In the midst of it, there was a shrill scream, and Mrs. Van Santen, looking, not the dear, simple old lady they were all used to, but a very virago, with flaming eyes and harsh voice, cried, addressing Harry and Denver-- “You can’t get away. The house is surrounded!” CHAPTER XXIII Something in the altered appearance of Mrs. Van Santen, as she came in with resolute air and addressed her sons in a harsh, strident voice, revealed to Gerard, as by a flash of inspiration, some of the truth respecting her. That is to say, he recognized that he had been deceived in her; that the gentle, amiable, simple old lady, with her primitive dress and air of surprise at her new surroundings was a fraud; that, far from being the innocent old lady she appeared to be, grateful for the recognition of her smart English friends, and amazed at the position in which she found herself in that English society which she had been taught to consider stiff and exclusive, Mrs. Van Santen was in truth a very keen-eyed woman, who understood thoroughly that British idiosyncrasy of being exclusive to its own countrymen, but over-ready to receive foreigners at their own valuation; that she had been quick to avail herself of it, and to do all in her power to assist her family towards a good position in English society, by a very clever affectation of humility and simplicity combined, which had disarmed while it charmed. The old woman advanced into the card-room, and, looking around her with eyes which were keen and sharp and penetrating, said, in an undertone-- “Where’s that Davison girl? I believe it’s she who is at the bottom of this!” In the turmoil which had succeeded to the dead silence with which her first announcement that the house was surrounded was received, Mrs. Van Santen was the coolest person in the room. Denver had leaped to the window with an oath, had looked out into the garden from the shelter of the curtains, and had drawn back again, with his fresh color gone, and the look of a hunted animal in his handsome eyes. Harry, on the other hand, had begun to busy himself in hastily collecting not only the cards which were lying on the table, but the money as well. In this latter occupation, however, he was stopped by Cecil Jones, who, having kept a keen eye on all that happened after his first unmasking of Denver, noted Harry’s occupation, and at once checked him in it. “You had better leave the stakes alone,” said he quietly. “They are not yours, you know.” Harry Van Santen showed fewer signs of emotion than his brother had done. On being thus challenged, he just shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and withdrawing from the group that was clamoring round the tables, sat down in a corner, with his face to the back of his chair, and leaned down upon his arms, biting his nails and keeping his eyes down.