"I intend to keep a pretty close watch on Mr. van Zwieten," went on Wilfred. "In fact, that is why I have come up to town. If, as I suspect, he is a spy, the authorities must know of it. In the event of hostilities breaking out between this country and the Transvaal, he would of course be arrested at once."
"But you cannot prove his complicity in this matter, Wilfred?"
"I intend to have a shot at it any way," replied the young man, grimly. "But come, Brenda, here we are at Victoria. Let me put you in a hansom."
"Do come and see me, Wilfred. I'm at Mrs. St. Leger's."
"Thanks; I will. I may ask you to help me too in my pursuit of this Dutchman."
"How you seem to hate Mr. van Zwieten, Wilfred," she exclaimed. "Have you any especial reason to dislike him?"
"I hate him because he is the enemy of my country."
As the cab drove away, Brenda mused on the fervent patriotism of the man. Frail, neurotic, frequently ailing, a prey to chronic melancholia, yet he was of the stuff of which such men as Hampden, Pym and Cromwell are made. He believed in the greatness of England as he did in the existence of God. Her every triumph sent a thrill through him, her lightest disaster cut him to the quick. It was as if he were ever under the influence of a fixed idea. But if he were, the idea was at least a noble and an elevating one. His spirit was strong as his body was weak, and through his body he paid dearly for his patriotic emotions.
It had been Brenda's intention to drive at once to Kensington, but when she recalled all that Wilfred had said, she felt she must see her father, if only to clear her mind of suspicion. Had he assisted--as seemed probable--in the escape of the unknown man, he must have known that the creature was a murderer, since there could be no other reason for such a hurried and secretive flight. She felt she could not rest until she had the truth from his own lips. Hence she told the man to drive to his chambers in Star Street.
Fortunately the old man was in. He looked leaner and whiter, she thought, than ever. He was buried in the evening papers, from which he was cutting out slips, which he proceeded to paste into a large book. It was from these clippings of editorial opinion and collected data that he constructed his speeches, throwing in as flavoring a dash of his own dogmatic optimism, and some free expression reflecting the true humanity of other nations as compared with that of his own brutal country, of which, in truth, he had little to say that was not abusive.