But the others!  Those gallant comrades in adventure, where were they?  Well, to be frank, he did not greatly care.  There was another question of more moment.  Where was the treasure?  Now that his brain had cleared after the shock and turmoil it was evident to him that Foy van Goorl, Red Martin, and the white devil who had boarded his ship, would not have destroyed so much wealth if they could help it, and still less would they have destroyed themselves.  Therefore, to pursue the matter to a logical conclusion, it seemed probable that they had spent the night in sinking or burying the money, and preparing the pretty trap into which he had walked.  So the secret was in their hands, and as they were still alive very possibly means could be found to induce them to reveal its hiding-place.  There was still hope; indeed, now that he came to weigh things, they were not so bad.

To begin with, almost all the shareholders in the affair had perished by the stern decree of Providence, and he was the natural heir of their interests.  In other words, the treasure, if it was recovered, was henceforth his property.  Further, when they came to hear the story, the Government would set down Brant’s fortune as hopelessly lost, so that the galling competition from which he had suffered so much was at an end.

Under these circumstances what was to be done?  Very soon, as he sailed away over the lake in the sweet air of the morning, the Senor Ramiro found an answer to the question.

The treasure had left The Hague, he must leave The Hague.  The secret of its disposal was at Leyden, henceforth he must live at Leyden.  Why not?  He knew Leyden well.  It was a pleasant place, but, of course, he might be recognised there; though, after so long, this was scarcely probable, for was not the Count de Montalvo notoriously dead and buried?  Time and accident had changed him; moreover, he could bring art to the assistance of nature.  In Leyden, too, he had confederates—­Black Meg to wit, for one; also he had funds, for was he not the treasurer of the company that this very morning had achieved so remarkable and unsought-for an ascension?

There was only one thing against the scheme.  In Leyden lived Lysbeth van Goorl and her husband, and with them a certain young man whose parentage he could guess.  More, her son Foy knew the hiding-place of Brant’s hoard, and from him or his servant Martin that secret must be won.  So once again he was destined to match himself against Lysbeth—­the wronged, the dreaded, the victorious Lysbeth, whose voice of denunciation still rang in his ear, whose eyes of fire still scorched his soul, the woman whom he feared above everything on earth.  He fought her once for money, and, although he won the money, it had done him little good, for in the end she worsted him.  Now, if he went to Leyden, he must fight her again for money, and what would be the issue of that war?  Was it worth while to take the risk?  Would not history repeat itself?  If he hurt her, would she not crush him?  But the treasure, that mighty treasure, which could give him so much, and, above all, could restore to him the rank and station he had forfeited, and which he coveted more than anything in life.  For, low as he had fallen, Montalvo could not forget that he had been born a gentleman.