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. “Good. And now what would ye of me?” said Ghysbrecht, with beating heart, but a carelessness so well feigned that it staggered them. They fumbled with their bonnets, and stammered and spoke a word or two, then hesitated and beat about the bush, and let out by degrees that they wanted a letter written, to say something that might keep Gerard in Italy; and this letter they proposed to substitute in Hans Memling's wallet for the one he carried. While these fumbled with their bonnets and their iniquity, and vacillated between respect for a burgomaster, and suspicion that this one was as great a rogue as themselves, and somehow or other, on their side against Gerard, pros and cons were coursing one another to and fro in the keen old man's spirit. Vengeance said let Gerard come back and feel the weight of the law. Prudence said keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus: “It is my duty to aid the citizens that cannot write. But for their matter I will not be responsible. Tell me, then, what I shall write.” “Something about this Margaret.” “Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go bail.” “Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!” cried Sybrandt; “Gerard would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see. No; say that she is dead.” “Dead! what, at her age, will he credit that?” “Sooner than the other. Why she was nearly dead: so it is not to say a downright lie, after all.” “Humph! And you think that will keep him in Italy?” “We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?” “Ay,” said Cornelis, “our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own family; always did.” “This would be a bitter pill to him,” said the old hypocrite. “It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one. “What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis.