“Certainly!” cried the notary.  “We were sent here to ascertain the amount of the inheritance.  The lid is fastened.  Take the picklock, Meister.  There, it is open.”  The city magistrates found no valuables in the casket, merely letters of different dates.  There were not many.  Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained vows of love from the Marquis d’Avennes, the more recent ones were brief and, signed Don Louis d’Avila.  Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in which they were written, hastily read them.  As he was approaching the end of the last one, he exclaimed with lively indignation: 

“We have here the key of a rascally trick in our hands!  Do you remember the excitement aroused four years ago by the duel, in which the Marquis d’Avennes fell a victim to a Spanish brawler?  The miserable bravo writes in this letter that he has. . . .  It will be worth the trouble; I’ll translate it for you.  The first part of the note is of no importance; but now comes the point:  ’And now, after having succeeded in crossing swords with the marquis and killing him, not without personal danger, a fate he has doubtless deserved, since he aroused your displeasure to such a degree, the condition you imposed upon me is fulfilled, and to-morrow I hope through your favor to receive the sweetest reward.  Tell Donna Anna, my adored betrothed, that I would fain lead her to the altar early to-morrow morning, for the d’Avennes are influential and the following day my safety will perhaps be imperilled.  As for the rest, I hope I may be permitted to rely upon the fairness and generosity of my patroness.”

Van Hout flung the letter on the table, exclaiming “See, what a dainty hand the bravo writes.  And, Jove’s thunder, the lady to whom this plotted murder was to have been sent, is doubtless the mother of the unfortunate marquis, whom the Spanish assassin slew.”

“Yes, Herr Van Hout,” said Belotti, “I can confirm your supposition.  The marquise was the wife of the man, who broke his plighted faith to the young Fraulein Van Hoogstraten.  She, who lies there, saw many suns rise and set, ere her vengeance ripened.”

“Throw the scrawl into the fire!” cried Van Hout impetuously.

“No,” replied Peter.  “We will not send the letters, but you must keep them in the archives.  God’s mills grind slowly, and who knows what good purpose these sheets may yet serve.”

The city clerk nodded assent and folding the papers, said:  “I think the dead woman’s property will be an advantage to the city.”

“The Prince will dispose of it,” replied Van der Werff.  “How long have you served this lady, Belotti?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Then remain in Leyden for a time.  I think you may expect the legacy she originally left you.  I will urge your claim.”

A few hours before the nocturnal burial of old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma and his son Nicolas appeared before the city, but were refused admittance by the men who guarded the gates, although both appealed to their relative’s death.  Henrica’s father did not come, he had gone several days before to attend a tourney at Cologne.