The old man sprang up with the light of fury in his pale eyes and flung himself on Van Zwieten. For an instant he was more than a match for the big Dutchman.
"How dare you--I have no brother," he gasped. Then as suddenly this strength, born of anger, went out of him, and he became weak as a child. Van Zwieten picked him up like a baby and flung him roughly into a chair.
"Sit there," he said sternly. "I mean to know the whole of this story," and he busied himself lighting the lamp.
"There is--no--no story."
"There is, and, what's more, you will tell it to me."
"I won't," cried Mr. Scarse, shivering and forgetting his previous denial. "You can't force me to speak."
"I can--I will," said the Dutchman, grimly. Then, the lamp being lighted, he sat down in an armchair on the other side of the fireplace opposite to his host and produced a cigar. "Begin, please."
Scarse staggered to his feet--he was shaken by his own nerves and Van Zwieten's rough treatment--and moved slowly toward the door. The Dutchman rose and ran past him with a lightness and speed surprising in so heavy a man. He reached the door before Mr. Scarse did. The next moment it was locked and the key in Van Zwieten's pocket. "Go back to your seat, please," said Van Zwieten, politely.
"I won't--I am master here," cried the old man, his voice shrill with anger. "What do you mean by treating me like this? I'll call the police."
The Dutchman pulled out the key and held it toward Scarse. "As you please," he said with a sneer. "Call the police and I'll give you in charge."
"Give me in charge, you villain!--for what?"
"For murdering Gilbert Malet. Aha, my dear friend, you did not count on my knowing that, did you? You are quite unaware that I followed you from your cottage into the orchards, where you----"
"I did not--I did not!" wailed Scarse, shrinking back.
"No, you did not," retorted Van Zwieten, "but you were near the spot where Malet was killed, and near it about the time he was shot. You will find it difficult to refute my evidence if I am compelled to give it. On the whole, Mr. Stuart Scarse, I think you had better sit down and talk sensibly."
Scarse glared like an angry cat. But physically and morally the Dutchman was too much for him. With an attempt at dignity he returned to his seat.
"I am at a loss to understand this extraordinary behavior, Mr. Van Zwieten," he said, in his most stately manner, "and I deny the shameful accusation you have made. Perhaps you will be kind enough to apologize and leave my rooms."
"My dear friend, I shall do neither." Van Zwieten carefully lighted his cigar. "I am waiting to hear the story."
"What story?" asked the other, willfully misunderstanding.
"The story about your brother and his visit to Chippingholt--to murder our dear friend. I know some of it from your brother, but----"
"I have no brother, I tell you!"
"Oh, yes, I think so. A twin brother named--Robert--Robert Scarse."
"He is dead to me."
"Ah, that is quite another thing. He has come to life for the purpose of throwing some light on this mystery. Indeed, I think you had better tell me why he murdered Gilbert Malet."
"He did not murder him."
"Oh, yes, he did; and I should like to have details, please--his motive and all that."
"I refuse to give them to you."
Van Zwieten rose and buttoned his coat. "Very good," said he; "then I shall see a magistrate and tell him all I know."
"What do you know?"
"Sufficient to have Robert arrested for the murder, and you as his accomplice."
Mr. Scarse shivered again, and bit his lip. Then he seemed to make up his mind.
"Sit down. Don't be in a hurry. I will tell you all I can. Of course you will keep secret what I tell you."
"Of course! I never talk without good reason. So you have a twin brother?"
"Yes; Robert. He is--he--he is not in his right mind."
"So I should think from his talk and his extraordinary apparel. A black crape scarf is quite original. By the way, your daughter saw him to-day."
"Brenda?" cried Scarse, horrified. "Then she knows----"
"Nothing--except that Robert is wonderfully like you. I got him away before she could speak to him. This I did for your sake--and my own!"
"You wish to make quite sure of getting Brenda--to force me!"
"Not exactly that," smiled Van Zwieten, "since I know that you are already quite willing she should marry me. But I wish to use the knowledge to force her into giving up Burton and becoming my wife."
"You would tell her of Robert's existence?"
"Not if I could help myself," said the Dutchman, politely. "Believe me, my dear friend, I am very discreet. You can safely confide in me."
"It seems I am forced to," grumbled Mr. Scarse, ungraciously. "What is it you particularly wish to know?"
"The whole story about your brother, and why you deny him. I am sure it will be most interesting. Go on, please, I am waiting."
Mr. Scarse looked at his tyrant savagely. He would dearly have liked to refuse, but he realized that he was on perilous ground. Van Zwieten knew just enough to be dangerous. He must not be allowed to make use of his knowledge, even if he had to be told more. Besides, Mr. Scarse was satisfied that for Brenda's sake he would keep quiet. Therefore he made a virtue of necessity and launched at once into a family history, of which in no other circumstances would he have spoken to any living soul. It was the very fact of the Dutchman's having it in his power to force his confidence that angered him. No man likes to be coerced.
"I don't think the story will interest you much," he said, sulkily; "but such as it is, I will relate it. Robert Scarse is my twin brother, and is as like me as it is possible for one man to be like another. His appearance deceived young Burton and the Chippingholt folk."
"I know they took him for you. And on account of that scarf they paid you the compliment of thinking you were out of your mind."
Mr. Scarse shrugged his shoulders. "As if I cared," he said contemptuously. "My speeches in the House prove that I am sane enough. Well, Robert is my brother, and I was--I am--very fond of him. My sister Julia--Mrs. St. Leger, you know--never liked him, and when we cast him off she made up her mind to regard him as dead. She never even admits that she has a brother. I am her only relative--at least the only one she acknowledges."
"And why, pray, was Robert cast off thus, and by his affectionate twin?"
"Don't be sarcastic, Van Zwieten, it does not suit you," snapped Scarse. "My brother was a bad lot. At school and college he led the authorities a devil of a dance until he was expelled. When he came to London he took to gambling and drinking. I was never like that. My one desire was to get into Parliament, where my father had been before me, and serve my country. My sister married St. Leger--he was a subaltern then--and went out to India. My mother died, and there was no one to check Robert's pranks. My father paid his debts so often that we became quite impoverished. That is why I am so poor."
"Are you poor?" asked Van Zwieten, thinking regretfully that Brenda--sweet as she was--would have no dowry.
"As poor as a church mouse. I married a woman with six hundred a year, and out of that Brenda has two hundred a year. I can't touch it. What with the other four hundred and my own money I have but a thousand a year all told--little enough for a man of my position. Of course, when I die, my thousand a year will go to Brenda."
"Ah!" said Van Zwieten, with much satisfaction. He was sufficiently Dutch to be very fond of money.
"You needn't look so pleased, Van Zwieten. Even if youdomarry Brenda--which I doubt since she hates you so--you won't get my money. I'll live a long time yet, and, in any case, I'll settle it on her so that her husband--whoever he may be--can't touch it."
"Quite right, Mr. Scarse. But about Robert? Please go on."
"Well, Robert crowned his pranks by committing forgery, and my father had to pay I don't know how many thousands to hush the matter up. You can make no use of this admission, Mr. van Zwieten, since the man whose name was forged died long ago and the papers are all destroyed. Robert went abroad after that, and my father cut him off with a shilling. He forbade his name to be mentioned, and declared he was no son of his. Mrs. St. Leger acted in the same way, and I followed suit. I could do nothing else--if I had, my father would have disinherited me."
"Most affectionate twin!"
"Don't talk like that," cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Who are you to judge me? I still love my brother--after all, he is my own flesh and blood, and nearer and dearer to me than it is possible for you to imagine. But he is supposed to be dead these thirty and more years, and why should I bring him forth into the world only to be disgraced? I allow him a small income, and under another name he is as happy as ever he will be. By the way," he broke off suddenly, "how did you find out his real name?"
"Oh, I saw the resemblance and made use of my knowledge of his being in Chippingholt to force him into confessing the truth. I will tell you about that later on. Go on with your story, which is truly remarkable."
"Truly criminal, I think," Mr. Scarse said gloomily; "a nice family history for a sedate English gentleman to have. I wonder what my constituents would say if they heard it? Ah, there is a skeleton in every house. In a way it is a relief to me to talk of it even to you, Van Zwieten. Mrs. St. Leger will never mention or listen to the subject."
"Well, well, my friend,"--Van Zwieten was becoming impatient of this digression,--"what did your brother do when he was cut off from his family?"
"You'll never believe it when I tell you. Strange to say, he mended his ways. On the Continent--in Switzerland, I fancy--he came into contact with some Socialists and imbibed their ideas. He put away all his fine clothes and extravagant tastes and became quite humble and simple."
"Because he had no money to do otherwise."
"There is something in that. Well, he lived among these Socialists for many a long year. He went to Russia and saw Tolstoi, knew Karl Marx, and threw himself headlong into schemes whereby the human race was to be saved by all manner of devices, having as their basis the equitable division of property. Then he married a young girl--a Swiss, the daughter of one of his socialistic friends--and returned to England. He was poor, so I helped him."
"Out of your poverty!--how noble!" sneered Van Zwieten, lighting a fresh cigar.
"Oh, I was richer then. I was married and my wife had money. Then she died a few years after Brenda was born, and I put the child to school as soon as she was of an age. She was brought up away from me," he went on sadly; "that is why I have such small influence over her."
"You will have influence enough to make her marry me, my friend."
"I doubt it--I doubt it. Well, my brother lived in a poor way, having but little money, besides which, his ideas were all against luxury. His wife was beautiful and frivolous and had no love for him. She coveted money and position, neither of which he could give her, and would not if he could. That was ten years ago."
"Ah! and what happened then?"
"My brother's wife met Malet. He was handsome, rich, and a scoundrel, and he ran away with her."
Van Zwieten appeared astonished. "He wasn't then married to Lady Jenny?"
"No, he married Lady Jenny later. But he ran off with my brother's wife to Italy. And the shock of his wife's treachery gave poor Robert brain fever."
"He loved her then?"
"He worshipped her. She was his life--he lived only to make her happy. Well, he had his recompense! She deceived him, deserted him. Without a word she eloped with that scoundrel. Robert lost his reason, and I had to put him in an asylum. There he was for two years. When he came out he went in search of his wife, for he still loved her. Malet by that time had come back alone, and shortly afterward he married Lady Jenny. The reptile! do you wonder that I hated him? For Robert's sake I saw him and forced him to tell the truth. I threatened to inform his wife of his past if he did not."
"But all that was before the marriage. No woman would care if----"
"Lady Jenny would. She is half Italian and of an extremely jealous disposition. She loved Malet--God only knows why--and had she found out the truth then she would have left him. But Malet told me where to find my brother's wife, and I held my tongue."
"Did Lady Jenny ever learn this story?"
"You shall hear. Robert found his wife and took her back. She was a complete wreck and terribly unhappy. They lived at Poplar under another name on the small income I could allow them. For years I saw very little of Robert. Then he took it into his head to pose as a prophet of evil, predicting woe to England. He assumed that snuff-colored coat and wore the crape scarf as a symbol of his mourning. He was frequently in trouble with the police, and several times I helped him out of his scrapes."
"Why don't you shut him up again?"
"Ah! my friend, how could I take the poor fellow from his dying wife? All those years she was bedridden and dying slowly. I could not part them. Latterly he used to come now and again to see me at Chippingholt, usually at night and in ordinary dress. On one occasion he arrived in the daytime and met Lady Jenny. He knew her by sight, and he told her the truth about his wife and her husband. That was a year ago. Lady Jenny was furious, and I believe she quarrelled with her husband. After that they were never the same to one another. She loved him once, but after that she must have hated him. Robert was foolish to have told her. It could do no good."
"Well--what then?"
"He went away, and for months I saw nothing of him. The next I heard was when Brenda told me Harold Burton had met a man like me with a crape scarf round his neck. From the description I recognized Robert, and knew that his mind must be more than ever unhinged for him to have come down in what he called his prophetic robes. I knew he would not come to see me till dusk, and I waited anxiously. But he did not appear, so I went out to look for him. It struck me that he might be lurking round the Manor gates to see Gilbert Malet, and perhaps to do him an injury. I searched for a long time, and was caught in the storm. Then I found Robert in the orchards and led him home. He told me his news."
"What was his news?"
"His wife was dead, and he had come to tell Malet."
"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 hisalibi, 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,aliasMr. 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 calledThe 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 hangyouif 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."