“What is that, Dirk?” she asked with sudden suspicion.

He pretended not to hear, and she repeated the query.

“Well, wife, if you wish to know,” he answered in his blunt fashion, “it is my will.”

“Why are you reading your will?” she asked again, beginning to tremble, for her nerves were afire, and this simple accident struck her as something awful and ominous.

“For no particular reason, wife,” he replied quietly, “only that we all must die, early or late.  There is no escape from that, and in these times it is more often early than late, so it is as well to be sure that everything is in order for those who come after us.  Now, since we are on the subject, which I have never cared to speak about, listen to me.”

“What about, husband?”

“Why, about my will.  Look you, Hendrik Brant and his treasure have taught me a lesson.  I am not a man of his substance, or a tenth of it, but in some countries I should be called rich, for I have worked hard and God has prospered me.  Well, of late I have been realising where I could, also the bulk of my savings is in cash.  But the cash is not here, not in this country at all.  You know my correspondents, Munt and Brown, of Norwich, in England, to whom we ship our goods for the English market.  They are honest folk, and Munt owes me everything, almost to his life.  Well, they have the money, it has reached them safely, thanks be to God, and with it a counterpart of this my will duly attested, and here is their letter of acknowledgment stating that they have laid it out carefully at interest upon mortgage on great estates in Norfolk where it lies to my order, or that of my heirs, and that a duplicate acknowledgment has been filed in their English registries in case this should go astray.  Little remains here except this house and the factory, and even on those I have raised money.  Meanwhile the business is left to live on, and beyond it the rents which will come from England, so that whether I be living or dead you need fear no want.  But what is the matter with you, Lysbeth?  You look strange.”

“Oh! husband, husband,” she gasped, “Juan de Montalvo is here again.  He has appeared as the new governor of the gaol.  I saw him this afternoon, I cannot be mistaken, although he has lost an eye and is much changed.”

Dirk’s jaw dropped and his florid face whitened.  “Juan de Montalvo!” he said.  “I heard that he was dead long ago.”

“You are mistaken, husband, a devil never dies.  He is seeking Brant’s treasure, and he knows that we have its secret.  You can guess the rest.  More, now that I think of it, I have heard that a strange Spaniard is lodging with Hague Simon, he whom they call the Butcher, and Black Meg, of whom we have cause to know.  Doubtless it is he, and—­Dirk, death overshadows us.”

“Why should he know of Brant’s treasure, wife?”

“Because he is Ramiro, the man who dogged him down, the man who followed the ship Swallow to the Haarlemer Meer.  Elsa was with me this afternoon, she knew him again.”