A Traitor in London. Fergus Hume
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the Dutchman, stroking his beard, "I should like to know how I managed that."
"You hated him!" cried Brenda, sitting up straight with a sudden access of vigor. "You told me so to-night at dinner!"
"Pardon me; I said I did not like Captain Burton. But as to hating him--" Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders; "that is an extreme word to use. But even if I did hate him you can hardly deduce from that that I should kill him!"
"He was shot, shot in the orchards, not far from the Manor gates. You were out----"
"That is scant evidence to justify a charge of murder," interposed Scarce, angrily. "You are unstrung and hysterical, Brenda. How did you come to be out yourself in such a storm?"
"I went to see Lady Jenny at the Manor, about--about Harold's money. She was not in, so I came back by the short cut through the orchards. A flash of lightning showed him to me there, standing under a tree. Then there was a shot and a cry, and I ran forward, and fell over his body."
"Whose body?"
"I don't know--at least, I think it was Harold's body. Mr. van Zwieten hated him."
"It may not be Harold at all," said her father, impatiently; "you are jumping to conclusions--the wildest conclusions, Brenda. Did you see his face?"
"No; how could I? It was dark."
"Then how on earth do you know it was Captain Burton?"
"I am not sure, of course; but I think so. Oh, father, do you think---- Oh, perhaps, after all, it may not have been Harold."
Scarse shook off her clinging hands. "I think you're a fool," he said sharply, "and this wild talk of Burton's being dead is pure imagination on your part."
"I hope so--oh, how I hope so!" and Brenda shivered.
Van Zwieten, who had been listening with a cynical smile on his face, burst into a laugh, at which Brenda looked angrily at him. "Excuse me, Miss Scarse," he said politely, "but it is my opinion no one is dead at all. The shot and cry were no doubt the outcome of a thundercrash. You were upset by the storm, and it seemed to you like--what you say."
"But a man is dead," protested Brenda, rising. "In my anxiety for Harold I may have been mistaken in thinking it was he. Still, some one was shot--I fell over the body and fainted."
"The man may have fainted also," suggested her father.
"If I may make a suggestion," said Van Zwieten, with strong common sense, "we are all talking without any reasonable sort of basis. Before we assume that a crime has been committed, I would suggest that we go to the orchards and see if we can find the body."
"No, no," cried Scarse, shrinking back. "Impossible at this hour, and on such a night."
"The storm is dying away," said the Dutchman, derisively. "However, if you don't care to come, I can go myself."
"I will go with you," cried Brenda, springing to her feet.
"For you, Miss Scarse, I think it is hardly wise. You are very much upset. Had you not better go to bed?"
"I couldn't sleep with this on my mind. I must know if it is Harold or not. If it is, I am certain you shot him, and until I know the truth I don't let you out of my sight."
"Very good." Van Zwieten bowed and smiled. "Come, then, and guide me."
"Brenda, you can't go out now. I forbid you--it is not fit or proper."
"What do I care for propriety in such a case as this?" cried Brenda, in a passion. "Come with me then, father."
"No, I can't--I am too ill."
Van Zwieten cast an amused look at Scarse, and the old man winced again. He turned away and poured himself out a glass of brandy. Without taking any further notice of him, Brenda put on her wet cloak and left the room, followed almost immediately by the Dutchman. Van Zwieten had many questions to ask his host, for he knew a good deal, and guessed more; but this was not the time for cross-examination. It was imperative that the identity of the deceased should be ascertained, and Van Zwieten wished to be on the spot when the discovery was made. As he left the room he heard the glass in Scarse's trembling hand clink against the decanter, and the sound made him smile. He guessed the cause of such perturbation.
The rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind was still high, and dense black clouds hurtled across the sky. A pale moon showed herself every now and then from behind the flying wrack, and fitfully lighted the midnight darkness.
As she was with Van Zwieten, Brenda took a wide circle through the village street. There were many people about in spite of the bad weather--some with lanterns--but Brenda could not gather from the scraps of conversation she heard whether the report of the dead man lying in the orchards had got abroad.
In silence Van Zwieten strode along beside her, apparently indifferent to anything. His attitude irritated the girl, and when the wind lulled for a moment she demanded sharply where he had been on that night.
"You will be surprised to hear, Miss Scarse, that I went to see Captain Burton."
"And why?" asked Brenda, taken aback by this answer--the last she had expected to hear.
"To warn him," replied Van Zwieten, coolly. "Warn him--about what--against whom?"
"About my engagement to you--against myself."
"I am not engaged to you, but to him," said Brenda, almost with a cry of despair.
It seemed impossible to make this man understand how she hated him.
"I think you are engaged to me," said the Dutchman, deliberately. "You say no, but that is girl's talk. I am not to be beaten by a girl. I always get what I want, and I want you."
The wind rose again, and further conversation was impossible. Brenda walked on, praying for strength to escape this terrible man. She could not rid herself of the idea that the dead man was her own true lover. Van Zwieten might have seen him, as he said, might have quarreled with him and shot him. The fear chilled her heart, and when next the wind fell she again taxed Van Zwieten. "You killed him?" she cried.
"You will insist on that, but you are wrong. I never saw Captain Burton. He was not at the inn when I called."
"He had gone to town," said Brenda, breathless with joy.
"No, he had gone to the Rectory."
Brenda stopped short. Lady Jenny had gone to the Rectory also. Perhaps Harold had seen her, and had asked for her aid. While she was wondering if this might be so, there was a great shouting, and in the distance she saw the blaze of torches borne by many people. The wind made them flare furiously.
"Ach!" said Van Zwieten under his breath, "they know now."
In the high wind Brenda did not hear him. Guessing that the concourse meant the discovery of the body, she flew along the road like a lapwing. The procession was coming toward the Manor gates from the direction of the orchards. Some men were shouting, some women screaming, but the solid group surrounded by the red, smoking lights remained silent. Van Zwieten followed noiselessly, and reached the group almost as soon as Brenda.
"You see," he breathed in the girl's ear, "he is alive!"
Brenda gave a cry of joy and flung herself into the arms of the foremost man.
"Harold! Harold! Thank God you are safe!"
"Brenda! What are you doing here? Go back! go back!"
"No, no. Tell me who--who is dead. Who has been murdered?"
Seeing she knew so much, Harold signed to the men carrying the body to stop. They set down the gate on which it rested.
"Malet!" cried Brenda, as she recognized the features of the corpse. "It is Mr. Malet!"
CHAPTER IV.
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