CHECKMATED.
Strong man as he was, Van Zwieten reeled half-fainting against the
wall. It was true--the box was gone! In a flash he realized his peril.
For that box held little that was not of a highly compromising nature.
Once its contents were seen by the authorities--as it would seem they
must be--he would be arrested as a spy, imprisoned, perhaps hanged. No
ingenuity or lying on his part could explain away the damning evidence
of the papers. They spoke for themselves.
What a fool he had been not to have forwarded them to Leyds in the
morning as he had intended to do. Now it was too late, and nothing
remained but to fly to Pretoria and to throw in his lot openly with
his employers. Useless now to think of going out as correspondent to
an English newspaper, even were he able to manage his escape from
London. Those in command at the front would surely be advised of his
true character by the home authorities; and not only that, but he
would be unmasked in a country under military law, where a spy such as
he would receive but short shrift. Fly he must, and that at once. He
must get to the Continent, and take ship for Delagoa Bay. The game was
up in England; there remained now only the Transvaal.
After the first emotion of terror had passed, Van Zwieten collected
his wits and set to work to find some way out of the difficulty. Had
he been in Russia or France he would have given himself up to despair,
for there the authorities were lynx-eyed and relentless. But here in
England he was amongst a people so firmly wedded to their
old-fashioned laws as to freedom and justice that they might fail to
take the strong measures which the situation, so far as they were
concerned, demanded. He would baffle these pig-headed islanders yet,
and, with a courage born of despair, he set himself to the
accomplishment of this design.
Mrs. Hicks, pale and tearful, had followed him into the room and had
been witness of his despair. The poor woman was too much agitated to
speak. This unexpected invasion of her quiet house by the police had
been altogether too much for her. Van Zwieten made her sit down, and
proceeded to question her. With many tears and lamentations that she
had no husband to protect her, she gave him all the necessary details,
and he listened with feverish anxiety to every word.
"It was about midday, Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Hicks; "yes, I will not
deceive you, sir, the clock was just on twelve when I heard a ring at
the door. I left Mary Anne in the kitchen and went to see who it was.
There was a hansom at the door, sir, and standing on the mat there was
a policeman and a lady."
"A lady?" put in Van Zwieten, looking rather puzzled, for he could not
guess what woman could have interfered with his affairs. He had always
kept himself clear of the sex. "What lady?"
"I don't rightly know her name, Mr. Jones, for, to be plain with you,
she never gave it to me. She was a short lady, sir, with black hair
and eyes--as black as your hat, sir."
"Dressed in mourning?" asked the Dutchman, with a sudden flash of
intuition.
"As you say, sir--dressed in mourning, and beautifully made it was,
too. She asked if Mr. Jones lived here, and if he was at home. I said
you did lodge with me, sir, having no reason to hide it, but that you
were out. The lady stepped into the passage then with the policeman."
"What was the policeman like?"
"Tall and handsome, with big black eyes and a black beard. He was
something like the gentleman who came to see you last night. I beg
pardon, did you speak, sir?"
But Van Zwieten had not spoken. He had uttered a groan rather of
relief than otherwise. The thing was not so bad after all. In the lady
he recognized the wife of Mr. Malet, though why she should have come
to raid his rooms was more than he could understand. The policeman he
had no difficulty in recognizing as Wilfred Burton in a new disguise.
Without doubt it was he who had brought Lady Jenny Malet to the
Westminster rooms. And Wilfred knew, too, of the existence of the box
with its compromising contents, of which Van Zwieten himself had been
foolish enough to tell him on the previous night, out of a sheer
spirit of bravado--bravado which he bitterly regretted when it was too
late. He swore now in his beard, at his own folly, and at Wilfred's
daring.
However, now that he could feel tolerably sure that the authorities
had nothing to do with the seizure of his papers, he felt more at
ease. After all, these private enemies might be baffled, but of this
he was not so sure as he had been. The several checks which had
recently happened to him had made him feel less sure of himself.
"Well, Mrs. Hicks," he said, rousing himself from his meditations,
"and what did these people do?"
Mrs. Hicks threw her apron over her head and moaned. "Oh, sir!" she
said, in muffled tones, which came from under her apron, "they told me
that you were a dangerous man, and that the Government had sent the
policeman to search your rooms. The lady said she knew you well, and
did not want to make a public scandal, so she had brought the
policeman to do it quietly. She asked me for the key, and said if I
did not give it up she would bring in a dozen more policemen--and
that would have ruined me, sir!"
"And you believed her?" cried Van Zwieten, cursing her for a fool.
Mrs. Hicks whipped the apron off her head and looked at her lodger in
wide-eyed amazement. "Of course I did," she said; "I'm that afraid of
the police as never was. Many a time have I feared when I saw poor
Hicks--who is dead and gone--in the hands of the constables for being
drunk, poor lamb! I wouldn't resist the police; would you, sir?
"Never mind," he said, seeing it was useless to argue with her. "You
let them into my rooms, I suppose?"
"As you may guess, sir, me being a law-abiding woman, though the taxes
are that heavy. Yes, sir, I took them up to your room and left them
there."
"Ach! what did you do that for?"
"I could not help myself, sir. The policeman ordered me to go away,
and it was not for me to disobey the law. I left them there for twenty
minutes, and then I came up to see what they were doing. The policeman
had gone and so had the cab, though I swear to you, Mr. Jones, that I
never heard it drive away. The lady was sitting, cool as you like, at
your desk there, writing."
"What was she writing?"
"That, sir, I don't rightly know, as she put her letter into an
envelope, and here it is."
He snatched the letter Mrs. Hicks produced from her pocket, and said
something not very complimentary to that good woman's brains. She was
indignant, and would fain have argued with him, but he silenced her
with a gesture, and hurriedly read the letter. As he had already
guessed, the writer was Lady Jenny Malet; and she merely asked him to
call at her house in Curzon Street for explanations. So she put it,
somewhat ironically perhaps, and Van Zwieten swore once again--this
time at the phrase. He put the letter in his pocket, determined to
accept the invitation, and to have it out with this all too clever
lady. Meanwhile Mrs. Hicks rose to make a speech.
"I have to give you notice, sir," she said in her most stately tones,
"as I have not been in the habit of letting my rooms to folk as is
wanted by the police. You will be pleased to leave this day week,
which, I believe, was the agreement."
"I intend to leave this day," retorted her lodger. "I told you I was
going, and I have not seen fit to alter my decision. I will send for
my furniture this afternoon, and I will pay your account now."
"Thank you, sir. I shall be most obliged, and I think you should pay
me extra for the disgrace you have brought on my house. Oh," wailed
Mrs. Hicks, "to think I should have lodged murderers and forgers!"
Van Zwieten started at the word "murderer," but he recovered himself
quickly. He dismissed her with a shrug. "Go down and make your account
out," he said. "You have done mischief enough already."
"Oh, indeed!" cried the woman, shrilly. "I do like you, sir,
disgracing my honest house, and then turning on me! I have been
deceived in you, Mr. Jones; never again will I let my lodgings to
mysterious gentlemen. And when they put you in the dock, sir, I'll
come and see you hanged!" and with this incoherent speech Mrs. Hicks
tottered out of the room.
Left alone, Van Zwieten lost no time in vain lamentation. He had been
beaten by his enemies for the present; he could only wait to see if
the tide of war would turn. It would be necessary to make terms with
Lady Jenny and Wilfred, for they now possessed the evidences of his
employment in England. But on his side he could use his knowledge of
the murder and of Harold's connection with it--as witness the
revolver--to keep them quiet. If they could bite, so could he.
Meanwhile he gathered together his personal belongings and packed
them; he left the drawers of his desk empty, and he put the clothes of
Mr. Jones into a large trunk. By the time Mrs. Hicks arrived with her
bill he was quite ready. Nor had he left any evidence which would
identify Mr. Jones of Westminster with Mr. van Zwieten of St. James's.
Beaten he might be, but he would retreat in good order.
"This is my bill, sir," said Mrs. Hicks. "I have charged nothing for
the disgrace to my house!"
"Just as well," retorted he. "You would gain nothing by that. There is
the money--in cash. I suppose you would prefer it to my check."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Hicks, softened somewhat by the gold, "you have
always paid up like a gentleman, I will say, and I hope they won't
hang you!"
"Thank you," said Van Zwieten, drily, as he fastened his glove; "that
is very kind of you. I will see after my furniture this afternoon. Is
there a cab at the door? All right. Send the man up for my luggage.
And, Mrs. Hicks"--he turned on her, as Mrs. Hicks described it
afterward, like a tiger--"it will be as well for you to hold your
tongue about this business. By the way, how did you know the policeman
took away my box?"
"Mary Anne was watching on the stairs, sir, and she saw the policeman
come down with it," said the landlady, with dignity. "Oh, I won't say
anything, sir, you may be sure. I only want to keep away from the law.
I hope you'll be as lucky!" and Mrs. Hicks bowed her suspicious guest
out of the house. She was immensely relieved when she saw his cab
drive round the corner.
In another ten minutes Mr. Jones was transformed into Mr. van Zwieten,
and was established in his rooms in Duke Street, St. James's. But he
had no intention of staying there long. The place was evidently too
hot to hold him, or would be unless he could threaten and bully Lady
Jenny and Wilfred into surrender of that precious box. In any event,
his great desire was to go south. His work in England was done, and
well done. Even Leyds acknowledged that. But for Van Zwieten's report
of the rusty condition of the British army; the out-of-date ordnance;
the little way these islanders had of putting incompetent men in
office, to be rendered still more incompetent by an antiquated system
of red-tapeism; and the inconceivable folly practiced of allowing the
civil power to override the opinion of military experts; but for all
these things the Republics--well armed though they were--would not
have declared war. The world was amazed at their daring. But their two
Presidents knew what they were about, and so did Leyds. His business
it was to spread reports which would gain the sympathy of the
Continental Powers; that of the burghers to hurl themselves on the
British, all unprepared as they were through the folly of the peace
party. Now that the glove had been thrown down, Van Zwieten was all
eagerness to get to the front. How useful he could be to his adopted
country at this juncture! But were he in the British camp as war
correspondent to an English newspaper, his usefulness would be
trebled. And now it seemed as though his enemies were to upset all
these plans by this one coup!
However, there was nothing for it now but to face them bravely and
learn the worst. Then he could take what steps were possible to
frustrate them.
Meanwhile Brenda was pouring out her troubles to Lady Jenny Malet and
telling her all about Van Zwieten and his threats. She had gone there
full of anxiety to enlist the little widow's sympathies, and of
indignation at the charge made by the Dutchman against Harold. Having
made herself as clear as she knew how, and having related all the
facts, she waited with some impatience for Lady Jenny's opinion, which
was not immediately forthcoming. Indeed, it was some time before she
spoke.
The drawing-room was both tastefully and extravagantly furnished. Lady
Jenny might be a spendthrift, but she was also an artist, and alas!
her period of splendor was drawing to a close. Already Chippingholt
Manor had been sold to gratify the greedy creditors of its late owner.
The house in Curzon Street was her own property under her marriage
settlement, and this with ten thousand pounds from the insurance
office was all she had in the world. So by the advice of her lawyer
she had invested the money and let the house furnished. Now she was
going abroad to practice economy in some continental town. All her
plans were made; and this was the last week of her prosperity. She
only lingered in England at the express request of Wilfred, who had
made her promise to help him all she could to trap Van Zwieten. Brenda
had come on the same errand; and now Lady Jenny sat and pondered how
much she could tell her about the man.
"Do speak to me," said Brenda. "I am so afraid for Harold."
"You need not be," replied the widow, and her visitor noticed how
worried and haggard she looked. "He is perfectly safe, I assure you.
Van Zwieten shall not harm him!"
"But he accuses him of committing the murder!"
"So you said. But that doesn't matter. Whoever killed poor Gilbert it
was not Harold Burton."
"Tell me how Harold's revolver came to be found on the spot?"
"I have an idea, but I cannot tell you--at all events, not just yet.
Wait till I have seen Van Zwieten."
"Are you going to see him?"
"I think so--to-night, about nine o'clock. At least I left a note at
his rooms which I think will bring him. I can only say that if he is a
wise man he will come. Then I will settle him once and for all as far
as Harold is concerned."
"Lady Jenny, tell me who do you think killed your husband?"
She looked at the girl sharply. "Did your father ever tell you he had
a brother?" she asked.
"Yes, he told me all about it; and how your wicked husband ran away
with his wife! I beg your pardon, I should not speak so of Mr. Malet."
"You need not apologize," the widow said bitterly, "Gilbert deserves
all the names you could have called him. He was a bad man; and even
though he is dead, and though he was punished by a violent death, I
have not forgiven him."
"Oh, don't say that; it is wrong!"
"I know it is, but I can't help it. I have southern blood in my veins,
and I never forgive. I am glad your father told you the truth--it
saves me from having to repeat a very painful story. That poor uncle
of yours told me all about it, and how Gilbert had deceived and
ill-treated his wife. I asked my husband, and he denied the story; but
I saw the woman myself and made certain it was true. Then I hated
Gilbert. Not for that only--there were other things. Before he married
me, and after, he deceived me. I could have taken his punishment into
my own hands, but I felt sure that Heaven would check his wicked
career. But to go on with my story. That night I got a note from your
uncle telling me that his wife was dead. I saw Gilbert in the library
and showed him the letter. It was just before he went out. I reminded
him that the man--and a madman at that--was hanging about the place.
The boy who brought the letter had told me so, and I warned him
against going out. He laughed at me, and was most insulting. Then he
went, and I never saw him again until his body was brought in. I knew
then that the vengeance of Heaven had fallen!"
Brenda looked at her with a white face. "What do you mean?" she asked
in a whisper.
"Child, can you not guess? It was Robert who had killed him!"
"Impossible!" cried Brenda. "My father found my uncle and took him
home with him. At the time of the murder Uncle Robert was in our
cottage."
"Is this true?" said the widow, and a bright color came into her face.
"Then who was the man talking to Gilbert in the library? There was
some one with him just before nine o'clock. I was going to the Rectory
to meet Harold about your business, and I went to the library to see
if Gilbert had come back. I was afraid of Robert Scarse and of what he
might do, half crazed as he was by his wife's death. Little as I loved
my husband, I did not want that to happen. The door of the room was
locked, but I heard voices. I went out without thinking any more about
it. Oh, I swear to you, Brenda, that I have always believed it was
your uncle who killed him! Who was it then? The revolver!--ah! and Van
Zwieten has it!" She jumped up and clasped her hands. "I see! I know!
I know!"
"What?" asked the girl, rising in alarm.
"Never mind--never mind. I will tell you soon. Go now, Brenda, and
leave me to see Van Zwieten. Oh, I know how to manage him now!"
"Is it him you mean?
"He is worse than a murderer," Lady Jenny cried. "He is a spy!"
"I was sure of it. But how do you know?"
"I know; and I can't tell you how. As to the murder, he has to do with
that too. I believe he did it himself."
"But how do you know?" repeated Brenda. "How do you know?"
"No matter. I am sure he fired that shot, and I can prove it."
"Prove it, and hang him!" cried Brenda, and there was bitter hatred in
her voice.
The little widow sat down again, and the fire died out of her
eyes. "No, I cannot hang him, even though he is guilty. There are
things--oh, I can't tell you. The man must go unpunished for the sake
of--go away, child, and leave it all to me."
"But I want to know the truth--I must save Harold!"
"_I_ will save Harold. He is safe from Van Zwieten. As to the truth,
you shall know it when once he is out of the country."
Brenda had to be satisfied with this, for her friend absolutely
refused to tell her any more. But she left feeling that her husband
was safe from the intrigues of the Dutchman, and that was all she
cared about.
Left alone, Lady Jenny clenched her hands.
"If I could only hang him!" she muttered. "But that is impossible!"