



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
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Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source: Google Books
        (Library of Congress)

     2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






A TRAITOR IN LONDON

BY
FERGUS HUME
Author of

"The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "Hagar of the Pawn Shop,"
Etc., Etc.




F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY
9 AND 11 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON--JOHN LONG






COPYRIGHT, 1900
BY
F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY




_A Traitor in London_






A Traitor in London.




CHAPTER I.
CUPID IN LEADING STRINGS.


"It's an infernal shame!"

"I call it common sense!"

"Call it what you please, Malet. I deny your right to keep back my
money."

"Right? Your father's will gives me every right. If I approve of your
marriage, the money will be paid down on your wedding day."

"But you don't approve, confound you!"

"Certainly not. Brenda Scarse is not the wife for you, Harold."

"That's my business."

"Mine also--under the will. Come, come now; don't lose your temper."

The elder speaker smiled as he proffered this advice, knowing well
that he was provoking his cousin beyond all bounds. Harold Burton was
young, fiery-tempered, and in love. To be thwarted in his love was
something more than exasperating to this impetuous lover. The
irritating request that he should keep his temper caused him to lose
it promptly; and for the next five minutes Mr. Gilbert Malet was
witness of a fine exhibition of unrestrained rage. He trembled for the
furniture, almost for his own personal safety, though he managed to
preserve a duly dignified outward calm. While Harold stamped about the
room, his burly cousin posed before a fireless grate and trimmed his
nails, and waited until the young man should have exhausted this
wholly unnecessary display of violence.

They were in the library of Holt Manor. It was a sombre, monkish room;
almost ascetic in its severity. Bookcases and furniture were of black
oak, carpet and curtains of a deep red color; and windows of stained
glass subdued the light suitably for study and meditation. But on this
occasion the windows were open to the brilliant daylight of an August
afternoon, and shafts of golden sunshine poured into the room. From
the terrace stretching before the house, vast woods sloped toward
Chippingholt village, where red-roofed houses clustered round a
brawling stream, and rose again on the further side to sweep to the
distant hills in unbroken masses of green. Manor and village took
their Teutonic names from these forests, and buried in greenery, might
have passed as the domain of the Sleeping Beauty. Her palace was
undoubtedly girdled by just such a wood.

But this sylvan beauty did not appeal to the pair in the library. The
stout, domineering owner of the Manor who trimmed his nails and smiled
blandly had the stronger position of the two, and he knew it well--so
well that he could afford to ignore the virile wrath of his ward.
Strictly speaking, Captain Burton was not a ward, if that word implies
minority. He was thirty years of age, in a lancer regiment, and
possessed of an income sufficient to emancipate him from the control
of his cousin Gilbert. Still, though possible for one, his income was
certainly not possible for two, and if Gilbert chose he could increase
his capital by twenty thousand pounds. But the stumbling-block was the
condition attached to the disposal of the money. Only if Malet
approved of the prospective bride was he to part with the legacy. As
such he did not approve of Brenda Scarse, so matters were at a
standstill. Nor could Harold well see how he was to move them. Finding
all his rage of no avail, he gradually subsided and had recourse to
methods more pacific.

"Let me understand this matter clearly," he said, taking a seat with a
resolute air. "Independent of my three hundred a year, you hold twenty
thousand pounds of my money."

"To be correct," replied Malet in a genial tone, "I hold forty
thousand pounds, to be equally shared between you and your brother
Wilfred when you marry. The three hundred a year which you each
possess I have nothing to do with."

"Well, I want to marry, and----"

"You do--against my wishes. If I do not approve of your choice I need
not pay you this money. I can hold it until I die."

"And then?" asked Harold, sharply.

Gilbert shrugged his burly shoulders. "Then it goes to you and Wilfred
direct. There is no provision made for my handing it over to another
trustee. You are bound to get your share in the long run; but I am not
thinking of dying just yet, my dear Harold."

"I can't imagine what possessed my father ever to make so foolish a
will."

"Your father was guided by experience, my boy. He made a miserable
marriage himself, and did not want you or Wilfred to go and do
likewise. He had evidently confidence in my judgment, and knew that I
would stand between you and folly."

"Confound your impudence," shouted Harold, his dark face crimson with
anger. "You're only fifteen years older than I am. At the age of
thirty I am surely capable of selecting my own wife!"

"I hardly think so, when you select Miss Scarse!"

"What the deuce have you against her?"

"Nothing, personally. She is a nice girl, a very nice girl, but poor.
A man of your extravagant tastes should marry money. Brenda is well
enough, for herself," continued Malet, with odious familiarity, for
which Harold could have struck him, "but her father!--Stuart Scarse is
a Little Englander!"

Captain Burton was taken aback at the irrelevancy of this remark.
"What the devil has that to do with her or me?" he demanded bluntly.

"Everything, if you love your country. You belong to a Conservative
family. You are a soldier, and the time is coming when we must all
rally round the flag and preserve the Empire. Scarse is a member of
that pernicious band which desires the dismemberment of our
glorious----

"Oh, I'm sick of this!" Harold jumped up and crammed on his cap. "Your
political ideas have nothing to do with my marriage. You have no
reason to object to Miss Scarse. Once for all, will you pay me this
money?"

"No, I will not. I shall not agree to your marrying the daughter of a
Little Englander."

"Then I shall throw the estate into Chancery."

Malet looked uneasy, but sneered. "By all means, if you want the whole
forty thousand to go to fee the lawyers! But, before you risk losing
your money, let me advise you to make sure of Miss Brenda Scarse!"

"What do you mean?"

"Ask Mr. van Zwieten, who is staying with her father."

"Oh!" said Harold, contemptuously, "Brenda has told me all about him.
Her father wants her to marry him, and it is true he is in love with
her; but Brenda loves me, and will never consent to become the wife of
that Boer!

"Van Zwieten is no Boer. He is a Dutchman, born in Amsterdam."

"And a friend of yours," sneered Captain Burton. "He is no friend of
mine!" shouted Malet, somewhat ruffled. "I detest the man as much as I
do Scarse. If----"

"Look here, Gilbert, I don't want any more of this. I trust Brenda,
and I intend to marry her."

"Very good. Then you'll have to starve on your three hundred a year."

"You refuse to give me the money?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I'm glad I don't live under your roof and can tell you what I
think of you. You are a mean hound, Malet--keep back, or I'll knock
you down. Yes, a mean hound! This is not your real reason for refusing
to pay me this money. I'll go up to town to-day and have your
trusteeship inquired into."

Gilbert changed color and looked dangerous. "You can act as you
please, Harold; but recollect that my powers are very clearly defined
under the will. I am not accountable to you or to Wilfred or to any
one else for the money. I have no need to defend my honor."

"That we shall see." Harold opened the door and looked back. "This is
the last time I shall enter your house. You meddle with my private
affairs, you keep back money rightfully belonging to me on the most
frivolous pretext, and, in fact, make yourself objectionable in every
way; but, I warn you, the law will force you to alter your behavior."

"The law cannot touch me!" cried Gilbert, furiously. "I can account
for the money and pay it when it should be paid. Out of my house----!"

"I am going--and, see here, Gilbert Malet, if the law affords me no
redress, I shall take it into my own hands. Yes, you may well turn
pale. I'll make it hot for you--you swindler!" and Captain Burton,
banging the door, marched out of the house, furious at his helpless
position.

Left alone, Malet wiped his bald forehead and sank into a chair.
"Pooh!" he muttered, striving to