"STOP THIEF!" shrieked Ghysbrecht, and suddenly turned, on his servant
and collared him, and shook him with rage. "D'ye stand there, knave, and
see your master robbed? Run! fly! A hundred crowns to him that finds
it me again. No, no! 'tis in vain. Oh, fool! fool! to leave that in the
same room with him. But none ever found the secret spring before. None
ever would but he. It was to be. It is to be. Lost! lost!" and his years
and infirmity now gained the better of his short-lived frenzy, and he
sank on the chest muttering "Lost! lost!"

"What is lost, master?" asked the servant kindly.

"House and lands and good name," groaned Ghysbrecht, and wrung his hands
feebly.

"WHAT?" cried the servant.

This emphatic word, and the tone of eager curiosity, struck on
Ghysbrecht's ear and revived his natural cunning.

"I have lost the town records," stammered he, and he looked askant at
the man like a fox caught near a hen-roost.

"Oh, is that all?"

"Is't not enough? What will the burghers say to me? What will the burghs
do?" Then he suddenly burst out again, "A hundred crowns to him who
shall recover them; all, mind, all that were in this box. If one be
missing, I give nothing."

"'Tis a bargain, master: the hundred crowns are in my pouch. See you not