“Now, one word more, and I will come to the point. Let me congratulate you upon the gallant deeds of a gallant son. Of course his courage and dexterity, with that of the red giant, Martin, have told against myself, have, in short, lost me a trick in the game. But I am an old soldier, and I can assure you that the details of their fight yesterday at the factory, and of their marvellous escape from—from—well, painful surroundings this morning, have stirred my blood and made my heart beat fast.” “I have heard the tale; do not trouble to repeat it,” said Lysbeth. “It is only what I expected of them, but I thank God that it has pleased Him to let them live on so that in due course they may fearfully avenge a beloved father and master.” Montalvo coughed and turned his head with the idea of avoiding that ghastly nightmare of a pitiful little man falling down a fathomless gulf which had sprung up suddenly in his mind again. “Well,” he went on, “a truce to compliments. They escaped, and I am glad of it, whatever murders they may contemplate in the future. Yes, notwithstanding their great crimes and manslayings in the past I am glad that they escaped, although it was my duty to keep them while I could—and if I should catch them it will be my duty—but I needn’t talk of that to you. Of course, however, you know, there is one gentleman who was not quite so fortunate.” “My husband?” “Yes, your worthy husband, who, happily for my reputation as captain of one of His Majesty’s prisons, occupies an upstairs room.” “What of him?” asked Lysbeth. “Dear lady, don’t be over anxious; there is nothing so wearing as anxiety. I was coming to the matter.” Then, with a sudden change of manner, he added, “It is needful, Lysbeth, that I should set out the situation.” “What situation do you mean?” “Well, principally that of the treasure.” “What treasure?” “Oh! woman, do not waste time in trying to fool me. The treasure, the vast, the incalculable treasure of Hendrik Brant which Foy van Goorl and Martin, who have escaped”—and he ground his teeth together at the anguish of the thought—“disposed of somewhere in the Haarlemer Meer.” “Well, what about this treasure?” “I want it, that is all.” “Then you had best go to seek it.” “That is my intention, and I shall begin the search—in the heart of Dirk van Goorl,” he added, slowly crushing the handkerchief he held with his long fingers as though it were a living thing that could be choked to death. Lysbeth never stirred, she had expected this. “You will find it a poor mine to dig in,” she said, “for he knows nothing of the whereabouts of this money. Nobody knows anything of it now. Martin hid it, as I understand, and lost the paper, so it will lie there till the Haarlemer Meer is drained.” “Dear me! Do you know I have heard that story before; yes, from the excellent Martin himself—and, do you know, I don’t quite believe it.”