William Verheyst did as he said. He proved himself a true friend and no loiterer; caught his train, and five minutes after his arrival in the Hague was knocking at his friend’s door.
Leopold van Zonshoven occupied a single large front room in a quiet part of the town. He was too poor to live in a more fashionable quarter, and too honest to attempt living above his means. And yet there was an air of elegance about the room which marked it as that of a young man of refined tastes, and proved him to be a lover of home comforts rather than the pleasures of club life. To the ordinary furniture to be found in lodgings he had superadded a good writing-table, an easy-chair, an antique, carved book-case, and several small objects of art, which stood out in bold relief against the shabby wallpaper. This, however, he had tried to hide as much as possible by hanging the family portraits all round the room, some of them in solid ebony, others in gilt frames rather characteristic of this cheap, showy age. Even the space between the larger pictures he had tried to cover with small miniatures on ivory, and photographs. The young man had evidently done his best to surround himself by the portraits of his numerous family.
He was busily engaged at his writing-table when Verheyst knocked at his door.
“I was expecting you,” he said. “I knew you would come to help your friend in need. What a strange letter I wrote you! But now I have recovered my senses again.”
Then turning to his writing-table, he said—
“Look here, here’s a bundle of papers soaked with ink. Though my landlady, Mrs. Joosting, saved the lamp from falling on that memorable evening, she did not notice the ink-bottle. Three articles neatly copied, numbered and ready for the press, are utterly spoiled. Nothing for it but to copy them again. Pleasant work this for a millionaire! But I have almost finished now, and the work has done me good; we shall have the whole evening to talk matters over.”
Leopold lived, in fact, by his pen, contributing to several papers, and making translations for the publishers who patronized him. Though he had not kept his terms at the university, he had talent and style, and his writings had been very successful.
“Here are the documents: the lawyer’s letter, a copy of the will, the inventory of all effects, both personal and real estate; and all, so far as I can judge, in perfect order.”
After a minute examination, piece by piece, Verheyst answered that he was of the same opinion.
“But,” he said, “I cannot find the fatal clause you mentioned, anywhere.”