WHAT VAN ZWIETEN KNEW.
The clever criminal who wishes to escape the law does not seek
provincial neighborhoods or foreign climes. He remains in London; for
him no place is so safe. There a man can disappear from one district
and reappear in another without danger of recognition by unwelcome
friends. Of course the pertinacity of the police may do much to
complicate matters, but the history of crime goes to show very clearly
that they are by no means infallible. But about them Van Zwieten
troubled himself very little. Certainly he changed his name to Jones,
for his own, in those anti-Dutch times, smacked overmuch of Holland.
But for the rest his disguise was slight. From St. James's he changed
his address to a part of Westminster where none of his West End
friends were likely to come across him; and as Mr. Jones he carried on
his plotting against the Empire with every sense of security. And in
such security he saw only a strong proof of John Bull's stupidity. An
Englishman would have seen in it a glorious example of freedom.
In a side street Van Zwieten, _alias_ Mr. Jones, dwelt on the first
floor of a quiet house let out in lodgings by the quietest of widows.
And Mrs. Hicks had a good opinion of her lodger. It is true he was
somewhat erratic in his movements. For days he would go away--into the
country, he said--and even when in town would be absent for many hours
at a stretch. But he paid well and regularly, was not exacting about
either his food or attendance, and behaved altogether in the most
becoming manner. He certainly saw a great number of people, and they
called on him principally at night, but Mr. Jones had kindly informed
her how he was writing a great book on London, and how these people
were gathering materials for him. Had Mrs. Hicks known the kind of
materials they were collecting, she might or might not have been
astonished. Certainly she would have been but little the wiser.
A decent, if narrow-minded little person, Mrs. Hicks knew little of
politics and still less of spies. These latter--on those few occasions
when they had presented themselves to her mind--she pictured as
foreign persons given to meeting by candlelight with mask and cloaks
and daggers. That the kind gentleman who was so polite to her and so
kind to her fatherless children should be a spy assuredly never
entered Mrs. Hick's head.
Van Zwieten--it is more convenient to call him so--sat in his rooms
one night in the second week in October. His face wore a satisfied
smile, for a great event had taken place. Free State and Transvaal,
under the sapient guidance of their Presidents, had thrown down the
gage of defiance to England, and the Federal armies were overrunning
Natal. Scarse and his following were dreadfully shocked at this sample
of simplicity on the part of their "innocent lamb." It was all out of
keeping with Mr. Kruger's pacific intentions as extolled by them.
Indeed, they found it necessitated a change of tactics on their part,
so they right-about faced and deplored that war should thus have been
forced on an honest, God-fearing man. In all sincerity they tried to
divide the country on the question of the war; and in Brussels Leyds
was doing his best to hound on the Continental Powers to attacking
England. Altogether Van Zwieten was very well satisfied with the
outlook. What with the unprepared state of the British in Natal, Leyds
on the Continent, Scarse and his friends in London, it seemed as
though the Boers, by treachery and cunning and the due display of
armament--as formidable as it was wholly unlooked for--would come
safely out of the desperate adventure to which they had committed
themselves. Van Zwieten's part was to send off certain final
information to Leyds for transmission to Pretoria, and then to leave
England.
But Van Zwieten was not going out to fight for his adopted country.
Oh, dear, no! He had ostensibly thrown up his appointment in the
Transvaal--which in truth he had never held--in great indignation
before the war began. Proclaiming himself as a neutral person anxious
to reconcile the English and the Boers, he had solicited and obtained
the post of war correspondent on a Little England newspaper called
_The Morning Planet_. This paper, whose columns were filled with the
hysterical hooting of Scarse and his friends, was only too glad to
employ a foreigner instead of an Englishman, and Van Zwieten received
good pay, and an order to go to the front at once.
Now he was occupied in burning a mass of papers, gathering up the
loose ends of his innumerable conspiracies, and looking forward to a
speedy departure. All his spies had been paid and dismissed. He had
one more letter to despatch to the patriotic Leyds, and then he was
free to turn his attention to his private affairs.
These were concerned chiefly with an attempt to force Brenda into
giving up Burton and accepting his hand, by threatening to denounce
her father and his brother. He had never for a moment intended to keep
the promise he had made to Scarse. He was too "slim" for that. He
possessed knowledge which would serve him to his own ends, and he
intended to use it for that purpose. Burton, too, was to leave with
his regiment next day, and was already at Southampton. And once he was
parted from Brenda there would be a better chance of bringing her to
see reason. Van Zwieten smiled sweetly as he thought on these things,
and gave himself up to the contemplation of that rosy future when the
Republics conquered England, as they assuredly would. He forgot that
very significant saying that man proposes and God disposes. But Van
Zwieten was a heathen, and had very little belief in an overruling
Providence.
He knew how to make himself snug did this Dutchman. His room was
large, and comfortably if not luxuriously furnished. Wall paper,
carpet and curtains were all of a dark green tone. Two windows led on
to a light iron balcony, but at present these were closed and the
curtains were drawn. The firelight--he had lighted a fire because the
evening was chilly--shed its comfortable glow on the two easy-chairs
wherewith he had supplemented the furniture of Mrs. Hicks. To him
belonged also a tall press with pigeon-holes filled with papers, and a
knee-hole desk with many drawers and brass knobs. On this latter the
lamp was placed, and its crimson shade shut off the light beyond the
immediate circle cast on the desk. On the mantel glittered a gimcrack
French clock, and three extraordinary ornaments with brass pendants.
But altogether the room was decidedly comfortable, and as Mr. van
Zwieten did not pay for it out of his own pocket, maybe he enjoyed it
all the more on that account.
At the present moment he was shifting papers from the pigeon-holes
into an iron box, destroying some, and burning others, and executing
the business with ease and despatch.
While he was thus employed a timid knock came at the door. He knew the
knock well, and he knew that behind it was Mrs. Hicks. He did not
desist from his occupation because he held her of but small account.
It would have been otherwise had the knock been sharp and peremptory.
"Well, Mrs. Hicks," he said graciously as the pale widow glided in,
"what is it?"
"If you please, Mr. Jones, there is a man waiting to see you."
"A man--a gentleman?
"A common person, sir, in a rough coat, and a cap and big boots. I
don't think he's a gentleman, as he speaks rough like, and his black
hair and beard look very untidy, Mr. Jones. I was once a lady's maid,
sir, so I ought to know a gentleman when I see him."
"Show him up," said Van Zwieten, curtly; then, as she left the room,
he made certain preparations. He closed the press doors and the lid of
his iron box, seated himself at his desk, and glanced into a drawer to
be sure that his revolver was handy. In Van Zwieten's walk of life it
was necessary to be forearmed as well as forewarned.
The man who shortly afterward came tramping into the room fully bore
out Mrs. Hicks's description. He was of medium height and rather
stout, and was roughly dressed in coarse blue serge, and had a tangle
of black curls and a heavy black beard. He was not a prepossessing
object. In response to Van Zwieten's invitation he shuffled into an
armchair by the desk, and pushed it well back into the shadow. The
act, though skillfully done, roused the Dutchman's suspicions. But he
was accustomed in his delicate profession to deal with curious
customers, and he showed no surprise. He did not even shift the shade
of the lamp. But very much on the alert, he waited for the stranger to
state his business.
"Is your name Jones?" asked the man, in a gruff, surly voice.
"Yes, that is my name. And yours?"
"Dobbs--Augustus Dobbs. I should have brought a letter to you, but I
didn't. It's better to do my own business off my own hook, I reckon."
"Are you a Yankee?" asked Van Zwieten, noting the expression and a
slight twang.
"I guess so. I come from N'York City, I do; and I fancy a run out to
the Transvaal to have a slap at the Britishers."
"Indeed!" said the Dutchman, staring blankly at his visitor, "and what
have I to do with your ambitions in that direction?"
The man drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and Van Zwieten
noted that the hand was white and well cared for. This, in contrast to
the rough dress and harsh voice, made him more circumspect than ever.
He began to suspect a trap, and wondered which of his enemies--for he
had many--could have set it.
"Do you know a man named Mazaroff?" asked Mr. Dobbs, after a pause.
"No," replied Van Zwieten, lying cheerfully; "never heard of him."
"He's a Russian."
"The name sounds like it."
Dobbs looked disappointed and turned sullen. "He knows you, Mr.
Jones!"
"Indeed, that is not improbable. Did he send you to me?"
"Yes, he did." Dobbs had dropped his American accent by this time, and
only used it again when he recollected himself. "Mazaroff said you
paid well for certain information."
"What kind of information?"
"About the war." He leaned forward and spoke in a gruff whisper. "What
would you say to a plan of the whole campaign against the Boers?"
Van Zwieten smiled blandly. "Of what possible interest can that be to
me?"
"Mazaroff said you would be prepared to pay well for such
information."
"He knows me then better than I do myself," replied Van Zwieten.
"Better than I know him, for indeed I have no knowledge of your
Russian friend. But this plan of campaign, Mr. Dobbs, how did it come
into your possession?"
Dobbs looked round mysteriously, and rising in his chair, leaned
toward Van Zwieten. "I stole it," he said softly, "and I am willing to
sell it--at a price. Think of it, Mr. Jones, a plan of campaign!
Symons's plans! The Boers would be able to frustrate it easily."
Van Zwieten looked his man up and down with a smile. His gaze alighted
on those well-kept hands, which his visitor had placed on the desk to
steady himself as he leaned forward. On the third finger of the left
hand was a ring, and Van Zwieten recognized it. It was a gold signet
ring with a crest.
The moment he set eyes on it, the spy jumped to a conclusion, which
happened to be the right one. He knew now who his visitor was, and he
played him as a skillful angler plays a trout. Not a muscle of his
face moved, not a flush or a look betrayed his newly-gained knowledge.
But he smiled behind his golden beard to think that he was master of
the situation.
"So Mr. Mazaroff told you that I bought such things?" he said
negligently.
"Yes, and that you paid a large price for them."
"Ah! and what would you call a fair price for these papers?"
"Say a thousand pounds."
"That is a very large price indeed. Too large, I fear, for me," said
Van Zwieten, most amiably. "Perhaps you can see your way to make it
lower?"
The visitor could not refrain from a movement of satisfaction, which
was duly noted by the astute Dutchman.
"Well," he said, "I will do what I can to meet you." Van Zwieten
smiled. He saw that the man was growing excited, and that in his
excitement he would probably betray himself.
"That is accommodating of you, Mr. Dobbs. But how can I be certain
this plan is genuine?"
"You can be perfectly certain, for I stole it from the War Office!"
"Indeed. That is certainly first hand. But how did you, an American,
get into the War Office?"
"I have been a porter there for some time," said Dobbs, glibly. "I am
allowed access to all the rooms. I saw those papers on a desk, and I
took them. Mazaroff told me you paid well, so--well, I came to you.
Come, now, you shall have them for five hundred pounds."
"Too much, Mr. Dobbs."
"Three hundred," said the man, trembling with eagerness.
"Ah, that's more reasonable. Have you the papers with you?"
"No, but if you will come to my lodgings I will give them to you. But
I must have the money first."
"Certainly. Will a check do?"
"Oh, yes, a check will do right enough."
Van Zwieten produced a check-book and bent over it to hide a smile. He
drew the check, but before signing it looked up. "Of course this
rather inculpates you," he said. "I suppose you know what it means if
you were caught at this game?"
"I'm willing to take the risk," said Dobbs, nervously.
"Quite so. Just see if I've got your name correctly. Burton, isn't
it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Wilfred Burton."
"I--I--don't understand----"
Van Zwieten deftly twitched the beard off the face of his visitor and
snatched the shade off the lamp. "Do you understand now?" he said,
laughing. "Look in the glass, sir, and see if Augustus Dobbs is not
Wilfred Burton?"
Wilfred was ghastly pale, but more with rage at the failure of his
scheme than with fear. With a cry of anger he sprang up and whipped a
revolver out of his pocket. But Van Zwieten, on the alert for some
such contingency, was quite as quick. He also snatched a revolver from
the drawer, and with levelled weapons the two men faced one another.
Van Zwieten was as calm as the other was excited.
"You are very clever, Mr. Burton," he said mockingly; "but when you
are in disguise you should not wear a signet ring. I observed your
crest on the letters written to Miss Scarse by your brother. Come! how
long are we to stand like this? Is it a duel? If so, I am ready."
Wilfred uttered an oath and slipped his weapon into his pocket. With a
laugh Van Zwieten tossed his into the drawer again, and sat down quite
unruffled.
"I think we understand one another now," he said genially. "What
induced you to play this trick on me?"
"Because you are a spy," replied Wilfred, fiercely; "and if I had my
way I would put a bullet through you."
"Well, and why don't you?" mocked an Zwieten. "Do you see that iron
box?--it is full of papers which might be of the greatest interest to
you. Shoot me and take possession of it. Your Government would reward
you--or hang you!"
"They'll hang _you_ if they learn the truth. We are at war with the
Boers, and you are a Boer spy. A word from me and you would be
arrested."
"I dare say. There are enough documents in that box to hang me. I dare
say you bribed Mazaroff and learned my business, also my address here
as Mr. Jones. But I am not afraid--not that!" Van Zwieten snapped his
fingers "You can walk out and call up the police if you like."
"And what is to prevent my doing so?"
"Two things. One is that I leave immediately for the Transvaal. Oh,
yes, my work here is done, and well done. I have found out how
unprepared you English are for this war. You talk big, but there is
nothing at the back of it."
"Confound you!" cried Wilfred, his white face flushing, "you'll find
out what is at the back of it when we hoist the British flag at
Pretoria. What is the second thing?"
"Your brother. You love your brother, no doubt, Mr. Burton. He sails
to-morrow with his regiment from Southampton. Quite so. Well, Mr.
Burton, it is a good thing he is going. It is better he should be shot
than hanged."
"Hanged!" Wilfred sprang from his seat with a bound.
"The morning after the murder," continued Van Zwieten, without taking
any notice, "I examined the place where Malet was shot. Ah! you blind
English, who see nothing even when it lies under your nose. I am
Dutch. I am sharp. I looked--and looked--and I found this!" He slipped
his hand into the open drawer of the desk and produced a heavy
revolver of the army pattern. "This, Mr. Burton--with which your
brother shot Mr. Malet."
"You--you can't prove it is Harold's," said he, white but calm.
"Easily. Here is a silver plate on the butt with his name. Now, what
do you say?"
"That my brother is innocent. The revolver is his, but some one else
fired the shot."
Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid you will find it
difficult to get a jury to take that view, Mr. Burton. Your brother
quarrelled with Malet--he was overheard to threaten him--he was out in
the storm and could not account for his time--and here is his
revolver. With all that evidence I could hang him. But you know--well,
I'll be generous. Hold your tongue and I'll hold mine. What do you
say?"
Wilfred looked piercingly at Van Zwieten, who had dropped his
bantering tone and was in earnest. "Harold is innocent," said he,
"but--I'll hold my tongue."