Roden’s Corner by Henry Seton Merriman (page 5)

snap. The audit of the malgamite books was over.

“It is a wonderful piece of single-handed bookkeeping,” he said to Roden.

Cornish was studying the paper set before him by the banker. The proceedings seemed to have been prearranged, for no word was exchanged. There was no consultation on either side. Finally, Cornish folded the paper and tore it into a hundred pieces in scrupulous adherence to Von Holzen’s conditions. Mr. Wade was sitting back in his chair thoughtfully amusing himself with his gold pencil-case. Cornish looked at him for a moment, and then spoke, addressing Von Holzen.

“We came here to make a final proposal to you,” he said; “to place before you, in fact, our ultimatum. We do not pretend to conceal from you the fact that we are anxious to avoid all publicity, all scandal. But if you drive us to it, we shall unhesitatingly face both in order to close these works. We do not want the Malgamite scheme to be dragged as a charity in the mud, because it will inevitably drag other charities with it. There are certain names connected with the scheme which we should prefer; moreover, to keep from the clutches of the cheaper democratic newspapers. We know the weakness of our position.

“And we know the strength of ours,” put in Von Holzen, quietly.

“Yes. We recognize that also. You have hitherto slipped in between international laws, and between the laws of men. Legally, we should have difficulty in getting at you, but it can be done. Financially—-” He paused, and looked at Mr. Wade.

“Financially,” said the banker, without lifting his eyes from his pencil case, “we shall in the long run inevitably smash you–though the books are all right.”

Roden smiled, with his long white fingers at his moustache.

“From the figures supplied to me by Mr. Wade,” continued Cornish, “I see that there is an enormous profit lying idle–so large a profit that even between ourselves it is better not mentioned. There are, or there were yesterday, two hundred and ninety-two malgamite makers in active work.”

Von Holzen made an involuntary movement, and Cornish looked at him over the pile of books. “Oh!” he said, “I know that. And I know the number of deaths. Perhaps you have not kept count, but I have. From the figures supplied by Mr. Wade, I see, therefore, that we have sufficient to pension off these two hundred and ninety-two men and their families–giving each man one hundred and twenty pounds a year. We can also make provision for the widows and orphans out of the sum I propose to withdraw from the profits. There will then be left a sum representing two large fortunes–of say between three and four thousand a year each. Will you and Mr. Roden accept this sum, dividing it as you think fit, and hand over the works to me? We ask, you to take it–no questions asked, and go.”

“And Lord Ferriby?” suggested Von Holzen.

Major White made a sudden movement, but Cornish laid his hand quickly upon the soldier’s arm.

“I will manage Lord Ferriby. What is your answer?”

“No,” replied Von Holzen, instantly, as if he had long known what the ultimatum would be.

Cornish turned interrogatively to Roden. His eyes urged Roden to accept.

“No,” was the reply.

Mr. Wade took out his large gold watch and looked at it.

“Then there is no need,” he said composedly, “to detain these gentlemen any longer.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

COMMERCE.

“The world will not believe a man repents. And this wise world of ours is mainly right.”

“Then you are of opinion, my dear White, that one cannot well refuse to meet these–er–persons?”

“Not,” replied Major White to Lord Ferriby, whose hand rested on his stout arm as they walked with dignity in the shade of the trees that border the Vyver–that quaint old fish-pond of The Hague–“not without running the risk of being called a d—-d swindler.”

For the major was a lamentably plain-spoken man, who said but little, and said that little strong. Lord Ferriby’s affectionate grasp of the soldier’s arm relaxed imperceptibly. One must, he reflected, be prepared to meet unpleasantness in the good cause of charity–but there are words hardly applicable to the peerage, and Major White had made use of one of these.

“Public opinion,” observed the major, after some minutes of deep thought, “is a difficult thing to deal with–‘cos you cannot thump the public.”

“It is notably hard,” said his lordship, firing off one of his pet platform platitudes, “to induce the public to form a correct estimate, or what one takes to be a correct estimate.”

“Especially of one’s self,” added the major, looking across the water towards the Binnenhof in his vacant way.

Then they turned and walked back again beneath the heavy shade of the trees. The conversation, and indeed this dignified promenade on the Vyverberg, had been brought about by a letter which his lordship had received that same morning inviting him to attend a meeting of paper-makers and others interested in the malgamite trade to consider the position of the malgamite charity, and the advisability of taking legal proceedings to close the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. The meeting was to be held at the Hotel des Indes, at three in the afternoon, and the conveners hinted pretty plainly that the proceedings would be of a decisive nature. The letter left Lord Ferriby with a vague feeling of discomfort. His position was somewhat isolated. A coldness had for some time been in existence between himself and his nephew, Tony Cornish. Of Mr. Wade, Lord Ferriby was slightly distrustful.

“These commercial men,” he often said, “are apt to hold such narrow views.”

And, indeed, to steer a straight course through life, one must not look to one side or the other.

There remained Major White, of whom Lord Ferriby had thought more highly since Fortune had called this plain soldier to take a seat among the gods of the British public. For no man is proof against the satisfaction of being able to call a celebrated person by his Christian name. The major had long admired Joan, in his stupid way from, as one might say, the other side of the room. But neither Lord nor Lady Ferriby had encouraged this silent suit. Joan was theoretically one of those of whom it is said that “she might marry anybody,” and who, as the keen observer may see for himself, often finishes by failing to marry at all. She was pretty and popular, and had, moreover, the _entree_ to the best houses. White had been useful to Lord Ferriby ever since the inauguration of the Malgamite scheme. He was not uncomfortably clever, like Tony Cornish. He was an excellent buffer at jarring periods. Since the arrival of Joan and her father at The Hague, the major had been almost a necessity in their daily life, and now, quite suddenly, Lord Ferriby found that this was the only person to whom he could turn for advice or support.

“One cannot suppose,” he said, in the full conviction that words will meet any emergency–“One cannot suppose that Von Holzen will act in direct opposition to the voice of the majority.”

“Von Holzen,” replied the major, “plays a doocid good game.”

After luncheon they walked across the Toornoifeld to the Hotel des Indes, and there, in a small _salon_, found a number of gentlemen seated round a table. Mr. Wade was conspicuous by his absence. They had, indeed, left him in the hotel garden, sitting at the consumption of an excellent cigar.

“Join the jocund dance?” the major had inquired, with a jerk of the head towards the Hotel des Indes. But Mr. Wade was going for a drive with Marguerite.

Tony Cornish was, however, seated at the table, and the major recognized two paper-makers whom he had seen before. One was an aggressive, red-headed man, of square shoulders and a dogged appearance, who had “radical” written all over him. The other was a mild-mannered person, with a thin, ash-colored moustache. The major nodded affably. He distinctly remembered offering to fight these two gentlemen either together or one after the other on the landing of the little malgamite office in Westminster. And there was a faint twinkle behind the major’s eyeglass as he saluted them.

“Good morning, Thompson,” he said. “How do, MacHewlett?” For he never forgot a face or a name.

“A’hm thinking—-” Mr. MacHewlett was observing, but his thoughts died a natural death at the sight of a real lord, and he rose and bowed. Mr. Thompson remained seated and made that posture as aggressive and obvious as possible. The remainder of the company were of varied nationality and appearance, while one, a Frenchman of keen dark eyes and a trim beard–seemed by tacit understanding to be the acknowledged leader. Even the pushing Mr. Thompson silently deferred to him by a gesture that served at once to introduce Lord Ferriby and invite the Frenchman to up and smite him.

Lord Ferriby took the seat that had been left vacant for him at the head of the table. He looked around upon faces not too friendly. “We were saying, my lord,” said the Frenchman, in perfect English and with that graceful tact which belongs to France alone, “that we have all been the victims of an unfortunate chain of misunderstandings. Had the organizers of this great charity consulted a few paper-makers before inaugurating the works at Scheveningen, much unpleasantness might have been averted, many lives might, alas, have been spared. But–well–such mundane persons as ourselves were probably unknown to you and unthought-of; the milk is spilt, is it not so? Let us rather think of the future.”

Lord Ferriby bowed graciously, and Mr. Thompson moved impatiently on his chair. The suave method had no attractions for him.

“A’hm thinking,” began Mr. MacHewlett, in his most plaintive voice, and commanded so sudden and universal an attention as to be obviously disconcerted, “his lordship’ll need plainer speech than that,” he muttered hastily, and subsided, with an uneasy glance in the direction of that man of action, Major White.

“One misunderstanding has, however, been happily dispelled,” said the Frenchman, “by our friend–if monsieur will permit the word–our friend, Mr. Cornish. From this gentleman we have learned that the executive of the Malgamite Charity are not by any means in harmony with the executive of the malgamite works at Scheveningen; that, indeed, the charity repudiates the action of its servants in manufacturing malgamite by a dangerous process tacitly and humanely set aside by makers up to this time; that the administrators of the fund are no party to the ‘corner’ which has been established in the product; do not desire to secure a monopoly, and disapprove of the sale of malgamite at a price which has already closed one or two of the smaller mills, and is paralyzing the paper trade of the world.”

The speaker finished with a bow towards Cornish, and resumed his seat. All were watching Lord Ferriby’s face, except Major White, who examined a quill pen with short-sighted absorption. Lord Ferriby looked across the table at Cornish.

“Lord Ferriby,” said Cornish, without rising from his seat, and meeting his uncle’s glance steadily, “will now no doubt confirm all that Monsieur Creil has said.”

Lord Ferriby had, in truth, come to the meeting with no such intention. He had, with all his vast experience, no knowledge of a purely commercial assembly such as this. His public had hitherto been a drawing-room public. He was accustomed to a flower-decked platform, from which to deliver his flowing periods to the emotional of both sexes. There were no flowers in this room at the Hotel des Indes, and the men before him were not of the emotional school. They were, on the contrary, plain, hard-headed men of business, who had come from different parts of the world at Cornish’s bidding to meet a crisis in a plain, hard-headed way. They had only thoughts of their balance-sheets, and not of the fact that they held in the hollow of their hands the lives of hundreds, nay, of thousands, of men, women, and children. Monsieur Creil alone, the keen-eyed Frenchman, had absolute control of over three thousand employees–married men with children–but he did not think of mentioning the fact. And it is a weight to carry about with one–to go to sleep with and to awake with in the morning–the charge of, say, nine thousand human lives.

For a few moments Lord Ferriby was silent. Cornish watched him across the table. He knew that his uncle was no fool, although his wisdom amounted to little more than the wisdom of the worldly. Would Lord Ferriby recognize the situation in time? There was a wavering look in the great man’s eye that made his nephew suddenly anxious. Then Lord Ferriby rose slowly, to make the shortest speech that he had ever made in his life.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I beg to confirm what has just been said.”

As he sat down again, Cornish gave a sharp sigh of relief. In a moment Mr. Thompson was on his feet, his red face alight with democratic anger.

“This won’t do,” he cried. “Let’s have done with palavering and talk. Let’s get to plain speaking.”

And it was not Lord Ferriby, but Tony Cornish, who rose to meet the attack.

“If you will sit down,” he said, “and keep your temper, you shall have plain speaking, and we can get to business. But if you do neither, I shall turn you out of the room.”

“You?”

“Yes,” answered Tony. And something which Mr. Thompson did not understand made him resume his seat in silence. The Frenchman smiled, and took up his speech where he had left it.

“Mr. Cornish,” he said, “speaks with authority. We are, gentlemen, in the hands of Mr. Cornish, and in good hands. He has this matter at the tips of his fingers. He has devoted himself to it for many months past, at considerable risk, as I suspect, to his own safety. We and the thousands of employees whom we represent cannot do better than entrust the situation to him, and give him a free hand. For once, capital and labour have a common interest—-“

He was again interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who spoke more quietly now.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that we may well consider the past for a few minutes before passing on to the future. There’s more than a million pounds profit, at the lowest reckoning, on the last few months’ manufacture. Question is, where is that profit? Is this a charity, or is it not? Mr. Cornish is all very well in his way. But we’re not fools. We’re men of business, and as such can only presume that Mr. Cornish, like the rest of ’em, has had his share. Question is, where are the profits?”

Major White rose slowly. He was seated beside Mr. Thompson, and, standing up, towered above him. He looked down at the irate red face with a calm and wondering eye.

“Question is,” he said gravely, “where the deuce you will be in a few minutes if you don’t shut up.”

Whereupon Mr. Thompson once more resumed his seat. He had the satisfaction, however, of perceiving that his shaft had reached its mark; for Lord Ferriby looked disconcerted and angry. The chairman of many charities looked, moreover, a little puzzled, as if the situation was beyond his comprehension. The Frenchman’s pleasant voice again broke in, soothingly and yet authoritatively.

“Mr. Cornish and a certain number of us have, for some time, been in correspondence,” he said. “It is unnecessary for me to suggest to my present hearers that in dealing with a large industry–in handling, as it were, the lives of a number of persons–it is impossible to proceed too cautiously. One must look as far ahead as human foresight may perceive–one must give grave and serious thought to every possible outcome of action or inaction. Gentlemen, we have done our best. We are now in a position to say to the administrators of the Malgamite Fund, close your works and we will do the rest. And this means that we shall provide for the survivors of this great commercial catastrophe, that we shall care for the widows and children of the victims, that we shall supply ourselves with malgamite of our own manufacture, produced only by a process which is known to be harmless, that we shall make it impossible that such a monopoly may again be declared. We have, so far as lies in our power, provided for every emergency. We have approached the two men who, from their retreat on the dunes of Scheveningen, have swayed one of the large industries of the world. We have offered them a fortune. We have tried threats and money, but we have failed to close them but one alternative, and that is–war. We are prepared in every way. We can to-morrow take over the manufacture of malgamite for the whole world–but we must have the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. We must have the absolute control of the Malgamite Fund and of the works. We propose, gentlemen, to seize this control, and invest the supreme command in the one man who is capable of exercising it–Mr. Anthony Cornish.”

The Frenchman sat down, looked across the table, and shrugged his shoulders impatiently; for the irrepressible Thompson was already on his feet. It must be remembered that Mr. Thompson worked on commission, and had been hard hit.

“Then,” he cried, pointing a shaking forefinger into Lord Ferriby’s face, “that man has no business to be sitting there. We’re honest here–if we’re nothing else. We all know your history, my fine gentleman; we know that you cannot wipe out the past, so you’re trying to whitewash it over with good works. That’s an old trick, and it won’t go down here. Do you think we don’t see through you and your palavering speeches? Why have you refused to take action against Roden and Von Holzen? Because they’ve paid you. Look at him, gentlemen! He has taken money from those men at Scheveningen–blood money. He has had his share. I propose that Lord Ferriby explains his position.”

Mr. Thompson banged his fist on the table, and at the same moment sat down with extreme precipitation, urged thereto by Major White’s hand on his collar.

“This is not a vestry meeting,” said the major, sternly.

Lord Ferriby had risen to his feet. “My position, gentlemen,” he began, and then faltered, with his hand at his watch-chain. “My position—-” He stopped with a gulp. His face was the colour of ashes. He turned in a dazed way towards his nephew; for at the beginning and the end of life blood is thicker than water. “Anthony,” said his lordship, and sat down heavily.

All rose to their feet in confusion. Major White seemed somehow to be quicker than the rest, and caught Lord Ferriby in his arms–but Lord Ferriby was dead.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WITH CARE.

“Some man holdeth his tongue, because he hath not to answer: and some keepeth silence, knowing his time.”

Those who live for themselves alone must at least have the consolatory thought that when they die the world will soon console itself. For it has been decreed that he who takes no heed of others shall himself be taken no heed of. We soon learn to do without those who are indifferent to us and useless to us. Lord Ferriby had so long and so carefully studied the _culte_ of self that even those nearest to him had ceased to give him any thought, knowing that in his own he was in excellent hands–that he would always ask for what he wanted. It was Lord Ferriby’s business to make the discovery (which all selfish people must sooner or later achieve) that the best things in this world are precisely those which may not be given on demand, and for which, indeed, one may in nowise ask.

When Major White and Cornish were left alone in the private _salon_ of the Hotel des Indes–when the doctor had come and gone, when the blinds had been decently lowered, and the great man silently laid upon the sofa–they looked at each other without speaking. The grimmest silence is surely that which arises from the thought that of the dead one may only say what is good.

“Would you like me,” said Cornish, “to go across and tell Joan?”

And Major White, whose god was discipline, replied, “She’s your cousin. It is for you to say.”

“I shall be glad if you will go,” said Cornish, “and leave me to make the other arrangements. Take her home tomorrow, or tonight if she wants to, and leave us–me–to follow.”

So Major White quitted the Hotel des Indes, and walked slowly down the length of the Toornoifeld, leaving Cornish alone with Lord Ferriby, whose death made his nephew suddenly a richer man.

The Wades had gone out for a drive in the wood. Major White knew that he would find Joan alone at the hotel. Bad news has a strange trick of clearing the way before it. The major went to the _salon_ on the ground floor overlooking the corner of the Vyverberg. Joan was writing a letter at the window.

“Ah!” she said, turning, pen in hand, “you are soon back. Have you quarrelled?”

White went stolidly across the room towards her. There was a chair by the writing-table, and here he sat down. Joan was looking uneasily into his face. Perhaps she saw more in that immovable countenance than the world was pleased to perceive.

“Your father was taken suddenly ill,” he said, “during the meeting.” Joan half rose from her chair, but the major laid his protecting hand over hers. It was a large, quiet hand–like himself, somewhat suggestive of a buffer. And it may, after all, be no mean _role_ to act as a buffer between one woman and the world all one’s life.

“You can do nothing,” said White. “Tony is with him.”

Joan looked into his face in speechless inquiry.

“Yes,” he answered, “your father is dead.”

Then he sat there in a silence which may have been intensely stupid or very wise. For silence is usually cleverer than speech, and always more interesting. Joan was dry-eyed. Well may the children of the selfish arise and bless their parents for (albeit unwittingly) alleviating one of the necessary sorrows of life.

After a silence, Major White told Joan how the calamity had occurred, in a curt military way, as of one who had rubbed shoulders with death before, who had gone out, moreover, to meet him with a quiet mind, and had told others of the dealings of the destroyer. For Major White was deemed a lucky man by his comrades, who had a habit of giving him messages for their friends before they went into the field. Perhaps, moreover, the major was of the opinion of those ancient writers who seemed to deem it more important to consider how a man lives than how he dies.

“It was some heart trouble,” he concluded, “brought on by worry or sudden excitement.”

“The Malgamite,” answered Joan. “It has always been a source of uneasiness to him. He never quite understood it.” “No,” answered the major, very deliberately, “he never quite understood it.” And he looked out of the window with a thoughtful noncommitting face.

“Neither do I–understand it,” said Joan, doubtfully.

And the major looked suddenly dense. He had, as usual, no explanation to offer.

“Was father deceived by some one?” Joan asked, after a pause. “One hears such strange rumours about the Malgamite Fund. I suppose father was deceived?”

She spoke of the dead man with that hushed voice which death, with a singular impartiality to race or creed, seems to demand of the survivors wheresoever he passes.

White met her earnest gaze with a grave nod. “Yes,” he answered. “He was deceived.”

“He said before he went out that he did not want to go to the meeting at all,” went on Joan, in a tone of tender reminiscence, “but that he had always made a point of sacrificing his inclination to his sense of duty. Poor father!”

“Yes,” said the major, looking out of the window. And he bore Joan’s steady, searching glance like a man.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Were you and Tony deceived also?”

Major White reflected for a moment. It is unwise to tell even the smallest lie in haste.

“No,” he answered at length. “Not so entirely as your father.”

He uncrossed his legs, and made a feeble attempt to divert her thoughts.

But Joan was on the trail as it were of a half-formed idea in her own mind, and she would not have been a woman if she had relinquished the quest so easily.

“But you were deceived at first?” she inquired, rather anxiously. “I know Tony was. I am sure of it. Perhaps he found out later; but you–“

She drew her hand from under his rather hastily, having just found out that it was in that equivocal position.

“You were never deceived,” she said, with a suspicion of resentment.

“Well–perhaps not,” admitted the major, reluctantly. And he looked regretfully at the hand she had withdrawn. “Don’t know much about charities,” he continued, after a pause. “Don’t quite look at them in the right light, perhaps. Seems to me that you ought to be more business-like in charities than in anything else; and we’re not business men–not even you.”

He looked at her very solemnly and wisely, as if the thoughts in his mind would be of immense value if he could only express them; but he was without facilities in that direction. If one cannot be wise, the next best thing is to have a wise look. He rose, for he had caught sight of Tony Cornish crossing the Toornoifeld in the shade of the trees. Perhaps the major had forgotten for the moment that a great man was dead; that there were letters to be written and telegrams to be despatched; that the world must know of it, and the insatiable maw of the public be closed by a few scraps of news. For the public mind must have its daily food, and the wise are they who tell it only that which it is expedient for it to know.

Lord Ferriby’s life was, moreover, one that needed careful obituary treatment. Everybody’s life may for domestic purposes be described as a hash; but Lord Ferriby’s was a hash which in the hands of a cheap democratic press might easily be served up so daintily as to be very savoury in the nostrils of the world. Some of its component parts were indeed exceedingly ancient, and, so to speak, gamey, while the Malgamite scheme alone might easily be magnified into a very passable scandal.

Tony came into the room, keen and capable. He did not show much feeling. Perhaps Joan and he understood each other without any such display. For they had known each other many years, and had understood other and more subtle matters without verbal explanation. For the world had been pleased to say that Joan and Tony must in the end inevitably marry. And they had never explained, never contradicted, and never married.

While the three were still talking, a carriage rattled up to the door of the hotel, and then another. There began, in a word, that hushed confusion–that running to and fro as of ants upon a disturbed ant-hill–which follows hard upon the footsteps of the grim messenger, who himself is content to come so quietly and unobtrusively. Roden arrived to make inquiries, and Mrs. Vansittart, and a messenger from more than one embassy. Then the Wades came, brought hurriedly back by a messenger sent after them by Tony Cornish.

Marguerite, with characteristic energy, came into the room first, slim and bright-eyed. She looked from one face to the other, and then crossed the room and stood beside Joan without speaking. She was smiling–a little hard smile with close-set lips, showing the world a face that meant to take life open-eyed, as it is, and make the best of it.

Before long the two girls quitted the room, leaving the three men to their hushed discussion. Tony had already provided himself with pen and paper. In twelve hours that which the world must know about Lord Ferriby should be in print. There was just time to cable it to the _Times_ and the news agencies. And in these hurried days it is the first word which, after all, goes farthest and carries most weight. A contradiction is at all times a poor expedient.

“I have silenced the paper-makers,” said Cornish, sitting down to write. “Even that ass Thompson, by striking while the iron was hot.”

“And Roden won’t open his lips,” added Mr. Wade, who, as he drove up, had seen that brilliant financier uneasily strolling under the trees of the Toornoifeld, looking towards the hotel, for Lord Ferriby’s death was a link in the crooked malgamite chain which even Von Holzen had failed to foresee.

Indeed, Lord Ferriby must have been gratified could he have seen the posthumous pother that he made by dying at this juncture. For in life he had only been important in his own eyes, and the world had taken little heed of him. This same keen-sighted world would not regret him much now and would assuredly mete out to that miserly old screw, his widow, only as much sympathy as the occasion deserved. Lady Ferriby would, the world suspected, sell off his lordship’s fancy waistcoats, and proceed to save money to her heart’s content. Even the thought of his club subscriptions, now necessarily to be discontinued, must have assuaged a large part of the widow’s grief. Such, at least, was the opinion of the clubs themselves, when the news was posted up among the weather reports and the latest tapes from the House that same evening.

While Lord Ferriby’s friends were comfortably endowing him with a few compensating virtues over their tea and hot buttered toast in Pall Mall and St. James’s Street, Mr. Wade, Tony, and White dined together at the Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery at The Hague. The hour was an early one, and had never been countenanced by Lord Ferriby, but the three men in whose hands he had literally left his good name did not attach supreme importance to this matter. Indeed, the banker thought kindly of six-thirty as an hour at which in earlier days he had been endowed with a better appetite than he ever possessed now at eight o’clock or later. While they were at table a telegram was handed to Cornish. It was from Lord Ferriby’s solicitor in London, and contained the advice that Tony Cornish had been appointed sole executor of his lordship’s will.

“Thank God!” said Tony, with a little laugh, as he read the message and handed it across to Mr. Wade, who looked at it gravely without comment. “And now,” said Cornish, “not even Joan need know.”

For Cornish, having perceived Percy Roden under the trees of the Toornoifeld, had gone out there to speak to him, and in answer to a plain question had received a plain answer as to the price that Lord Ferriby had been paid for the use of his name in the Malgamite Fund transactions.

Joan had elected to remain in her own rooms, with Marguerite to keep her company, until the evening, when, under White’s escort, she was to set out for England. The major had in a minimum of words expressed himself ready to do anything at any time, provided that the service did not require an abnormal conversational effort.

“I shall be home twenty-four hours after you,” said Cornish, as he bade Joan good-bye at the station. “And you need believe no rumours and fear no gossip. If people ask impertinent questions, refer them to White.”

“And I’ll thump them,” added the major, who indeed looked capable of rendering that practical service.

They were favoured by a full moon and a perfect night for their passage from the Hook of Holland to Harwich. Joan expressed a desire to remain on deck, at all events, until the lights of the Maas had been left behind. Major White procured two deck chairs, and found a corner of the upper deck which was free alike from too much wind and too many people. There they sat in the shadow of a boat, and Joan seemed fully occupied with her own thoughts, for she did not speak while the steamer ploughed steadily onwards through the smooth water.

“I wonder if it is my duty to continue to take an active part in the Malgamite Fund,” she said at length.

And the major, who had been permitted to smoke, looked attentively at the lighted end of his cigar, and said nothing.

“I am afraid it must be,” continued Joan, whose earnest endeavours to find out what was her duty, and do it, occupied the larger part of her time and attention.

“Why?” asked Major White.

“Because I don’t want to.”

The major thought about the matter for a long time–almost half through a cigar. It was wonderful how so much thought could result in so few words, especially in these days, which are essentially days of many words and few thoughts. During this period of meditation, Joan sat looking out to sea, and the moon shining down upon her face showed it to be puckered with anxiety. Like many of her contemporaries, she was troubled by an intense desire to do her duty, coupled with an unfortunate lack of duties to perform.

“I wish you would tell me what you think,” she said.

“Seems to me,” said White, “that your duty is clear enough.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Drop the Malgamiters and the Haberdashers and all that, and–marry me.”

But Joan only shook her head sadly. “That cannot be my duty,” she said.

“Why? ‘Cos it isn’t unpleasant enough?”

“No,” answered Joan, after a pause, in the deepest earnestness–“no–that’s just it.”

Out of which ambiguous observation the major seemed to gather some meaning, for he looked up at the moon with one of his most vacant smiles.

CHAPTER XXIX.

A LESSON.

“Whom the gods mean to destroy, they blind.”

Mrs. Vansittart had passed the age of blind love. She had not the incentive of a healthy competition. She had not that more dangerous incentive of middle-aged vanity, which draws the finger of derision so often in the direction of widows. And yet she took a certain pleasure in playing a half-careless and wholly cynical Juliet to Percy Roden’s _gauche_ Romeo. She had no intention of marrying him, and yet she continued to encourage him even now that open war was declared between Cornish and the malgamite makers. Cornish had indeed thanked Mrs. Vansittart for her assistance in the past in such a manner as to convey to her that she could hardly be of use to him in the future. He had magnified her good offices, and had warned her to beware of arousing Von Holzen’s anger. Indeed, her use of Percy Roden was at an end, and yet she would not let him go. Cornish was puzzled, and so was Dorothy. Percy Roden was gratified, and read the riddle by the light of his own vanity. Mrs. Vansittart was not, perhaps, the first woman to puzzle her neighbours by refusing to relinquish that which she did not want. She was not the first, perhaps, to nurse a subtle desire to play some part in the world rather than be left idle in the wings. So she played the part that came first and easiest to her hand–a woman’s natural part, of stirring up strife between men.

She was, therefore, gratified when Von Holzen made his way slowly towards her through the crowd on the Kursaal terrace one afternoon on the occasion of a Thursday concert. She was sitting alone in a far corner of the terrace, protected by a glass screen from the wind which ever blows at Scheveningen. She never mingled with the summer visitors at this popular Dutch resort–indeed, knew none of them. Von Holzen seemed to be similarly situated; but Mrs. Vansittart knew that he did not seek her out on that account. He was not a man to do anything–much less be sociable–out of idleness. He only dealt with his fellow-beings when he had a use for them.

She returned his grave bow with an almost imperceptible movement of the head, and for a moment they looked hard at each other.

“Madame still lingers at The Hague,” he said.

“As you see.”

“And is the game worth the candle?”

He laid his hand tentatively on a chair, and looked towards her with an interrogative glance. He would not, it appeared, sit down without her permission. And, womanlike, she gave it, with a shrug of one shoulder. A woman rarely refuses a challenge. “And is the game worth the candle?” he repeated.

“One can only tell when it is played out,” was the reply; and Herr von Holzen glanced quickly at the lady who made it.

He turned away and listened to the music. An occasional concert was the one diversion he allowed himself at this time from his most absorbing occupation of making a fortune. He had probably a real love of music, which is not by any means given to the good only, or the virtuous. Indeed, it is the art most commonly allied to vice.

“By the way,” said Von Holzen, after a pause, “that paper which it pleased madame’s fantasy to possess at one time–is destroyed. Its teaching exists only in my unworthy brain.”

He turned and looked at her with his slow smile, his measuring eyes.

“Ah!”

“Yes; so madame need give the question no more thought, and may turn her full attention to her new–fancy.”

Mrs. Vansittart was studying her programme, and did not look up or display the slightest interest in what he was saying.

“Every event seems but to serve to strengthen our position,” went on Von Holzen, still half listening to the music. “Even the untimely death of Lord Ferriby–which might at first have appeared a _contretemps_. Cornish takes home the coffin by tonight’s mail, I understand. Men may come, madame, and men may go–but we go on for ever. We are still prosperous–despite our friends. And Cornish is nonplussed. He does not know what to do next, and fate seems to be against him. He has no luck. We are manufacturing–day and night.”

“You are interested in Mr. Cornish,” observed Mrs. Vansittart, coolly; and she saw a sudden gleam in Von Holzen’s eyes.

After all, the man had a passion over which his control was insecure–the last, the longest of the passions–hatred. He shrugged his shoulders.

“He has forced himself upon our notice–unnecessarily as the result has proved–only to find out that there is no stopping us.”

He could scarcely control his voice as he spoke of Cornish, and looked away as if fearing to show the expression of his eyes.

Mrs. Vansittart watched him with a cool little smile. Von Holzen had not come here to talk of Cornish. He had come on purpose to say something which he had not succeeded in saying yet, and she was not ignorant of this. She was going to make it as difficult as possible for him, so that when he at last said what he had come to say, she should know it, and perhaps divine his motives.

“Even now,” he continued, “we have succeeded beyond our expectations. We are rich men, so that madame–need delay no longer.” He turned and looked her straight in the eyes.

“I?” she inquired, with raised eyebrows. “Need delay no longer–in what?”

“In consummating the happiness of my partner, Percy Roden,” he was clever enough to say without being impertinent. “He–and his banking account–are really worth the attention of any lady.”

Mrs. Vansittart laughed, and, before answering, acknowledged stiffly the stiff salutation of a passer.

“Then it is suggested that I am waiting for Mr. Roden to be rich enough in order to marry him?”

“It is the talk of gossips and servants.”

Mrs. Vansittart looked at him with an amused smile. Did he really know so little of the world as to take his information from gossips and servants?

“Ah,” she said, and that was all. She rose and made a little signal with her parasol to her coachman, who was waiting in the shadow of the Kursaal. As she drove home, she wondered why Von Holzen was afraid that she should marry Percy Roden, who, as it happened, was coming to tea in Park Straat that evening. Mrs. Vansittart had not exactly invited him–not, at all events, that he was aware of. He was under the impression that he had himself proposed the visit.

She remembered that he was coming, but gave no further thought to him. All her mind was, indeed, absorbed with thoughts of Von Holzen, whom she hated with the dull and deadly hatred of the helpless. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, stirred something within her that vibrated for hours, so that she could think of nothing else–could not even give her attention to the little incidents of daily life. She pretended to herself that she sought retribution–that she wished on principle to check a scoundrel in his successful career. The heart, however, knows no principles; for these are created by and belong to the mind. Which explains why many women seem to have no principles and many virtuous persons no heart.

Mrs. Vansittart went home to make a careful toilet pending the arrival of Percy Roden. She came down to the drawing-room, and stood idly at the window.

“The talk of gossips and servants,” she repeated bitterly to herself. One of Von Holzen’s shafts had, at all events, gone home. And Percy Roden came into the room a few minutes afterwards. His manner had more assurance than when he had first made Mrs. Vansittart’s acquaintance. He had, perhaps, a trifle less respect for the room and its occupant. Mrs. Vansittart had allowed him to come nearer to her; and when a woman allows a man of whom she has a low opinion to come near to her, she trifles with her own self-respect, and does harm which, perhaps, may never be repaired.

“I was too busy to go to the concert this afternoon,” he said, sitting down in his loose-limbed way.

His assumption that his absence had been noticed rather nettled his hearer.

“Ah! Were you not there?” she inquired.

He turned and looked at her with his curt laugh. “If I had been there you would have known it,” he said.

It was just one of those remarks–delivered in the half-mocking voice assumed in self-protection–which Mrs. Vansittart had hitherto allowed to pass unchallenged. And now, quite suddenly, she resented the manner and the speech.

“Indeed,” she said, with a subtle inflection of tone which should have warned him.

But he was engaged in drawing down his cuffs. Many young men would know more of the world if they had no cuffs or collars to distract them.

“Yes,” answered Roden; “if I had gone to the concert it would not have been for the music.”

Percy Roden’s method of making love was essentially modern. He threw to Mrs. Vansittart certain scraps of patronage and admiration, which she could pick up seriously and keep if she cared to. But he was not going to risk a wound to his vanity by taking the initiative too earnestly. Mrs. Vansittart, who was busy at the tea-table, set down a cup which she had in her hand and crossed the room towards him.

“What do you mean, Mr. Roden?” she asked slowly.

He looked up with wavering eyes, and visibly lost colour under her gaze.

“What do I mean?”

“Yes. What do you mean when you say that, if you had gone to the concert, it would not have been for the music; that if you had been there, I should have known of your presence, and a hundred other–impertinences?”

At first Roden thought that the way was being made easy for him as it is in books, as, indeed, it sometimes is in life, when it happens to be a way that is not worth the treading; but the last word stung him like a lash–as it was meant to sting. It was, perhaps, that one word that made him rise from his chair.

“If you meant to object to anything that I may say, you should have done so long ago,” he said. “Who was the first to speak at the hotel when I came to The Hague? Which of us was it that kept the friendship up and cultivated it? I am not blind. I could hardly be anything else, if I had failed to see what you have meant all along.”

“What have I meant all along?” she asked, with a strange little smile.

“Why, you have meant me to say such things as I have said, and perhaps more.”

“More–what can you mean?”

She looked at him still with a smile, which he did not understand. And, like many men, he allowed his vanity to explain things which his comprehension failed to elucidate.

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “will you marry me? There!”

“No, Mr. Roden, I will not,” she answered promptly; and then suddenly her eyes flashed, at some recollection, perhaps–at some thought connected with her happy past contrasted with this sordid, ignoble present.

“You!” she cried. “Marry you!”

“Why,” he asked, with a bitter little laugh, “what is there wrong with me?”

“I do not know what there is wrong with you. And I am not interested to inquire. But, so far as I am concerned, there is nothing right.”

A woman’s answer after all, and one of those reasons which are no reasons, and yet rule the world.

Roden looked at her, completely puzzled. In a flash of thought he recalled Dorothy’s warning, and her incomprehensible foresight.

“Then,” he said, lapsing in his self-forgetfulness into the terse language of his everyday life and thought, “what on earth have you been driving at all along?”

“I have been driving at Herr von Holzen and the Malgamite scheme. I have been helping Tony Cornish,” she answered.

So Percy Roden quitted the house at the corner of Park Straat a wiser man, and perhaps he left a wiser woman in it.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Vansittart to Marguerite Wade, long afterwards, when a sort of friendship had sprung up and ripened between them–“my dear, never let a man ask you to marry him unless you mean to say yes. It will do neither of you any good.”

And Marguerite, who never allowed another the last word, gave a shrewd little nod before she answered–“I always say no–before they ask me.”

CHAPTER XXX.

ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL.

“There’s not a crime–
But takes its proper change still out in crime If once rung on the counter of this world.”

Cornish went back to The Hague immediately after Lord Ferriby’s funeral because it has been decreed that for all men, this large world shall sooner or later narrow down to one city, perhaps, or one village, or a single house. For a man’s life is always centred round a memory or a hope, and neither of those requires much space wherein to live. Tony Cornish’s world had narrowed to the Villa des Dunes on the sandhills of Scheveningen, and his mind’s eye was always turned in that direction. His one thought at this time was to protect Dorothy–to keep, if possible, the name she bore from harm and ill-fame. Each day that passed meant death to the malgamite workers. He could not delay. He dared not hurry. He wrote again to Percy Roden from London, amid the hurried preparations for the funeral, and begged him to sever his connection with Von Holzen.

“You will not have time,” he wrote, “to answer this before I leave for The Hague. I shall stay on the Toornoifeld as usual, and hope to arrive about nine o’clock to-morrow evening. I shall leave the hotel about a quarter-past nine and walk down the right-hand bank of the Koninginne Gracht, and should like to meet you by the canal, where we can have a talk. I have many reasons to submit to your consideration why it will be expedient for you to come over to my side in this difference now, which I cannot well set down on paper. And remember that between men of the world, such as I suppose we may take ourselves to be, there is no question of one of us judging the other. Let me beg of you to consider your position in regard to the Malgamite scheme–and meet me to-morrow night between the Malie Veld and the Achter Weg about half-past nine. I cannot see you at the works, and it would be better for you not to come to my hotel.”

The letter was addressed to the Villa des Dunes, where Roden received it the next morning. Dorothy saw it, and guessed from whom it was, though she hardly knew her lover’s writing. He had adhered firmly to his resolution to keep himself in the background until he had finished the work he had undertaken. He had not written to her; had scarcely seen her. Roden read the letter, and put it in his pocket without a word. It had touched his vanity. He had had few dealings with men of the standing and position of Cornish, and here was this peer’s nephew and peer’s grandson appealing to him as to a friend, classing him together with himself as a man of the world. No man has so little discretion as a vain man. It is almost impossible for him to keep silence when speech will make for his glorification. Roden arrived at the works well pleased with himself, and found Von Holzen in their little office, put out, ill at ease, domineering. It was unfortunate, if you will. Percy Roden was always ready to perceive his own ill-fortune, and looked back later to this as one of his most untoward hours. Life, however, should surely consist of seizing the fortunate and fighting through the ill moments–else why should men have heart and nerve?

In such humours as they found themselves it did not take long for these two men to discover a question upon which to differ. It was a mere matter of detail connected with the money at that time passing through their hands.

“Of course,” said Roden, in the course of a useless and trivial dispute–“of course you think you know best, but you know nothing of finance–remember that. Everybody knows that it is I who have run that part of the business. Ask old Wade, or White–or Cornish.”

The argument had, in truth, been rather one-sided. For Roden had done all the talking, while Von Holzen looked at him with a quiet eye and a silent contempt that made him talk all the more. Von Holzen did not answer now, though his eye lighted at the mention of Cornish’s name. He merely looked at Roden with a smile, which conveyed as clearly as words Von Holzen’s suggestion that none of the three men named would be prepared to give Roden a very good character. “I had a letter, by the way, from Cornish this morning,” said Roden, lapsing into his grander manner, which Von Holzen knew how to turn to account.

“Ah–bah!” he exclaimed sceptically. And that lurking vanity of the inferior to lessen his own inferiority did the rest.

“If you don’t believe me, there you are,” said Roden, throwing the letter upon the table–not ill-pleased, in the heat of the moment, to show that he was a more important person than his companion seemed to think.

Von Holzen read the letter slowly and thoughtfully. The fact that it was evidently intended for Roden’s private eye did not seem to affect one or the other of these two men, who had travelled, with difficulty, along the road to fortune, only reaching their bourn at last with a light stock of scruples and a shattered code of honour. Then he folded it, and handed it back. He was not likely to forget a word of it.

“I suppose you will go,” he said. “It will be interesting to hear what he has to say. That letter is a confession of weakness.”

In making which statement Von Holzen showed his own weak point. For, like many clever men, he utterly failed to give to women their place–the leading place–in the world’s history, as in the little histories of our daily lives. He never detected Dorothy between every line of Cornish’s letter, and thought that it had only been dictated by inability to meet the present situation.

“I cannot very well refuse to go since the fellow asks me,” said Roden, grandly. He might as well have displayed his grandeur to a statue. If love is blind, self-love is surely half-witted as well, for it never sees nor understands that the world is fooling it. Roden failed to heed the significant fact that Von Holzen did not even ask him what line of conduct he intended to follow with regard to Cornish, nor seek in his autocratic way to instruct him on that point; but turned instead to other matters and did not again refer to Cornish or the letter he had written.

So the day wore on while Cornish impatiently walked the deck of the steamer, ploughing its way across the North Sea, through showers and thunderstorms and those grey squalls that flit to and fro on the German Ocean. And some tons of malgamite were made, while a manufacturer or two of the grim product laid aside his tools forever, while the money flowed in, and Otto von Holzen thought out his deep silent plans over his vats and tanks and crucibles. And all the while those who write in the book of fate had penned the last decree.

Cornish arrived punctually at The Hague. He drove to the hotel, where he was known, where, indeed, he had never relinquished his room. There was no letter for him–no message from Percy Roden. But Von Holzen had unobtrusively noted his arrival at the station from the crowded retreat of the second-class waiting-room.

The day had been a very hot one, and from canal and dyke arose that sedgy odour which comes with the cool of night in all Holland. It is hardly disagreeable, and conveys no sense of unhealthiness.

It seems merely to be the breath of still waters, and, in hot weather, suggests very pleasantly the relief of northern night. The Hague has two dominant smells. In winter, when the canals are frozen, the reek of burning-peat is on the air and in the summer the odour of slow waters. Cornish knew them both. He knew everything about this old-world city, where the turning-point of his life had been fixed. It was deserted now. The great houses, the theatre–the show-places–were closed. The Toornoifeld was empty.

The hotel porter, aroused by the advent of the traveller from an after-dinner nap in his little glass box, spread out his hands with a gesture of surprise.

“The season is over,” he said. “We are empty. Why you come to The Hague now?”

Even the sentries at the end of the Korte Voorhout wore a holiday air of laxness, and swung their rifles idly. Cornish noticed that only half of the lamps were lighted.

The banks of the Queen’s Canal are heavily shaded by trees, which, indeed, throw out their branches to meet above the weed-sown water. There is a broad thoroughfare on either side of the canal, though little traffic passes that way. These are two of the many streets of The Hague which seem to speak of a bygone day, when Holland played a greater part in the world’s history than she does at present, for the houses are bigger than the occupants must need, and the streets are too wide for the traffic passing through them. In the middle the canal–a gloomy corridor beneath the trees–creeps noiselessly towards the sea. Cornish was before the appointed hour, and walked leisurely by the pathway between the trees and the canal. Soon the houses were left behind, and he passed the great open space called the Malie Veld. He had met no one since leaving the guard-house. It was a dark night, with no moon, but the stars were peeping through the riven clouds.

“Unless he stands under a lamp, I shall not see him,” he said to himself, and lighted a cigar to indicate his whereabouts to Roden, should he elect to keep the appointment. When he had gone a few paces farther he saw someone coming towards him. There was a lamp halfway between them, and, as he approached the light, Cornish recognized Roden. There was no mistaking the long loose stride.

“I wonder,” said Cornish, “if this is going to the end?”

And he went forward to meet the financier.

“I was afraid you would not come,” he said, in a voice that was friendly enough, for he was a man of the world, and in that which is called Society (with a capital letter) had rubbed elbows all his life with many who had no better reputation than Percy Roden, and some who deserved a worse.

“Oh, I don’t mind coming,” answered Roden, “because I did not want to keep you waiting here in the dark. But it is no good, I tell you that at the outset.”

“And nothing I can say will alter your decision?” “Nothing. A man does not get two such chances as this in his lifetime. I am not going to throw this one away for the sake of a sentiment.” “Sentiment hardly describes the case,” said Cornish, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not care about all these deaths–about these poor devils of malgamiters?” And he looked hard at his companion beneath the lamp.

“Not a d–n,” answered Roden. “I have been poor–you haven’t. Why, man! I have starved inside a good coat. You don’t know what that means.”

Cornish looked at him, and said nothing. There was no mistaking the man’s sincerity–nor the manner in which his voice suddenly broke when he spoke of hunger.

“Then there are only two things left for me to do,” said Cornish, after a moment’s reflection. “Ask your sister to marry me first, and smash you up afterwards.”

Roden, who was smoking, threw his cigarette away. “You mean to do both these things?”

“Both.”

Roden looked at him. He opened his lips to speak, but suddenly leapt back.

“Look out!” he cried, and had barely time to point over Cornish’s shoulder.

Cornish swung round on his heel. He belonged to a school and generation which, with all its faults, has, at all events, the redeeming quality of courage. He had long learnt to say the right thing, which effectually teaches men to do the right thing also. He saw some one running towards him, noiselessly, in rubber shoes. He had no time to think, and scarce a moment in which to act, for the man was but two steps away with an upraised arm, and in the lamplight there flashed the gleam of steel.

Cornish concentrated his attention on the upraised arm, seizing it with both hands, and actually swinging his assailant off his legs. He knew in an instant who it was, without needing to recognize the smell of malgamite. This was Otto von Holzen, who had not hesitated to state his opinion–that it is often worth a man’s while to kill another.

While his feet were still off the ground, Cornish let him go, and he staggered away into the darkness of the trees. Cornish, who was lithe and quick, rather than of great physical force, recovered his balance in a moment, and turned to face the trees. He knew that Von Holzen would come back. He distinctly hoped that he would. For man is essentially the first of the “game” animals and beneath fine clothes there nearly always beats a heart ready, quite suddenly, to snatch the fearful joy of battle.

Von Holzen did not disappoint him, but came flying on silent feet, like some beast of prey, from the darkness. Cornish had played half-back for his school not so many years before. He collared Von Holzen low, and let him go, with a cruel skill, heavily on his head and shoulder. Not a word had been spoken, and, in the stillness of the summer night, each could hear the other breathing.

Roden stood quite still. He could scarcely distinguish the antagonists. His own breath came whistling through his teeth. His white face was ghastly and twitching. His sleepy eyes were awake now, and staring.

Each charge had left Cornish nearer to the canal. He was standing now quite at the edge. He could smell, but he could not see the water, and dared not turn his head to look. There is no railing here as there is nearer the town.

In a moment, Von Holzen was on his feet again. In the dark, mere inches are much equalized between men–but Von Holzen had a knife. Cornish, who held nothing in his hands, knew that he was at a fatal disadvantage.

Again, Von Holzen ran at him with his arm outstretched for a swinging stab. Cornish, in a flash of thought, recognized that he could not meet this. He stepped neatly aside. Von Holzen attempted to stop stumbled, half recovered himself, and fell headlong into the canal.

In a moment Cornish and Roden were at the edge, peering into the darkness. Cornish gave a breathless laugh.

“We shall have to fish him out,” he said.

And he knelt down, ready to give a hand to Von Holzen. But the water, smooth again now, was not stirred by so much as a ripple.

“Suppose he can swim?” muttered Roden, uneasily.

And they waited in a breathless silence. There was something horrifying in the single splash, and then the stillness.

“Gad!” whispered Cornish. “Where is he?”

Roden struck a match, and held it inside his hat so as to form a sort of lantern, though the air was still enough. Cornish did the same, and they held the lights out over the water, throwing the feeble rays right across the canal.

“He cannot have swum away,” he said. “Von Holzen,” he cried out cautiously, after another pause–“Von Holzen–where are you?”

But there was no answer.

The surface of the canal was quite still and glassy in those parts that were not covered by the close-lying duck-weed. The water crept stealthily, slimily, towards the sea.

The two men held their breath and waited. Cornish was kneeling at the edge of the water, peering over.

“Where is he?” he repeated. “Gad! Roden, where is he?”

And Roden, in a hoarse voice, answered at length “He is in the mud at the bottom–head downwards.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

AT THE CORNER.

“L’homme s’agite et Dieu le mene.”

The two men on the edge of the canal waited and listened again. It seemed still possible that Von Holzen had swum away in the darkness–had perhaps landed safely and unperceived on the other side.

“This,” said Cornish, at length, “is a police affair. Will you wait here while I go and fetch them?”

But Roden made no answer, and in the sudden silence Cornish heard the eerie sound of chattering teeth. Percy Roden had morally collapsed. His mind had long been t a great tension, and this shock had unstrung him. Cornish seized him by the arm, and held him while he hook like a leaf and swayed heavily.

“Come, man,” said Cornish, kindly–“come, pull yourself together.”

He held him steadily and patiently until the shaking eased.

“I’ll go,” said Roden, at length. “I couldn’t stay ere alone.”

And he staggered away towards The Hague. It seemed hours before he came back. A carriage rattled past Cornish while he waited there, and two foot-passengers paused for a moment to look at him with some suspicion.

At last Roden returned, accompanied by a police official–a phlegmatic Dutchman, who listened to the story in silence. He shook his head at Cornish’s suggestion, made in halting Dutch mingled with German, that Von Holzen had swum away in the darkness.

“No,” said the officer, “I know these canals–and this above all others. They will find him, planted in the mud at the bottom, head downward like a tulip. The head goes in and the hands are powerless, for they only grasp soft mud like a fresh junket.” He drew his short sword from its sheath, and scratched a deep mark in the gravel. Then he turned to the nearest tree, and made a notch on the bark with the blade. “There is nothing to be done tonight,” he said philosophically. “There are men engaged in dredging the canal. I will set them to work at dawn before the world is astir. In the mean time”–he paused to return his sword to its scabbard–“in the meantime I must have the names and residence of these gentlemen. It is not for me to believe or disbelieve their story.”

“Can you go home alone? Are you all right now?” Cornish asked Roden, as he walked away with him towards the Villa des Dunes.

“Yes, I can go home alone,” he answered, and walked on by himself, unsteadily.

Cornish watched him, and, before he had gone twenty yards, Roden stopped. “Cornish!” he shouted.

“Yes.”

And they walked towards each other.

“I did not know that Von Holzen was there. You will believe that?”

“Yes; I will believe that,” answered Cornish.

And they parted a second time. Cornish walked slowly back to the hotel. He limped a little, for Von Holzen had in the struggle kicked him on the ankle. He suddenly felt very tired, but was not shaken. On the contrary, he felt relieved, as if that which he had been attempting so long had been suddenly taken from his hands and consummated by a higher power, with whom all responsibility rested. He went to bed with a mechanical deliberation, and slept instantly. The daylight was streaming into the window when he awoke. No one sleeps very heavily at The Hague–no one knows why–and Cornish awoke with all his senses about him at the opening of his bedroom door. Roden had come in and was standing by the bedside. His eyes had a sleepless look. He looked, indeed, as if he had been up all night, and had just had a bath.

“I say,” he said, in his hollow voice–“I say, get up. They have found him–and we are wanted. We have to go and identify him–and all that.”

While Cornish was dressing, Roden sat heavily down on a chair near the window.

“Hope you’ll stick by me,” he said, and, pausing, stretched out his hand to the washing-stand to pour himself out a glass of water–“I hope you’ll stick by me. I’m so confoundedly shaky. Don’t know what it is–look at my hand.” He held out his hand, which shook like a drunkard’s.

“That is only nerves,” said Cornish, who was ever optimistic and cheerful. He was too wise to weigh carefully his reasons for looking at the best side of events. “That is nothing. You have not slept, I expect.”

“No; I’ve been thinking. I say, Cornish–you must stick by me–I have been thinking. What am I to do with the malgamiters? I cannot manage the devils as Von Holzen did. I’m–I’m a bit afraid of them, Cornish.”

“Oh, that will be all right. Why, we have Wade, and can send for White if we want him. Do not worry yourself about that. What you want is breakfast. Have you had any?”

“No. I left the house before Dorothy was awake or the servants were down. She knows nothing. Dorothy and I have not hit it off lately.”

Cornish made no answer. He was ringing the bell, and ordered coffee when the waiter came.

“Haven’t met any incident in life yet,” he said cheerfully, “that seemed to justify missing out meals.”

The incident that awaited them was not, however, a pleasant one, though the magistrate in attendance afforded a courteous assistance in the observance of necessary formalities. Both men made a deposition before him.

“I know something,” he said to Cornish, “of this malgamite business. We have had our eye upon Von Holzen for some time–if only on account of the death-rate of the city.”

They breathed more freely when they were out in the street. Cornish made some unimportant remark, which the other did not answer. So they walked on in silence. Presently, Cornish glanced at his companion, and was startled at the sight of his face, which was grey, and glazed all over with perspiration, as an actor’s face may sometimes be at the end of a great act. Then he remembered that Roden had not spoken for a long time.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Didn’t you see?” gasped Roden.

“See what?”

“The things they had laid on the table beside him. The things they found in his hands and his pockets.”

“The knife, you mean,” said Cornish, whose nerves were worthy of the blood that flowed in his veins, “and some letters?”

“Yes; the knife was mine. Everybody knows it. It is an old dagger that has always lain on a table in the drawing room at the Villa des Dunes.”

“I have never been in the drawing room at the Villa des Dunes, except once by lamplight,” said Cornish, indifferently.

Roden turned and looked at him with eyes still dull with fear.

“And among the letters was the one you wrote to me making the appointment. He must have stolen it from the pocket of my office coat, which I never wear while I am working.” Cornish was nodding his head slowly. “I see,” he said, at length–“I see. It was a pretty _coup_. To kill me, and fix the crime on you–and hang you?”

“Yes,” said Roden, with a sudden laugh, which neither forgot to his dying day.

They walked on in silence. For there are times in nearly every man’s life when events seem suddenly to outpace thought, and we can only act as seems best at the moment; times when the babbler is still and the busybody at rest; times when the cleverest of us must recognize that the long and short of it all is that man agitates himself and God leads him. At the corner of the Vyverberg they parted–Cornish to return to his hotel, Roden to go back to the works. His carriage was awaiting him in a shady corner of the Binnenhof. For Roden had his carriage now, and, like many possessing suddenly such a vehicle, spent much time and thought in getting his money’s worth out of it.

“If you want me, send for me, or come to the hotel,” were Cornish’s last words, as he shut the successful financier into his brougham.

At the hotel, Cornish found Mr. Wade and Marguerite lingering over a late breakfast.

“You look,” said Marguerite, “as if you had been up to something.” She glanced at him shrewdly. “Have you smashed Roden’s Corner?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Cornish, turning to Mr. Wade; “and if you will come out into the garden, I will tell you how it has been done. Monsieur Creil said that the paper-makers could begin supplying themselves with malgamite at a day’s notice. We must give them that notice this morning.”

Mr. Wade, who was never hurried and never late, paused at the open window to light his cigar before following Marguerite.

“Ah,” he said placidly, “then fortune must have favored you, or something has happened to Von Holzen.”

Cornish knew that it was useless to attempt to conceal anything whatsoever from the discerning Marguerite, so–in the quiet garden of the hotel, where the doves murmur sleepily on the tiles, and the breeze only stirs the flowers and shrubs sufficiently to disseminate their scents–he told father and daughter the end of Roden’s Corner.

They were still in the garden, an hour later, writing letters and telegrams, and making arrangements to meet this new turn in events, when Dorothy Roden came down the iron steps from the verandah.

She hurried towards them and shook hands, without explaining her sudden arrival.

“Is Percy here?” she asked Cornish. “Have you seen him this morning?”

“He is not here, but I parted from him a couple of hours ago on the Vyverberg. He was going down to the works.”

“Then he never got there,” said Dorothy. “I have had nearly all the malgamiters at the Villa des Dunes. They are in open rebellion, and if Percy had been there they would have killed him. They have heard a report that Herr von Holzen is dead. Is it true?” “Yes. Von Holzen is dead.”

“And they broke into the office. They got at the books. They found out the profits that have been made and they are perfectly wild with fury. They would have wrecked the Villa des Dunes, but—-“

“But they were afraid of you, my dear,” said Mr. Wade, filling in the blank that Dorothy left.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Well played,” muttered Marguerite, with shining eyes.

Cornish had risen, and was folding away his papers. “I will go down to the works,” he said.

“But you cannot go there alone,” put in Dorothy, quickly.

“He will not need to do that,” said Mr. Wade, throwing the end of his cigar into the bushes, and rising heavily from his chair.

Marguerite looked at her father with a little upward jerk of the head and a light in her eyes. It was quite evident that she approved of the old gentleman.

“He’s a game old thing,” she said, aside to Dorothy, while her father collected his papers.

“Your brother has probably been warned in time, and will not go near the works,” said Cornish to Dorothy. “He was more than prepared for such an emergency; for he told me himself that he was half afraid of the men. He is almost sure to come to me here–in fact, he promised to do so if he wanted help.”

Dorothy looked at him, and said nothing. The world would be a simpler dwelling-place if those who, for one reason or another, cannot say exactly what they mean would but keep silence.

Cornish told her, hurriedly, what had happened twelve hours ago on the bank of the Queen’s Canal; and the thought of the misspent, crooked life that had ended in the black waters of that sluggish tideway made them all silent for a while. For death is in itself dignified, and demands respect for all with whom he has dealings. Many attain the distinction of vice in life, while more only reach the mere mediocrity of foolishness; but in death all are equally dignified. We may, indeed, assume that we shall, by dying, at last command the respect of even our nearest relations and dearest friend–for a week or two, until they forget us.

“He was a clever man,” commented Mr. Wade, shutting up his gold pencil case and putting it in the pocket of his comfortable waistcoat. “But clever men are rarely happy—-“

“And clever women–never,” added Marguerite–that shrewd seeker after the last word.

While they were still speaking, Percy Roden came hurriedly down the steps. He was pale and tired, but his eye had a light of resolution in it. He held his head up, and looked at Cornish with a steady glance. It seemed that the vague danger which he had anticipated so nervously had come at last, and that he stood like a man in the presence of it.

“It is all up,” he said. “They have found the books; they have understood them; and they are wrecking the place.”

“They are quite welcome to do that,” said Cornish. Mr. Wade, who was always business-like, had reopened his writing-case when he saw Roden, and now came forward to hand him a written paper.

“That is a copy,” he said, “of the telegram we have sent to Creil. He can come here and select what men he wants–the steady ones and the skilled workmen. With each man we will hand him a cheque in trust. The others can take their money–and go.”

“And drink themselves to death as expeditiously as they think fit,” added Cornish, the philanthropist–the fashionable drawing-room champion of the masses.

“I got back here through the Wood,” said Percy Roden, who was still breathless, as if he had been hurrying. “One of them, a Swede, came to warn me. They are looking for me in the town–a hundred and twenty of them, and not one who cares that”–he paused, and gave a snap of the fingers–“for his life or the law. Both railway stations are watched, and all the steam-boat stations on the canals; they will kill me if they catch me.”

His eyes wavered, for there is nothing more terrifying than the avowed hostility of a mass of men, and no law grimmer than lynch-law. Yet he held up his head with a sort of pride in his danger–some touch of that subtle sense of personal distinction which seems to reach the heart of the victim of an accident, or of a prisoner in the dock.

“If I had not met that Swede I should have gone on to the works, and they would have pulled me to pieces there,” continued Roden. “I do not know how I am to get away from The Hague, or where I shall be safe in the whole world; but the money is at Hamburg and Antwerp. The money is safe enough.”

He gave a laugh and threw back his head. His hearers looked at him, and Mr. Wade alone understood his thoughts. For the banker had dealt with money-makers all his life and knew that to many men, money is a god, and the mere possession of it dearer to them than life itself.

“If you stay here, in my room upstairs,” said Cornish, “I will go down to the works now. And this evening I will try and get you away from The Hague–and from Europe.”

“And I will go to the Villa des Dunes again,” added Dorothy, “and pack your things.”

Marguerite had risen also, and was moving towards the steps.

“Where are you going?” asked her father.

“To the Villa des Dunes,” she replied; and, turning to Dorothy, added, “I shall take some clothes and stay with you there until things straighten themselves out a bit.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot let you go there alone.”

“Why not?” asked Dorothy.

“Because–I am not that sort,” said Marguerite; and, turning, she ascended the iron steps.

CHAPTER XXXII.

ROUND THE CORNER.

“Les heureux ne rient pas; ils sourient.”

Soon after Mr. Wade and Cornish had quitted their carriage, on that which is known as the New Scheveningen Road, and were walking across the dunes to the malgamite works, they met a policeman running towards them.

“It is,” he answered breathlessly, to their inquiries–“it is the English Chemical Works on the dunes, which have caught fire. I am hurrying to the Artillery Station to telegraph for the fire-engines; but it will be useless. It will all be over in half an hour–by this wind and after so much dry weather; see the black smoke, excellencies.”

And the man pointed towards a column of smoke, blown out over the sand-hills by the strong wind, characteristic of these flat coasts. Then, with a hurried salutation, he ran on.

Cornish and Mr. Wade proceeded more leisurely on their way; for the banker was not of a build to hurry even to a fire. Before they had gone far they perceived another man coming across the Dunes towards The Hague. As he approached, Cornish recognized the man known as Uncle Ben. He was shambling along on unsteady legs, and carried his earthly belongings in a canvas sack of doubtful cleanliness. The recognition was apparently mutual; for Uncle Ben deviated from his path to come and speak to them.

“It’s me, mister,” he said to Cornish, not disrespectfully. “And I don’t mind tellin’ yer that I’m makin’ myself scarce. That place is gettin’ a bit too hot for me. They’re just pullin’ it down and makin’ a bonfire of it. And if you or Mr. Roden goes there, they’ll just take and chuck yer on top of it–and that’s God’s truth. They’re a rough lot some of them, and they don’t distinguish ‘tween you and Mr. Roden like as I do. Soddim and Gomorrer, I say. Soddim and Gomorrer! There won’t be nothin’ left of yer in half an hour.” And he turned and shook a dirty fist towards the rising smoke, which was all that remained of the malgamite works. He hurried on a few paces, then stopped and laid down his bag. He ran back, calling out “Mister!” as he neared Cornish and Mr. Wade. “I don’t mind tellin’ yer,” he said to Cornish, with a ludicrous precautionary look round the deserted dunes to make sure that he would not be overheard; for he was sober, and consequently stupid–“I don’t mind tellin’ yer–seein’ as I’m makin’ myself scarce, and for the sake o’ Miss Roden, who has always been a good friend to me–as there’s a hundred and twenty of ’em looking for Mr. Roden at this minute, meanin’ to twist his neck; and what’s worse, there’s others–men of dedication like myself–who has gone to the murder, or something. And they’ll get it too, with the story they’ve got to tell, and them poor devils planted thick as taters in the cheap corner of the cemetery. I’ve warned yer, mister.” Uncle Ben expectorated with much emphasis, looked towards the malgamite works with a dubious shake of the head, and went on his way, muttering, “Soddim and Gomorrer.”

His hearers walked on over the sand-hills towards the smoke, of which the pungent odour, still faintly suggestive of sealing-wax, reached their nostrils. At the top of a high dune, surmounted with considerable difficulty, Mr. Wade stopped. Cornish stood beside him, and from that point of vantage they saw the last of the malgamite works. Amid the flames and smoke the forms of men flitted hither and thither, adding fuel to the fire.

“They are, at all events, doing the business thoroughly,” said the banker. “And there is nothing to be gained by our disturbing them at it–and a good deal to be lost–namely, our lives. They are not burning the cottages, I see; only the factory. There is nothing heroic about me, Tony. Let us go back.”

But Mr. Wade returned to The Hague alone; for Cornish had matters of importance requiring his attention. It was now doubly necessary to get Roden safely away from Holland, and with the necessity increased the difficulty. For Holland is a small country, well watched, highly civilized. Cornish knew that it would be next to impossible for Roden to leave the country by rail or road. There remained, therefore, the sea. Cornish had, during his sojourn at the humble Swan at Scheveningen, made certain friends there. And it was to the old village under the dunes, little known to visitors, and a place apart from the fashionable bathing resort, that he went in his difficulty. He spent nearly the whole day in these narrow streets; indeed, he lunched at the Swan in company of a seafaring gentleman clad in soft blue flannel, and addicted to the mediaeval coiffure still affected in certain parts of Zeeland.

From this quiet retreat Cornish also wrote a note to Dorothy at the Villa des Dunes, informing her of Roden’s new danger, and warning her not to attempt to communicate with her brother, or even send him his baggage. In the afternoon Cornish made a few purchases, which he duly packed in a sailor’s kit-bag, and at nightfall Roden arrived on foot.

The weather was squally, as it often is in August on these coasts; indeed, the summer seemed to have come to an end before its time.

“It is raining like the deuce,” said Roden, “and I am wet through, though I came under the trees of the Oude Weg.”

He spoke with his usual suggestion of a grievance, which made Cornish answer him rather curtly–“We shall be wetter before we get on board.”

It was raining when they quitted the modest Swan, and hurried through the sparsely lighted, winding streets. Cornish had borrowed two oil-skin coats and caps, which at once disguised them and protected them from the rain. Any passer-by would have taken them for a couple of fishermen going about their business. But there were few in the streets.

“Why are you doing all this for me?” asked Roden, suddenly. “To avoid a scandal,” replied Cornish, truthfully enough; for he had been brought up in a world where the longevity of scandal is fully understood.

The wide stretch of sand was entirely deserted when they emerged from the narrow streets and gained the summit of the sea-wall. A thunderstorm was growling in the distance, and every moment a flash of thin summer lightning shimmered on the horizon. The wind was strong, as it nearly always is here, and shallow white surf stretched seaward across the flats. The sea roared continuously without that rise and fall of the breakers which marks a deeper coast, and from the face of the water there arose a filmy mist–part foam, part phosphorescence.

As Roden and Cornish passed the little lighthouse, two policemen emerged from the shadow of the wall, and watched them, half suspiciously. “Good evening,” said one of them.

“Good evening,” answered Cornish, mimicking the sing-song accent of the Scheveningen streets.

They walked on in silence.
“Whew!” ejaculated Roden, when the danger seemed to be past, and they could breathe again.

They went down a flight of steps to the beach, and stumbled across the soft sand towards the sea. One or two boats were lying out in the surf–heavy Dutch fishing-boats, known technically as “pinks,” flat-bottomed, round-prowed, keel less, heavy and ungainly vessels, but strong as wood and iron and workmanship could make them. Some seemed to be afloat, others bumped heavily and continuously; while a few lay stolidly on the ground with the waves breaking right over them as over rocks.

The noise of the sea was so great that Cornish touched his companion’s arm, and pointed, without speaking, to one of the vessels where a light twinkled feebly through the spray breaking over her. It seemed to be the only vessel preparing to go to sea on the high tide, and, in truth, the weather looked anything but encouraging.

“How are we going to get on board?” shouted Roden, amid the roar of the waves.

“Walk,” answered Cornish, and he led the way into the sea.

Hampered as they were by their heavy oil skins, their progress was slow, although the water barely reached their knees. The _Three Brothers_ was bumping when they reached her and clambered on board over the bluff sides, sticky with salt water and tar.

“She’ll be afloat in ten minutes,” said a man in oil-skins, who helped them over the low bulwarks. He spoke good English, and seemed to have learned some of the taciturnity of the seafaring portion of that nation with their language; for he went aft to the tiller without more words and took his station there.

Roden seated himself on the rail and looked back towards Scheveningen. Cornish stood beside him in silence. The spray broke over them continuously, and the boat rolled and bumped in such a manner that it was impossible to stand or even sit without holding on to the clumsy rigging.

The lights of Scheveningen were stretched out in a line before them; the lighthouse winked a glaring eye that seemed to stare over their heads far out to sea. The summer lightning showed the sands to be bare and deserted. There were no unusual lights on the sea wall. The Kurhaus and the hotels were illuminated and gay. The shore took no heed of the sea tonight.

“We’ve succeeded,” said Roden, curtly, and quite suddenly he rolled over in a faint at Cornish’s feet.

The next morning, Dorothy received a letter at the Villa des Dunes, posted the evening before by Cornish at Scheveningen.

“We hope to get away tonight,” he wrote, “in the ‘pink,’ the _Three Brothers_. Our intention is to knock about the North Sea until we find a suitable vessel–either a sailing ship trading between Norway and Spain on its way south, or a steamer going direct from Hamburg to South America. When I have seen your brother safely on board one of these vessels, I shall return in the _Three Brothers_ to Scheveningen. She is a small boat, and has a large white patch of new canvas at the top of her mainsail. So if you see her coming in, or waiting for the tide, you may conclude that your brother is in safety.”

Later in the day, Mr. Wade called, having driven from The Hague very comfortably in an open carriage.

“The house,” he said placidly, “is still watched, but I have no doubt that Tony has outwitted them all. Creil arrived last night, and seems a capable man. He tells me that half of the malgamiters are in jail at The Hague for intoxication and uproariousness last night. He is selecting those he wants, and the rest he will send to their homes. So we are balancing our affairs very comfortably; and if there is anything I can do for you, Miss Roden, I am at your command.”

“Oh, Dorothy is all right,” said Marguerite, rather hurriedly; and when her father took his leave, she slipped her hand within his solid arm, and walked with him across the sand towards the carriage. “Haven’t you seen,” she asked–“you old stupid!–that Dorothy is all right? Tony is in love with her.”

“No,” replied the banker, rather humbly–“no, my dear. I am afraid I had not noticed it.”

Marguerite pressed his arm, not unkindly. “You can’t help it,” she explained. “You are only a man, you know.”

The following days were quiet enough at the Villa des Dunes, and it is in quiet days that a friendship ripens best. The two girls left there scarcely expected to hear of Cornish’s return for some days; but they fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion.

One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten themselves out.

“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss Williams–oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men–likely young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old dear!”

“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy, with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker’s perplexity with regard to this most delicate financial affair.

“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best–his very best. He has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from Dresden–red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of one’s self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn’t do–they wouldn’t do, Dorothy!”

Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her walking-stick.

“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is always–only one–eh, Dorothy?”

“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.

Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer little twist of the lips that made her look older–almost a woman. One could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite old, perhaps.

“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times cleverer than the rest–a million times–well, he was quite different, I don’t know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old, so he didn’t try—-“

She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw herself back on the soft sand.

“So,” she cried gaily. _”Vogue la galere_. It’s all for the best. That is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously isn’t for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to pass in with the crowd, and be conventional–if you swing for it.”

She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion’s face. A few boats had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer now.

“Dorothy, do you see the _Three Brothers_?”

“That is the _Three Brothers_,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her walking-stick.

For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One, walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New Scheveningen Road.

“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk–if I saw him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather like the _Three Brothers_ to look at. He has taken your brother safely away, and now he is coming–to take you.”

“He may remember that I am Percy’s sister,” suggested Dorothy.

“It doesn’t matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply. “Nothing matters”–Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her dress–“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a matter of absolute chance.”

She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish, looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock attitude of benediction.

“Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and walked towards the Villa des Dunes.

THE END