she could give way unrestrained to this grief that shook her whole being. And her father instinctively divined what she desired and said no word to comfort her, but hurried her on to the station, and by the judicious bestowal of half a sovereign secured a carriage to themselves. The man touched his hat, and after locking the door, walked off to see if any other person's sorrow would take such tangible and wholly excellent form.
There in the corner of the carriage Brenda lay back and wept for her lost husband, whom--it might be--she would never see again. But she had a great belief in dreams and in the contrariness of this particular dream and something told her he would come safe and sound out of the hurly-burly of battle. Nevertheless, life seemed very blank to her just then. She wept on unrestrained. Her father paid no attention to her. He was leaning out of the window watching for Van Zwieten. His mind travelled quite as quickly as that of the Dutchman, and he guessed that he would come on to the station on the chance of finding himself and Brenda in the London express.
The inspector came along, unlocked the door, and tried to hustle a couple of weeping women into the carriage but Mr. Scarse gave his name and whispered that he had engaged the carriage, whereupon the inspector promptly conducted the mourners to another compartment. In his hurry he did not lock the door, which, as it turned out, was unfortunate.
With great anxiety Mr. Scarse watched the minute hand of the station clock crawl round to the hour at which the train was timed to start. He turned hot and cold at the thought that Van Zwieten might come. He had a very shrewd idea of the Dutchman's present mood. But there was no sign of him. And the bell was ringing now for the departure of the express.
Thank God! cried Mr. Scarse, throwing himself back into his seat. "We have escaped that villain for the time being at any rate."
Vain congratulation! It was as if he had tempted the gods. Hardly had the train commenced to move when the door of the carriage was dashed open, and Van Zwieten hurled himself into the compartment like a charging buffalo. Brenda uttered a cry of alarm; her father swore--a thing he very seldom permitted himself to do; and the Dutchman, now quite master of his vile temper, smiled blandly and subsided into a seat. He cleared his throat to explain himself. Brenda cast on him one look of ineffable contempt, although she was far from feeling contemptuous, and did so merely out of bravado. Then she drew her veil down and glanced out of the window. If she was forced to travel with him, she was not forced to speak to him; and besides she felt quite safe having her father to protect her, and knowing how different now was his attitude toward the Dutchman. Van Zwieten smiled unpleasantly. He knew well how to rouse her out of that indifference, and he would do so when he judged the proper time had come. Meanwhile he explained himself to the enraged Scarse, whose blood was on fire at the creature's insolence.
Notwithstanding the very elaborate pains at which you were to reserve this carriage, Scarse, I trust you are sufficiently hospitable not to mind my joining you, he said coolly.
I mind very much, sir! cried the other. "How dare you thrust your company where it is not wanted? My daughter and I can dispense with your presence."
I dare say! sneered the Dutchman, although he looked surprised at this unexpected resistance on the part of the hitherto meek M. P.; "but you see I have a great deal to say to you and Miss Scarse."
Mrs. Burton, if you please, Brenda said in a cutting tone.
Van Zwieten bowed his fair head in a cruelly ironical manner. "I beg your pardon, I did not know I was a day after the fair. But it seems to me most strange that you should be married when your father promised me that I should be your husband."
I did nothing of the sort, said Mr. Scarse, bluntly.
I promised to consent to your marrying my daughter if she chose to have you. But as she had a very distinct preference for Captain Burton, I agreed to that. And I'm glad of it! he cried with energy; "at least she has married an honorable man!"
I also am an honorable man. I have kept your secret--up to the present----
My secret? cried the other, contemptuously. "Oh! tell it to whom you please."
Van Zwieten bit his lip to prevent an exhibition of the surprise he felt at this unexpected defiance. "In that case I had better begin with Miss Sca--I beg your pardon--with Mrs. Burton. She would like to know----"
She does know, interrupted Brenda, in her clear voice. "There is nothing left for you to tell, Meinherr van Zwieten!"
Ach! You make me out to be Dutch, then! You are wrong--I am English.
Quite so; until it suits you to become a Boer.
We shall see. Oh, you will not have it all your own way in this war, you English. But enough of this, he went on imperiously. "You know, then, that your father and his twin brother killed Mr. Malet?"
I know nothing of the sort, retorted Brenda, with spirit. "You had better take the case into court and prove your assertion."
Think of the scandal!
I can face all that, cried Mr. Scarse, sharply. "If you think to blackmail me, Van Zwieten, you have come to the wrong person. So far as what I told you is concerned, you are harmless; you can do nothing."
Perhaps not. I won't even try. But the arrows are not all out of my quiver yet. For you, old man, I care nothing, you cross not my path, so I can spare you; but as for Brenda----
The girl turned fearlessly upon him. "I will thank you, sir, to address me by my proper name, which is Mrs. Burton!"
Van Zwieten winced. He felt his position intensely, though he put a brave face on it. Brenda saw this, and realized the strain he was putting on himself to keep down his temper.
Mrs. Burton! Well, let it be so for the present--until you change it for Mrs. van Zwieten.
That will be never!
Oh, yes--when you are a widow.
Brenda shuddered, and fell back on her cushions; but her father leaned forward and shook his fist at the Dutchman. "I am an old man," he said hoarsely, "and you are young and strong, but if you insult my daughter I will strike you! In any case, you will leave the carriage at the next station."
It is yet a quarter of an hour away, sneered Van Zwieten, looking at his watch, "so that will be time enough to say what I have to say. I do not think you will ask me to go when you hear all?"
I am not afraid, said Brenda, coolly, "my father is here to protect me. And we are in England, Meinherr van Zwieten, not in your barbarous country of the Transvaal."
Ah, you English will find it sufficiently civilized in warfare, said the man, savagely. "But I will come to the point. You are married to this Captain Burton. Is that true, or is it not?"
True? Of course it is true.
Let me speak, father, put in Brenda. "Yes, it is true. We were married at St. Chad's Church, Brighton, four days ago."
Just time for a honeymoon--a very short honeymoon, sneered Van Zwieten; but the perspiration was on his face, and the girl could see that he was suffering. She was glad to see it, and continued to speak, knowing that every word she uttered caused the villain intense pain. Callous as Van Zwieten was in most things, he was a true lover, and suffered only as a strong man like himself could suffer.
If you like to go to the church you can see the register, she went on carelessly. "My father was present, so was Lady Jenny Malet." She looked him full in the face as she mentioned the name, but he did not flinch. Whatever power Lady Jenny might have over him, he was apparently ignorant of its existence.
It is a pity you did not ask me, he said, clenching his hands. "I should have completed the happy family party. Well, Burton has escaped now. We shall see if he will be so fortunate in the future."
Ah! you would murder him--I know it! said Brenda, scornfully. "But he can take care of himself."
Very likely, Mrs. Burton; but can he protect himself from the law?
What do you mean? That you are going to accuse my husband of Mr. Malet's murder? You are quite capable of it.
I am; and I can prove that he is guilty.
Mr. Scarse cast an angry glance at the man. "You are a liar, Van Zwieten," he said savagely. "I wonder how I ever came to believe in you. You accuse first me of the crime, then my brother; now it is Harold Burton you would ruin. We are all three innocent."
Two of you, we will say. But the third is guilty. Van Zwieten spoke slowly, looking at Brenda the while. "I found the pistol with which the murder was committed. It has a name on the butt. And the name is that of Harold Burton!"
The girl grew deathly pale and clasped her hands. "I do not believe it," she said bravely.
Well, drawled Van Zwieten, throwing himself back, "I can prove it by showing you the pistol--it is at my rooms in Duke Street. If you choose to come there--with your father, of course--you can see it. Yes, you may look and look; but your husband and no other killed Malet."
It is false. There was no reason why Harold should kill Mr. Malet.
Oh, pardon me, I think he had a very good reason, corrected Van Zwieten, blandly; "at least Captain Burton thought it a sufficient reason when I told him what I knew at Chippingholt."
Ah! flashed out Mrs. Burton, "so this was what you told Harold to make him leave without saying good-bye to me!"
It was. I showed him the pistol, and he admitted that it was his----
But not that he had used it!
You are very sharp, Mrs. Burton; but that is just what he did confess.
I don't believe it! cried the girl.
Nor I, joined in Mr. Scarse. "You are speaking falsely."
Van Zwieten shrugged his mighty shoulders. "As you please," said he. "If I show it to the lawyers you may find that what I say is true. If it was not true how could I have made Harold Burton leave Chippingholt? Why did he keep his marriage with you a secret? Because he feared what I had to say about him. I had decided not to betray him if he left the lady to me. As it is, I shall speak."
As you choose! said Brenda. "You can prove no motive for such a crime. Harold left Chippingholt because you told him that Mr. Malet had gambled away his twenty thousand pounds, and the poor dear did not want to tell me of his loss."
Oh, yes, I told him that also. I knew more of Malet's private affairs than you think. But Burton did not know the money was lost at the time he murdered Malet. He murdered him to get it.
You speak very confidently, returned Brenda, ironically. "You will now of course put the matter into the hands of the police."
Well, no; I shall not do that just now. However, as I see you do not believe me, I should like to give you an opportunity of changing your mind. Come with your father to my rooms in St. James's to-morrow and I will show you the revolver.
I dare say you have the weapon, put in Mr. Scarse; "but how do we know where you found it?"
I can prove that. Come to-morrow and convince yourselves. Then I will make my terms.
Your terms?
Yes. My silence must be bought--but not with money. You, Mrs. Burton, must give me your promise to marry me when you become a widow.
I am not a widow yet, said Brenda, trying hard to keep up her courage, "and, please God, I shall never be!"
Amen! sneered Van Zwieten, as the train slowed down, "we shall see. But I hold the winning card, and I intend to play it for my own benefit. Here we are, so I will leave you now. To-morrow at three I shall be at my rooms. If you do not come I will see the police about the matter."
Very good, said Brenda, much to her father's surprise. "I will be there."
Come now, you are sensible! sneered Van Zwieten, "I shall make something out of you yet, Mrs. Burton."
Get out! shouted Mr. Scarse, fiercely, "or I'll throw you out!"
Ah, bad temper, Scarse. Keep that for those who are fighting our Republics. Au revoir until to-morrow, and Van Zwieten, jumping lightly out of the compartment, made for a smoking-carriage.
Why did you agree to meet the blackguard? fumed Mr. Scarse when the train was moving off again. "You know he is lying!"
No, I don't think he is.
What? do you believe your husband guilty?
I wouldn't believe it if an angel from heaven told me so! flashed out Mrs. Harold Burton. "But Van Zwieten has this revolver with Harold's name on it or he would not dare to speak so confidently. I will find out where he got it. He might have stolen it from Harold, or he might have had the name put on the silver plate. Harold is not here to contradict him. To-morrow we will take Wilfred with us. He will know if the revolver is Harold's or not. In the meantime I will see Lady Jenny. Harold told me to go to her if Mr. van Zwieten made himself disagreeable. The time seems to have come."
But what can she do?
I don't know; but that is what I must find out. We will baffle this man yet. Oh, father, and to think that you once wanted me to marry him!
I was wrong, my dear, very wrong, Mr. Scarse said penitently; "but at any rate you are married now to the man of your choice."
Harold, my darling! Brenda's tears burst out afresh. "God knows if I shall ever see him again!" She wept bitterly. Truly, poor Brenda was hard beset.
Meantime Van Zwieten was swearing at his own stupidity in not having kept a sharper eye on Harold. But he had not expected the young man--whom he had regarded as his victim--to display such daring.
At Chippingholt he had warned him that if he married Brenda he would denounce him. Well, he had married Brenda, and was now well beyond reach on his way to Africa. More than ever was Van Zwieten determined that he should pay for what he had done. He had but exchanged the gallows in England for a Boer bullet in South Africa. Then, when he was no more, his widow should become Mrs. van Zwieten. That he swore should be. He had failed once, he would not fail again. From Waterloo he went to Westminster, to get the revolver and take it to his rooms, that he might have it ready for production on the morrow.
On arrival there he was met by Mrs. Hicks. She was in the greatest distress. "Oh, sir!" she cried, "a policeman's been here, and has taken a box from your room--an iron box!"
For the moment Van Zwieten stood stunned. Then he rushed upstairs and looked on the top of the press. The box was gone!
Strong man as he was, Van Zwieten reeled half-fainting against the wall. It was true--the box was gone! In a flash he realized his peril. For that box held little that was not of a highly compromising nature. Once its contents were seen by the authorities--as it would seem they must be--he would be arrested as a spy, imprisoned, perhaps hanged. No ingenuity or lying on his part could explain away the damning evidence of the papers. They spoke for themselves.
What a fool he had been not to have forwarded them to Leyds in the morning as he had intended to do. Now it was too late, and nothing remained but to fly to Pretoria and to throw in his lot openly with his employers. Useless now to think of going out as correspondent to an English newspaper, even were he able to manage his escape from London. Those in command at the front would surely be advised of his true character by the home authorities; and not only that, but he would be unmasked in a country under military law, where a spy such as he would receive but short shrift. Fly he must, and that at once. He must get to the Continent, and take ship for Delagoa Bay. The game was up in England; there remained now only the Transvaal.
After the first emotion of terror had passed, Van Zwieten collected his wits and set to work to find some way out of the difficulty. Had he been in Russia or France he would have given himself up to despair, for there the authorities were lynx-eyed and relentless. But here in England he was amongst a people so firmly wedded to their old-fashioned laws as to freedom and justice that they might fail to take the strong measures which the situation, so far as they were concerned, demanded. He would baffle these pig-headed islanders yet, and, with a courage born of despair, he set himself to the accomplishment of this design.
Mrs. Hicks, pale and tearful, had followed him into the room and had been witness of his despair. The poor woman was too much agitated to speak. This unexpected invasion of her quiet house by the police had been altogether too much for her. Van Zwieten made her sit down, and proceeded to question her. With many tears and lamentations that she had no husband to protect her, she gave him all the necessary details, and he listened with feverish anxiety to every word.
It was about midday, Mr. Jones, said Mrs. Hicks; "yes, I will not deceive you, sir, the clock was just on twelve when I heard a ring at the door. I left Mary Anne in the kitchen and went to see who it was. There was a hansom at the door, sir, and standing on the mat there was a policeman and a lady."
A lady? put in Van Zwieten, looking rather puzzled, for he could not guess what woman could have interfered with his affairs. He had always kept himself clear of the sex. "What lady?"
I don't rightly know her name, Mr. Jones, for, to be plain with you, she never gave it to me. She was a short lady, sir, with black hair and eyes--as black as your hat, sir.
Dressed in mourning? asked the Dutchman, with a sudden flash of intuition.
As you say, sir--dressed in mourning, and beautifully made it was, too. She asked if Mr. Jones lived here, and if he was at home. I said you did lodge with me, sir, having no reason to hide it, but that you were out. The lady stepped into the passage then with the policeman.
What was the policeman like?
Tall and handsome, with big black eyes and a black beard. He was something like the gentleman who came to see you last night. I beg pardon, did you speak, sir?
But Van Zwieten had not spoken. He had uttered a groan rather of relief than otherwise. The thing was not so bad after all. In the lady he recognized the wife of Mr. Malet, though why she should have come to raid his rooms was more than he could understand. The policeman he had no difficulty in recognizing as Wilfred Burton in a new disguise. Without doubt it was he who had brought Lady Jenny Malet to the Westminster rooms. And Wilfred knew, too, of the existence of the box with its compromising contents, of which Van Zwieten himself had been foolish enough to tell him on the previous night, out of a sheer spirit of bravado--bravado which he bitterly regretted when it was too late. He swore now in his beard, at his own folly, and at Wilfred's daring.
However, now that he could feel tolerably sure that the authorities had nothing to do with the seizure of his papers, he felt more at ease. After all, these private enemies might be baffled, but of this he was not so sure as he had been. The several checks which had recently happened to him had made him feel less sure of himself.
Well, Mrs. Hicks, he said, rousing himself from his meditations, "and what did these people do?"
Mrs. Hicks threw her apron over her head and moaned. "Oh, sir!" she said, in muffled tones, which came from under her apron, "they told me that you were a dangerous man, and that the Government had sent the policeman to search your rooms. The lady said she knew you well, and did not want to make a public scandal, so she had brought the policeman to do it quietly. She asked me for the key, and said if I did not give it up she would bring in a dozen more policemen--and that would have ruined me, sir!"
And you believed her? cried Van Zwieten, cursing her for a fool.
Mrs. Hicks whipped the apron off her head and looked at her lodger in wide-eyed amazement. "Of course I did," she said; "I'm that afraid of the police as never was. Many a time have I feared when I saw poor Hicks--who is dead and gone--in the hands of the constables for being drunk, poor lamb! I wouldn't resist the police; would you, sir?
Never mind, he said, seeing it was useless to argue with her. "You let them into my rooms, I suppose?"
As you may guess, sir, me being a law-abiding woman, though the taxes are that heavy. Yes, sir, I took them up to your room and left them there.
Ach! what did you do that for?
I could not help myself, sir. The policeman ordered me to go away, and it was not for me to disobey the law. I left them there for twenty minutes, and then I came up to see what they were doing. The policeman had gone and so had the cab, though I swear to you, Mr. Jones, that I never heard it drive away. The lady was sitting, cool as you like, at your desk there, writing.
What was she writing?
That, sir, I don't rightly know, as she put her letter into an envelope, and here it is.
He snatched the letter Mrs. Hicks produced from her pocket, and said something not very complimentary to that good woman's brains. She was indignant, and would fain have argued with him, but he silenced her with a gesture, and hurriedly read the letter. As he had already guessed, the writer was Lady Jenny Malet; and she merely asked him to call at her house in Curzon Street for explanations. So she put it, somewhat ironically perhaps, and Van Zwieten swore once again--this time at the phrase. He put the letter in his pocket, determined to accept the invitation, and to have it out with this all too clever lady. Meanwhile Mrs. Hicks rose to make a speech.
I have to give you notice, sir, she said in her most stately tones, "as I have not been in the habit of letting my rooms to folk as is wanted by the police. You will be pleased to leave this day week, which, I believe, was the agreement."
I intend to leave this day, retorted her lodger. "I told you I was going, and I have not seen fit to alter my decision. I will send for my furniture this afternoon, and I will pay your account now."
Thank you, sir. I shall be most obliged, and I think you should pay me extra for the disgrace you have brought on my house. Oh, wailed Mrs. Hicks, "to think I should have lodged murderers and forgers!"
Van Zwieten started at the word "murderer," but he recovered himself quickly. He dismissed her with a shrug. "Go down and make your account out," he said. "You have done mischief enough already."
Oh, indeed! cried the woman, shrilly. "I do like you, sir, disgracing my honest house, and then turning on me! I have been deceived in you, Mr. Jones; never again will I let my lodgings to mysterious gentlemen. And when they put you in the dock, sir, I'll come and see you hanged!" and with this incoherent speech Mrs. Hicks tottered out of the room.
Left alone, Van Zwieten lost no time in vain lamentation. He had been beaten by his enemies for the present; he could only wait to see if the tide of war would turn. It would be necessary to make terms with Lady Jenny and Wilfred, for they now possessed the evidences of his employment in England. But on his side he could use his knowledge of the murder and of Harold's connection with it--as witness the revolver--to keep them quiet. If they could bite, so could he.
Meanwhile he gathered together his personal belongings and packed them; he left the drawers of his desk empty, and he put the clothes of Mr. Jones into a large trunk. By the time Mrs. Hicks arrived with her bill he was quite ready. Nor had he left any evidence which would identify Mr. Jones of Westminster with Mr. van Zwieten of St. James's. Beaten he might be, but he would retreat in good order.
This is my bill, sir, said Mrs. Hicks. "I have charged nothing for the disgrace to my house!"
Just as well, retorted he. "You would gain nothing by that. There is the money--in cash. I suppose you would prefer it to my check."
Well, sir, said Mrs. Hicks, softened somewhat by the gold, "you have always paid up like a gentleman, I will say, and I hope they won't hang you!"
Thank you, said Van Zwieten, drily, as he fastened his glove; "that is very kind of you. I will see after my furniture this afternoon. Is there a cab at the door? All right. Send the man up for my luggage. And, Mrs. Hicks"--he turned on her, as Mrs. Hicks described it afterward, like a tiger--"it will be as well for you to hold your tongue about this business. By the way, how did you know the policeman took away my box?"
Mary Anne was watching on the stairs, sir, and she saw the policeman come down with it, said the landlady, with dignity. "Oh, I won't say anything, sir, you may be sure. I only want to keep away from the law. I hope you'll be as lucky!" and Mrs. Hicks bowed her suspicious guest out of the house. She was immensely relieved when she saw his cab drive round the corner.
In another ten minutes Mr. Jones was transformed into Mr. van Zwieten, and was established in his rooms in Duke Street, St. James's. But he had no intention of staying there long. The place was evidently too hot to hold him, or would be unless he could threaten and bully Lady Jenny and Wilfred into surrender of that precious box. In any event, his great desire was to go south. His work in England was done, and well done. Even Leyds acknowledged that. But for Van Zwieten's report of the rusty condition of the British army; the out-of-date ordnance; the little way these islanders had of putting incompetent men in office, to be rendered still more incompetent by an antiquated system of red-tapeism; and the inconceivable folly practiced of allowing the civil power to override the opinion of military experts; but for all these things the Republics--well armed though they were--would not have declared war. The world was amazed at their daring. But their two Presidents knew what they were about, and so did Leyds. His business it was to spread reports which would gain the sympathy of the Continental Powers; that of the burghers to hurl themselves on the British, all unprepared as they were through the folly of the peace party. Now that the glove had been thrown down, Van Zwieten was all eagerness to get to the front. How useful he could be to his adopted country at this juncture! But were he in the British camp as war correspondent to an English newspaper, his usefulness would be trebled. And now it seemed as though his enemies were to upset all these plans by this one coup!
However, there was nothing for it now but to face them bravely and learn the worst. Then he could take what steps were possible to frustrate them.
Meanwhile Brenda was pouring out her troubles to Lady Jenny Malet and telling her all about Van Zwieten and his threats. She had gone there full of anxiety to enlist the little widow's sympathies, and of indignation at the charge made by the Dutchman against Harold. Having made herself as clear as she knew how, and having related all the facts, she waited with some impatience for Lady Jenny's opinion, which was not immediately forthcoming. Indeed, it was some time before she spoke.
The drawing-room was both tastefully and extravagantly furnished. Lady Jenny might be a spendthrift, but she was also an artist, and alas! her period of splendor was drawing to a close. Already Chippingholt Manor had been sold to gratify the greedy creditors of its late owner. The house in Curzon Street was her own property under her marriage settlement, and this with ten thousand pounds from the insurance office was all she had in the world. So by the advice of her lawyer she had invested the money and let the house furnished. Now she was going abroad to practice economy in some continental town. All her plans were made; and this was the last week of her prosperity. She only lingered in England at the express request of Wilfred, who had made her promise to help him all she could to trap Van Zwieten. Brenda had come on the same errand; and now Lady Jenny sat and pondered how much she could tell her about the man.
Do speak to me, said Brenda. "I am so afraid for Harold."
You need not be, replied the widow, and her visitor noticed how worried and haggard she looked. "He is perfectly safe, I assure you. Van Zwieten shall not harm him!"
But he accuses him of committing the murder!
So you said. But that doesn't matter. Whoever killed poor Gilbert it was not Harold Burton.
Tell me how Harold's revolver came to be found on the spot?
I have an idea, but I cannot tell you--at all events, not just yet. Wait till I have seen Van Zwieten.
Are you going to see him?
I think so--to-night, about nine o'clock. At least I left a note at his rooms which I think will bring him. I can only say that if he is a wise man he will come. Then I will settle him once and for all as far as Harold is concerned.
Lady Jenny, tell me who do you think killed your husband?
She looked at the girl sharply. "Did your father ever tell you he had a brother?" she asked.
Yes, he told me all about it; and how your wicked husband ran away with his wife! I beg your pardon, I should not speak so of Mr. Malet.
You need not apologize, the widow said bitterly, "Gilbert deserves all the names you could have called him. He was a bad man; and even though he is dead, and though he was punished by a violent death, I have not forgiven him."
Oh, don't say that; it is wrong!
I know it is, but I can't help it. I have southern blood in my veins, and I never forgive. I am glad your father told you the truth--it saves me from having to repeat a very painful story. That poor uncle of yours told me all about it, and how Gilbert had deceived and ill-treated his wife. I asked my husband, and he denied the story; but I saw the woman myself and made certain it was true. Then I hated Gilbert. Not for that only--there were other things. Before he married me, and after, he deceived me. I could have taken his punishment into my own hands, but I felt sure that Heaven would check his wicked career. But to go on with my story. That night I got a note from your uncle telling me that his wife was dead. I saw Gilbert in the library and showed him the letter. It was just before he went out. I reminded him that the man--and a madman at that--was hanging about the place. The boy who brought the letter had told me so, and I warned him against going out. He laughed at me, and was most insulting. Then he went, and I never saw him again until his body was brought in. I knew then that the vengeance of Heaven had fallen!
Brenda looked at her with a white face. "What do you mean?" she asked in a whisper.
Child, can you not guess? It was Robert who had killed him!
Impossible! cried Brenda. "My father found my uncle and took him home with him. At the time of the murder Uncle Robert was in our cottage."
Is this true? said the widow, and a bright color came into her face. "Then who was the man talking to Gilbert in the library? There was some one with him just before nine o'clock. I was going to the Rectory to meet Harold about your business, and I went to the library to see if Gilbert had come back. I was afraid of Robert Scarse and of what he might do, half crazed as he was by his wife's death. Little as I loved my husband, I did not want that to happen. The door of the room was locked, but I heard voices. I went out without thinking any more about it. Oh, I swear to you, Brenda, that I have always believed it was your uncle who killed him! Who was it then? The revolver!--ah! and Van Zwieten has it!" She jumped up and clasped her hands. "I see! I know! I know!"
What? asked the girl, rising in alarm.
Never mind--never mind. I will tell you soon. Go now, Brenda, and leave me to see Van Zwieten. Oh, I know how to manage him now!
"Is it him you mean? He is worse than a murderer,"" Lady Jenny cried. ""He is a spy!""
"I was sure of it. But how do you know?
I know; and I can't tell you how. As to the murder, he has to do with that too. I believe he did it himself.
But how do you know? repeated Brenda. "How do you know?"
No matter. I am sure he fired that shot, and I can prove it.
Prove it, and hang him! cried Brenda, and there was bitter hatred in her voice.
The little widow sat down again, and the fire died out of her eyes. "No, I cannot hang him, even though he is guilty. There are things--oh, I can't tell you. The man must go unpunished for the sake of--go away, child, and leave it all to me."
But I want to know the truth--I must save Harold!
I will save Harold. He is safe from Van Zwieten. As to the truth, you shall know it when once he is out of the country.
Brenda had to be satisfied with this, for her friend absolutely refused to tell her any more. But she left feeling that her husband was safe from the intrigues of the Dutchman, and that was all she cared about.
Left alone, Lady Jenny clenched her hands.
If I could only hang him! she muttered. "But that is impossible!"
As Lady Jenny had expected, Mr. van Zwieten proved himself to be a wise man by presenting himself in her drawing-room at the appointed hour. He was in evening dress, calm and composed as usual, and greeted her with a low bow. She could not help admiring his self-possession. His reputation, his liberty even, was at stake, and yet he never turned a hair. And with these feelings uppermost, she received him more kindly, perhaps, than she would otherwise have done. The Dutchman, taking his cue from her, that the conversation, despite its probable sensational character, was not to be conducted on melodramatic lines, reciprocated her politeness. Any one seeing the pair might have imagined that they were discussing nothing of more importance than "Shakespeare and the musical glasses," rather than a subject which, to one of them, at least, meant life or death.
The hostess, in a black silk dinner dress, with a few well-chosen jewels, looked unusually pretty in the light of the lamps, and Van Zwieten was an admirer of pretty women, and knew well how to make himself agreeable to them. Had the subject-matter of their conversation been only less serious, he would have enjoyed himself. As it was, he did not find the hour he spent with her irksome. For a few moments the two antagonists discussed general topics, and then Lady Jenny came suddenly to the point. The man watched her warily. Pretty she might be, but that was no reason why he should allow her to get the better of him. It was a duel of words, and the combatants were well matched.
Well, Mr. van Zwieten, began the widow, "I suppose you were somewhat astonished at my invitation."
I cannot deny that I was, my dear lady. It is, perhaps, a trifle disconcerting to find one's rooms robbed, and then to receive an invitation from the robber!
Oh, come, that is rather harsh, is it not? It was what I should call simple justice.
Indeed! replied the other, dryly. "It would interest me to learn how you make that out."
Oh, easily. I can give you two reasons. In the first place, you threatened--did you not?--to accuse a man of a crime which you knew he had not committed. In the second, you are a spy, to put it plainly, and both Wilfred Burton and I felt it was our duty to secure proofs of your guilt. We are not all fools in this country!
That is a charge one would hardly bring against you, returned Van Zwieten, with emphasis, "nor against that young man. Had I suspected him of so much cleverness, I should have taken more elaborate precautions."
Ah! you should never undervalue your enemies! Well, I suppose you know that you are in my power?
And in Wilfred Burton's also!
No. I can manage him. He has left the decision of this matter in my hands. I am sure you ought to be pleased at that!
I am. Because I see you mean to let me off.
That depends! she said, and shot a keen glance at him. "I asked you to come here because it was necessary that I should see you, sir--but I despise you none the less for that. You are a spy!--the meanest of all created creatures."
Van Zwieten held up his hand. He was quite unmoved. "My dear lady, let us come to business. Believe me, preaching of that kind has very little effect on me. I might defend myself by saying that I have every right to use craft on behalf of the Transvaal fox against the mighty English lion, but I will content myself with holding my tongue. I would remind you that I have very little time to spare. I intend to leave this country to-morrow morning."
How do you know that I shall allow you to go?
You would hardly have invited me to this interview else, Van Zwieten said cunningly. "You have something you want from me. Well, I will give it in exchange for my safety--and that includes, of course, your silence."
It is clever of you to put it that way, responded the widow, coolly. "It so happens that you are right. I intend to make a bargain with you."
Always provided that I agree.
Of course, said she, airily; "but in this case I really think you will agree."
I am not so sure of that. Van Zwieten narrowed his eyes and blinked wickedly. "You forget that I also know something."
For that reason I asked you here. Let me advise you not to pit yourself against me, my good man, or you may get the worst of it. A word from me and you would be kicking your heels in jail this very night.
Probably. Van Zwieten had too much to gain to notice her threat. "But you will never say that word."
You can't be quite sure of that yet. Well, let us get to business. I am not anxious to spend any more time in your company than is necessary.
I assure you the feeling is mutual. May I ask how you found my rooms in Westminster?
I think you know that very well after the visitor you received last night. I was told about them and you by Mr. Wilfred Burton. He knew long ago that you were a spy, and he has been watching you for many months.
He is not so very clever then. All these months--and yet he has got no further than this!
How much further do you want him to go? He has the box with all your papers--your treasonable papers--your orders from Dr. Leyds. Really, Mr. van Zwieten, you should have taken a little more care of that box! The top of a press was hardly a safe place to hide it. But perhaps you had been reading Poe's story of the 'Purloined Letter.'
Never mind what I read, he said, evidently annoyed at her flippancy. "Let us confine ourselves to business. The idea of the disguised policeman was yours, I suppose?"
Yes, sir, it was. I felt sure that the landlady would not let us enter your room to make the search unless she was thoroughly frightened, so I suggested that he should get himself up as a member of the force. Our little stratagem succeeded to perfection. Mrs. Hicks--that is her name, I believe--was terrified and let us in at once. Then we found your box, and I sent Wilfred away with it while I stayed and wrote my note to you. Oh, what a time we had over your papers! You really are very clever, Mr. van Zwieten. What a lot the Foreign Secretary would give to see what we saw and, as it happens, he is a personal friend of mine. I might sell it, you know, she went on coolly. "I am poor enough now, and they would give me a good price."
Not such a price as would recompense you for what I could say about your husband, retorted the Dutchman.
She laughed gaily. "Oh, that? My good man, I know all about that! Do you think I should have taken the trouble to talk to you if I had not known that my husband had been doing all your dirty work?"
Yes, he did my work, Van Zwieten said viciously. "He was my creature--paid by me with Transvaal gold. You call me a spy, Lady Jane Malet. Your own husband was one--and not only a spy, but a traitor!"
I know it, she said, and her face was very pale, "and for that reason I am glad he is dead, terrible though his end was."
I dare say you helped him out of the world! sneered Van Zwieten.
That is false, and you know it. I had no idea of what my husband was until I found his papers after his death. Had I known that when he was yet alive, I might have killed him! She clenched her hand. "Yes, I might have shot him, the mean, cowardly hound! He spoke against the Boers, and yet he took their money!"
Oh, you must not blame him for that. That was my idea.
It is worthy of you. Oh!--she started up and paced the room in a fury--"to think that I should have been married to such a creature! To think that I should have lived on gold paid for the betrayal of my country! The cur! The Judas! Thank God he is dead." And then, turning abruptly on the Dutchman, "How did you gain him over to your side?" she asked. "Gilbert was a man once--a man and a gentleman. How did you contrive to make him a--a--thing?"
Easily enough, he said placidly. He could not understand why she made all this fuss. "Two years ago I met him at Monte Carlo. I watched him gamble and lose. I heard he was in the War Office, or had some connection with it, so I made his acquaintance and induced him to play still higher. We became intimate enough to discuss money matters--his, of course--and he told me that he was very hard up. He blamed you."
I dare say, returned Lady Jenny, coldly. "Go on."
Well, I put the matter to him delicately. I asked him to find out certain details connected with your military organization, and I told him he would be well paid for the information. I am bound to say he kicked at first, but I went on tempting him with bigger sums; and he was so desperately hard up that he closed with me in the end. He soon did all I wanted, and, once in my power, I trained him to be most useful, but I kept on paying him well--oh, yes, I paid him very well.
He made this villainous confession in so cool a tone that Lady Jenny could have struck him. It was horrible to think that she had been the wife of so degraded a creature as Van Zwieten now described her husband to have been, and, "Thank God he is dead!" she cried again. "It would have been worse for both of us if I had known it while he was alive. It might have been I, then, who would have fired the shot. But after all, I suppose it was better that he should fall by your hand!"
The Dutchman started from his seat. "I am a spy, Lady Jenny," he cried, "but I am not a murderer. I leave that sort of thing to you!"
To me? Do you accuse me of the murder of my husband?
I do. Captain Burton, while staying at your house at Chippingholt, left his revolvers behind. You found them; you took one and stole out after your husband and shot him. I found the weapon. Do you take me for a fool? Where were you when you pretended to go to the Rectory?--out in the orchards tracking your husband! You killed him because he was in love with Mrs. Scarse. Deny it if you can!
I do deny it. It was all over between him and Mrs. Scarse before he married me. He cared so little for the poor woman that he did not go to her when she was dying. That madman, her husband, came down to tell Gilbert of her death. They met and had a struggle. I thought it was he who had killed him; and indeed, if he had, I should not have blamed him. As it was, you were the man--you, who wanted to get rid of your tool!
Van Zwieten threw himself back in his chair with a laugh. "You talk nonsense," he said roughly. "Why should I want to get rid of a man who was useful to me? No one was more sorry than I when poor Malet died. Not from any sentimental point of view--oh, dear no!--but because he had become quite a necessary person to me. I found the revolver in the grass, but it was not I who had used it. If I had," he added cynically, "I should have no hesitation in telling you."
You did murder him! insisted Lady Jenny, fiercely. "I know where you found the revolver--not, as you say, on the grass--no! it was in the library on the night of the murder. Gilbert had been shooting at a mark in the afternoon; and at night--at nine o'clock--I heard voices in the library. It was you who were with him; you, who came to take away treasonable papers from my unhappy husband. You got what you wanted, and you got the weapon, and he went back with you to Mr. Scarse's cottage. You wanted to get rid of him without danger to yourself; you tried to lay the guilt on Harold Burton to rid yourself of a rival! You shot Gilbert in the orchards, and you threw away the revolver to implicate Harold and walked back to the cottage; you--you murderer!--you Cain!"
She stopped, half choked by her emotions. Van Zwieten seized the opportunity to deny once again the truth of her accusation.
I tell you I did not kill Malet!
Then who did?
I don't know. I thought it was Captain Burton; upon my soul I did!
Have you a soul? Lady Jenny asked with scorn. "I should doubt it. However, I stick to my opinion--I believe that you killed my husband. Oh, you need not look alarmed, I am not going to give you up. I have done all I wanted--I have married Harold to Brenda by telling him I could keep you from accusing him of the murder!"
And can you? sneered Van Zwieten. He was fighting every inch.
I am sure I can. I have your box, remember. For my husband's sake I spare you now. I don't want an honorable name to be smirched through him. I don't want to be pointed at as the widow of a spy and a traitor, otherwise I would denounce you as the spy and the murderer I truly believe you to be. This is my bargain, Mr. van Zwieten. You leave England at once, cease to persecute Captain Burton and his wife and I will hold my tongue.
And if I refuse? he asked sullenly.
If you refuse I will have you arrested as you leave this house. You think I can't do that, but I can. I have made all my preparations. I have left nothing to chance. One does not leave things to chance in dealing with a man like you, Mr. van Zwieten, she sneered. "Wilfred Burton is outside with a couple of policemen. I have only to whistle and they will come up."
But Van Zwieten was not so easily bluffed. "On what grounds, may I ask?" he said. "If you wanted to keep this matter quiet for the sake of your husband, you would not have told the police."
I have told them nothing about your spying business, she said calmly. "You will be arrested on a charge of being concerned in the murder of my husband, and I can assure you that if you are so arrested I will press the charge. On the other hand, if you agree to my terms, I will let you go free. I can easily make things right with the police by telling them that I have been mistaken. Oh, all this is not regular, I know; but I have some little political influence, and I am using it for my own benefit--and for yours, if it comes to that."
He looked at her savagely. Had he obeyed his inclinations he would have wrung her neck. It was gall and wormwood to him to be beaten so thoroughly by a woman. But being in England, and not in a country like the Transvaal, where such a trifling matter as murder would be winked at, he had to suppress his homicidal desires. Quickly reviewing the situation, he could see nothing for it but to yield to the superior power of the enemy. Twist and wriggle as he might, there was no chance of escaping from the trap she had prepared for him. The game was up and there remained only the Transvaal.
Well! Lady Jenny asked imperiously, "what have you to say? Will you give me your promise to leave Brenda and her husband unmolested and to leave England at once, or will you allow yourself to be arrested and have all the world know what manner of life yours has been?"
If you had me exposed, you also would suffer.
My husband's name would be smirched. I know that, but I am prepared to run that risk. If I had the misfortune to be the wife of a scoundrel, that was not my fault. But I am getting tired of all this. I give you five minutes to make up your mind.
Van Zwieten assumed a cheerful demeanor. He would take the sting of this defeat by accepting it with a good grace. "There is no need for me to consider the matter, dear lady," he said, "I am willing to accept your terms."
Very good. Then you leave England----
To-morrow morning.
And you will make no further accusations against Captain Burton?
No. It would appear that he is innocent.
And you will not annoy his wife?
Since she is his wife, I will promise that also.
In that case I need detain you no longer, Mr. van Zwieten.
One moment. My papers; what about them? Am I not to have them?
The audacity of this demand took away the little woman's breath. "No! Certainly not," she replied sharply. "I should lose my hold over you if I gave them up. Besides, you have given quite enough information to your friend Dr. Leyds. You shall not give any more if I can help it."
Then what security have I that you will let me go free?
You have my word. And, after all, there are no guarantees on either side. What security have I for your silence save the holding of these papers? I know very well that as soon as you think you are safe you will do what injury you can to Captain Burton. But I can thwart you there too, Mr. van Zwieten. Your wish is to go to the British camp as a war correspondent. You would betray all our plans to the enemy. Well, sir, I forbid you to stay with my countrymen. If I hear--as I assuredly will hear that you are in our camp, I will at once disclose the contents of the box, and instructions shall be sent to the front for your arrest. I can checkmate you on every point.
What about Captain Burton's life? You can't protect that. If you drive me to join the Boers, I can easily have him shot.
Seeing there was no more to be said, he rose to go. At the door he paused. "You have forced me to consent to what you wished," he said, "as I can do nothing against the power you have unlawfully gained over me by stealing my papers. But I give you fair warning that I love Brenda madly, and that I intend to make her my wife in spite of Captain Burton. Once in the Transvaal, I shall join hands openly with my adopted country. Then let Burton look to himself, for I will do my best to make his wife a widow."
The future is in the hands of God, Lady Jenny said solemnly. "You can go, Mr. van Zwieten."
He bowed ironically and went without another word. He was glad to have escaped so easily; for, after all, he could do as he liked when he was beyond the reach of pursuit. Once he was in the Transvaal, Lady Jenny might show the papers as much as she wished. Had she been wise, he thought, she would have kept him as a hostage. But she had let her chance slip, and he was free to plot and scheme. Needless to say, he intended to keep none of the promises he had made.
Then he went out into the night, slipped past three men, whom he recognized as Wilfred and the constables, and so took his departure like a whipped hound.