th.

"It means," said Stoutenburg roughly, "that at last you must be
convinced that this man on whom you have wasted your kindly pity is
utterly unworthy of it. That bond was never written by your brother, it
was never signed by him. But we found it on this villain's person; he
has been trading on it, obtaining money on the strength of his forgery.
He has confessed to you that he had no accomplice, no paymaster in his
infamies, then ask him whence came this bond in his possession, whence
the money which we found upon him. Ask him to deny the fact that less
than twenty-four hours after he had laid hands on you, he was back again
in Haarlem, bargaining with your poor, stricken father to bring you back
to him."

He ceased speaking, almost choked now by his own eloquence, and the
rapidity with which the lying words escaped his lips. And Gilda slowly
turned her head toward the prisoner, and met that subtly-ironical,
good-humoured glance again.

"Is this all true, sir?" she asked.

"What, mejuffrouw?" he retorted.

"That this bond promising you payment for the cruel outrage upon me is a
forgery?"

"His Magnificence says so, mejuffrouw," he replied quietly, "surely you
know best if you can believe him."

"But this is not my brother's signature?" she asked: and she herself was
not aware what an infinity of pleading there was in her voice.

"No!" he replied emphatically, "it is not your brother's signature."

"Then it's a forgery?"

"We will leave it at that, mejuffrouw," he said, "that it is a forgery."

A sigh, hoarse and passionate in its expression of infinite relief,
escaped the Lord of Stoutenburg's lips. Though he knew that the man in
any case could have no proof if he accused Nicolaes, yet there was great
satisfaction in this unqualified confession. Slowly the prisoner turned
his head and looked upon his triumphant enemy, and it was the man with
the pinioned arms, with the tattered clothes and the stained shirt who
seemed to tower in pride, in swagger and in defiance while the other
looked just what he was--a craven and miserable cur.

Once more there was silence in the low-raftered room. From Gilda's eyes
the tears fell slowly one by one. She could not have told you herself
why she was crying at this moment. Her brother's image stood out clearly
before her wholly vindicated of treachery, and a scoundrel had been
brought to his knees, self-confessed as a liar, a forger and a thief;
the Lord of Stoutenburg