“She die? She would outlive the pest to vex us.” And Cornelis was wroth at her selfishness in not dying, to oblige.
These two black sheep kept putting their heads together, and tainting each other worse and worse, till at last their corrupt hearts conceived a plan for keeping Gerard in Italy all his life, and so securing his share of their father's substance.
But when they had planned it they were no nearer the execution: for that required talent: so iniquity came to a standstill. But presently, as if Satan had come between the two heads, and whispered into the right ear of one and the left of the other simultaneously, they both burst out—
“THE BURGOMASTER!”
They went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and he received them at once: for the man who is under the torture of suspense catches eagerly at knowledge. Certainty is often painful, but seldom, like suspense, intolerable.
“You have news of Gerard?” said he eagerly.
Then they told about the letter and Hans Memling. He listened with restless eye. “Who writ the letter?”
“Margaret Van Eyck,” was the reply; for they naturally thought the contents were by the same hand as the superscription.
“Are ye sure?” And he went to a drawer and drew out a paper written by Margaret Van Eyck while treating with the burgh for her house. “Was it writ like this?”
“Yes. 'Tis the same writing,” said Sybrandt boldly.