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! Ifsheonly 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 ofThe 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!"
"Howcanyou 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 toThe 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."
"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 revoiruntil 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!"
"Iwill 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!"