prepared for Maria.
Gilda somewhat curtly ordered her to retire.
"I will call you, Maria," she said, "when I have need of you."
Diogenes with elaborate courtesy threw the inner door open, and stood beside it plumed hat in hand while the mevrouw sailed past him, with arms folded across her ample bosom, and one of those dignified glances in her round eyes that should have annihilated this impious malapert, whose face — despite its airs of deference, was wreathed in an obviously ironical smile.
It was only when the heavy oaken door had fallen to behind her duenna that Gilda with an imperious little gesture called Diogenes before her.
He advanced hat in hand as was his wont, his magnificent figure very erect, his head with its wealth of untamed curls slightly bent. But he looked on her boldly with those laughter-filled, twinkling eyes of his and since he was young and neither ascetic nor yet a misanthrope, we may take it that he had some considerable pleasure in the contemplation of the dainty picture which she presented against the background of dull gold velvet: her small head propped against the cushions, and feathery curls escaping from under her coif and casting pearly, transparent shadows upon the ivory whiteness of her brow. Her two hands were resting each on an arm of the chair, and looked more delicate than ever now in the soft light of the tallow candles that burned feebly in the pewter candelabra upon the table.
Diogenes for the moment envied his friend Frans Hals for the power which the painter of pictures has of placing so dainty an image on record for all time. His look of bold admiration, however, caused Gilda's glance to harden, and she drew herself up in her chair in an attitude more indicative of her rank and station and of her consciousness of his inferiority.
But not with a single look or smile did she betray whether she had recognized him or not.
"Your name?" she asked curtly.
His smile broadened — self-deprecatingly this time.
"They call me Diogenes," he replied.
"A strange name," she commented, "but 'tis of no consequence."
"Of none whatever," he rejoined, "I had not ventured to pronounce it, only that you deigned to ask."
Again she frowned: the tone of gentle mockery had struck unpleasantly on her ear and she did not like that look of self-satisfied independence which sat on him as if to the manner born, when he was only an abject menial, paid to do dirty work for his betters.
"I have sent for you, sir," she resumed after a slight pause, "because I wished to demand of you an explanation of your infamous conduct. Roguery and vagabondage are severely punished by our laws, and you have brought your neck uncommonly near the gallows by your act of highway robbery. Do you hear me?" she asked more peremptorily, seeing that he made no attempt at a reply.
"I hear you, mejuffrouw."
"And what is your explanation?"
"That is my trouble, mejuffrouw. I have none to offer."
"Do you refuse then to tell me what your purpose is in thus defying the laws of the land and risking the gallows by laying hands upon me and upon my waiting woman in the open streets, and by taking me away by brute force from my home?"
"My purpose, mejuffrouw, is to convey you safely as far as Rotterdam, where I will hand you over into the worthy keeping of a gentleman who will relieve me of further responsibility with regard to your precious person."
"In Rotterdam?" she exclaimed, "what should I do in Rotterdam?"
"Nothing, I imagine," replied Diogenes dryly, "for you would not remain there longer than is necessary. I am the bearer of written orders to that same gentleman in Rotterdam that he shall himself conduct you under suitable escort — of which I no doubt will still form an integral part — to his private residence, which I am told is situate outside the city and on the road to Delft."
"A likely story indeed!" she rejoined vehemently, "I'll not believe it! Common theft and robbery are your purpose, nothing less, else you had not stolen my purse from me nor the jewels which I wore."
"I had to take your purse and your jewels from you, mejuffrouw," he said with perfect equanimity, "else you might have used them for the purpose of slipping through my fingers. Wenches at wayside inns are easily amenable to bribes, so are the male servants at city hostelries. But your purse and the trinkets which you wore are safely stowed away in my wallet. I shall have the honour of returning them to you when we arrive in Rotterdam."
"Of returning them to me," she said with a contemptuous laugh, "do knaves like you ever return stolen property?"
"Seldom, I admit," he replied still with unruffled good-humour. "Nevertheless an exception hath often proved a rule. Your purse and trinkets are here," he added.
And from his wallet he took out a small leather purse and some loose jewellery which he showed to her.
"And," he added ere he once more replaced them in his wallet, "I will guard them most carefully until I can return them to you in Rotterdam, after which time 'twill be some one else's business to see that you do not slip through his fingers."
"And you expect me to believe such a senseless tale," she rejoined contemptuously.
"There are many things in this world and the next, mejuffrouw," he said lightly, "that are true though some of us believe them not."
"Nay! but this I do believe on the evidence of mine own eyes — that you stole my money and my jewels and have no intention of returning them to me."
"Your opinion of me, mejuffrouw, is already so low that it matters little surely if you think me a common thief as well."
"My opinion of you, sir, is based upon your actions."
"And these I own stand in formidable array against me."
She bit her lip in vexation and her slender fingers began to beat a tattoo on the arm of her chair. This man's placidity and inveterate good-humour were getting on her nerves. It is hard when one means to wound, to find the surest arrows falling wide of the mark. But now she waited for a moment or two lest her irritation betrayed itself in the quiver of her voice; and it was only when she felt quite sure that it would sound as trenchant and hard as she intended that it should, that she said abruptly:
"Who is paying you, sir, for this infamy?"
"One apparently who can afford the luxury," he replied airily.
"You will not tell me?"
"Do you think, mejuffrouw, that I could?"
"I may guess."
"It should not be difficult," he assented.
"And you, sir," she continued more vehemently, "are one of the many tools which the Lord of Stoutenburg doth use to gain his own political ends."
"The Lord of Stoutenburg?"
It was impossible for Gilda Beresteyn to gauge exactly whether the astonishment expressed in that young villain's exclamation was real or feigned. Certainly his mobile face was a picture of puzzlement, but this may have been caused only by his wondering how she could so easily have guessed the name of his employer. For
