Percy Roden was one of those men who have a grudge against the world. The most hopeless ill-doer is he who excuses himself angrily. There are some who seem unconscious of their own failings, and for these there is hope. They may some day find out that it is better to be at peace with the world even at the cost of a little self-denial. But Percy Roden admitted that he was wrong, and always had that sort of excuse which seeks to lay the blame upon a whole class—upon other business men, upon those in authority, upon women.

"It is excused in others, why not in me?"—the last cry of the ne'er-do-well.

He glanced angrily at Dorothy now. But he was always half afraid of her.

"I wish we had never come to this place," he said.

"Then let us go away from it," answered Dorothy, "before it is too late."

Roden looked at her in surprise. Did she expect him to go away now from Mrs. Vansittart? He knew, of course, that Dorothy and the world always expected too much from him.

"Before it is too late. What do you mean?" he asked, still thinking of Mrs. Vansittart.

"Before the Malgamite scheme is exposed," replied Dorothy, bluntly. And, to her surprise, he laughed.

"I thought you meant something else," he said. "The Malgamite scheme can look after itself. Von Holzen is the cleverest man I know, and he knows what he is doing. I thought you meant Mrs. Vansittart—were thinking of her."

"No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Vansittart."

"Not worth thinking about," suggested Roden, adhering to his method of laughing for fear of being laughed at, which is common enough in very young men; but Roden should have outgrown it by this time.

"Not seriously."

"What do you mean, Dorothy?"

"That I hope you do not think seriously of asking Mrs. Vansittart to marry you."

Roden gave his rather unpleasant laugh again. "It happens that I do," he replied. "And it happens that I know that Mrs. Vansittart never stays in The Hague in summer when all the houses are empty and everybody is away, and the place is given up to tourists, and becomes a mere annex to Scheveningen. This year she has stayed—why, I should like to know."

And he stroked his moustache as he looked into the fire. He had been indulging in the vain pleasure of putting two and two together. A young man's vanity—or indeed any man's vanity—is not to be trusted to work out that simple addition correctly. Percy Roden was still in a dangerously exalted frame of mind. There is no intoxication so dangerous as that of success, and none that leaves so bitter a taste behind it.

"Of course," he said, "no girl ever thinks that her brother can succeed in such a case. I suppose you dislike Mrs. Vansittart?"

"No; I like her, and I understand her, perhaps better than you do. I should like nothing better than that she should marry you, but——"

"But what?"

"Well, ask her," replied Dorothy—a woman's answer.

"And then?"

"And then let us go away from here."

Roden turned on her angrily. "Why do you keep on repeating that?" he cried. "Why do you want to go away from here?"

"Because," replied Dorothy, as angry as himself, "you know as well as I do that the Malgamite scheme is not what it pretends to be. I suppose you are making a fortune and are dazzled, or else you are being deceived by Herr von Holzen, or else——"

"Or else——" echoed Roden, with a pale face. "Yes—go on." But she bit her lip and was silent. "It is an open secret," she went on after a pause. "Everybody knows that it is a disgrace or worse—perhaps a crime. If you have made a fortune, be content with what you have made, and clear yourself of the whole affair."

"Not I."

"Why not?"

"Because I am going to make more. And I am going to marry Mrs. Vansittart. It is only a question of money. It always is with women. And not one in a hundred cares how the money is made."

Which, of course, is not true; for no woman likes to see her husband's name on a biscuit or a jam-pot.

"Of course," went on Percy, in his anger. "I know which side you take, since you are talking of open secrets. At any rate, Von Holzen knows yours—if it is a secret—for he has hinted at it more than once. You think that it is I who have been deceived or who deceive myself. You are just as likely to be wrong. You place your whole faith in Cornish. You think that Cornish cannot do wrong."

Dorothy turned and looked at him. Her eyes were steady, but the color left her face, as if she were afraid of what she was about to say.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

"And without a moment's hesitation," went on Roden, hurriedly, "you would sacrifice everything for the sake of a man you had never seen six months ago?"

"Yes."

"Even your own brother?"

"Yes," answered Dorothy.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ULTIMATUM.

"Le plus grand, le plus fort et le plus adroit surtout, est celui qui sait attendre."

"If you think that Herr von Holzen is a philanthropist, my dear," said Marguerite Wade, sententiously, "that is exactly where your toes turn in."

She addressed this remark to Joan Ferriby, whose eyes were certainly veiled by that cloak of charity which the kind-hearted are ever ready to throw over the sins of others. The two girls were sitting in the quiet old-world garden of the hotel, beneath the shade of tall trees, within the peaceful sound of the cooing doves on the tiled roof. Major White was sitting within earshot, looking bulky and solemn in his light tweed suit and felt hat. The major had given up appearances long ago, but no man surpassed him in cleanliness and that well-groomed air which distinguishes men of his cloth. He was reading a newspaper, and from time to time glanced at his companions, more especially, perhaps, at Joan.

"Major White," said Marguerite. "Yes."

"Greengage, please."

The greengages were on a table at the major's elbow, having been placed there at Marguerite's command by the waiter who attended them at breakfast. White made ready to pass the dish.

"Fingers," said Marguerite. "Heave one over."

White selected one with an air of solemn resignation. Marguerite caught the greengage as neatly as it was thrown.

"What do you think of Herr von Holzen?" she asked.

"To think," replied the Major, "certain requisites are necessary."

"Um—m."

"I do not know Herr von Holzen, and I have nothing to think with," he explained gravely.

"Well, you soon will know him, and I dare say if you tried you would find that you are not so stupid as you pretend to be. You are going down to the works this morning with Papa and Tony Cornish. I know that, because papa told me."

The Major looked at her with his air of philosophic surprise. She held up her hand for a catch, and with resignation he threw her another greengage.

"Tony is going to call for you in a carriage at ten o'clock, and you three old gentlemen are going to drive in an open barouche with cigars, like a bean feast, to the malgamite works."

"The description is fairly accurate," admitted Major White, without looking up from his paper.

"And I imagine you are going to raise—Hail Columbia!"

He looked at her severely through his glass, and said nothing. She nodded in a friendly and encouraging manner, as if to intimate that he had her entire approval.

"Take my word for it," she continued, turning to Joan, "Herr von Holzen is a shady customer. I know a shady customer when I see him. I never thought much of the malgamite business, you know, but unfortunately nobody asked my opinion on the matter. I wonder——" She paused, looking thoughtfully at Major White, who presently met her glance with a stolid stare. "Of course!" she said, in a final voice. "I forgot. You never think. You can't. Oh no!"

"It is so easy to misjudge people," pleaded Joan, earnestly.

"It is much easier to see right through them, straight off, in the twinkling of a bedpost," asserted Marguerite. "You will see, Herr von Holzen is wrong and Tony is right. And Tony will smash him up. You will see. Tony"—she paused, and looked up at the roof where the doves were cooing—"Tony knows his way about."

Major White rose and laid aside his paper. Mr. Wade was coming down the iron steps that led from the verandah to the garden. The banker was cutting a cigar, and wore a placid, comfortable look, as if he had breakfasted well. Even as regards kidneys and bacon in a foreign hotel, where there is a will there is a way, and Marguerite possessed tongues. "I'll turn this place inside out," she had said, "to get the old thing what he wants." Then she attacked the waiter in fluent German.

Marguerite noted his approach with a protecting eye. "It's all solid common sense," she said in an undertone to Joan, referring, it would appear, to his bulk.

In only one respect was she misinformed as to the arrangements for the morning. Tony Cornish was not coming to the hotel to fetch Mr. Wade and White, but was to meet them in the shadiest of all thoroughfares and green canals, the Koninginne Gracht, where at midday the shadows cast by the great trees are so deep that daylight scarcely penetrates, and the boats creep to and fro like shadows. This amendment had been made in view of the fact that Lord Ferriby was in the hotel, and was, indeed, at this moment partaking of a solemn breakfast in his private sitting-room overlooking the Toornoifeld.

His lordship did not, therefore, see these two solid pillars of the British constitution walk across the corner of the Korte Voorhout, cigar in lip, in a placid silence begotten, perhaps, of the knowledge that, should an emergency arise, they were of a material that would arise to meet it.

Cornish was awaiting them by the bank of the canal. He was watching a boat slowly work its way past him. It was one of the large boats built for traffic on the greater canals and the open waters of the Scheldt estuary. It was laden from end to end with little square boxes bearing only a number and a port mark in black stencil. A pleasant odor of sealing-wax dominated the weedy smell of the canal.

"Wherever you turn you meet the stuff," was Cornish's greeting to the two Englishmen.

Major White, with his delicate sense of smell, sniffed the breeze. Mr. Wade looked at the canal-boat with a nod. Commercial enterprise, and, above all, commercial success, commanded his honest respect.

They entered the carriage awaiting them beneath the trees. Cornish was, as usual, quick and eager, a different type from his companions, who were not brilliant as he was, nor polished.

They found the gates of the malgamite works shut, but the door-keeper, knowing Cornish to be a person of authority, threw them open and directed the driver to wait outside till the gentlemen should return. The works were quiet and every door was closed.

"Is it mixing-day?" asked Cornish.

"Every day is mixing-day now, mein Herr, and there are some who work all night as well. If the gentlemen will wait a moment, I will seek Herr Roden."

And he left them standing beneath the brilliant sun in the open space between the gate and the cottage where Von Holzen lived. In a few moments he returned, accompanied by Percy Roden, who emerged from the office in his shirt-sleeves, pen in hand. He shook hands with Cornish and White, glanced at Mr. Wade, and half bowed. He did not seem glad to see them.

"We want to look at your books," said Cornish. "I suppose you will make no objection?" Roden bit his moustache and looked at the point of his pen.

"You and Major White?" he suggested.

"And this gentleman, who comes as our financial advisor."

Roden raised his eyebrows rather insolently. "Ah—may I ask who this gentleman is?" he said.

"My name is Wade," answered the banker, characteristically for himself.

Roden's face changed, and he glanced at the great financier with a keen interest.

"I have no objection," he said after a moment's hesitation. "If Von Holzen will agree. I will go and ask him."

And they were left alone in the sunshine once more. Mr. Wade watched Roden as he walked towards the factory.

"Not the sort of man I expected," he commented. "But he has the right shaped head for figures. He is shrewd enough to know that he cannot refuse, so gives in with a good grace."

In a few minutes Von Holzen approached them, emerging from the factory alone. He bowed politely, but did not offer to shake hands. He had not seen Cornish since the evening when he had offered to make malgamite before him, and the experiment had taken such a deadly turn. He looked at him now and found his glance returned by an illegible smile. The question flashed through his mind and showed itself on his face as to why Roden had made such a mistake as to introduce a man like this into the Malgamite scheme. Von Holzen invited the gentlemen into the office. "It is small, but it will accommodate us," he said, with a smile.

He drew forward chairs, and offered one to Cornish in particular, with a grim deference. He seemed to have divined that their last meeting in this same office had been, by tacit understanding, kept a secret. There is for some men a certain satisfaction in antagonism, and a stern regard for a strong foe—which reached its culmination, perhaps, in that Saxon knight who desired to be buried in the same chapel as his lifelong foe—between him, indeed, and the door—so that at the resurrection day they should not miss each other.

Von Holzen seemed to have somewhat of this feeling for Cornish. He offered him the best seat at the table. Roden was taking his books from a safe—huge ledgers bound in green pigskin, slim cash-books, cloth-bound journals. He named them as he laid them on the table before Mr. Wade. Major White looked at the great tomes with solemn and silent awe. Mr. Wade was already fingering his gold pencil-case. He eyed the closed books with an anticipatory gleam of pleasure in his face—as a commander may eye the arrayed squadrons of the foe.

"It is, of course, understood that this audit is strictly in confidence?" said Von Holzen. "For your own satisfaction, and not in any sense for publication. It is a trade secret."

"Of course," answered Cornish, to whom the question had been addressed. "We trust to the honor of these gentlemen."

Cornish looked up and met the speaker's grave eyes. "Yes," he said.

Roden, having emptied the large safe, leant his shoulder against the iron mantelpiece and looked down at those seated at the table—especially at Mr. Wade. His hands were in his pockets; his face wore a careless smile. He had not resumed his coat, and the cleanliness of the books testified to the fact that he always worked in shirt-sleeves. It was a trick of the trade, which exonerated him from the necessity of apologizing.

Mr. Wade took the great ledgers, opened them, fluttered the pages with his fingers, and set them aside one after the other. Then Roden seemed to recollect something. He went to a drawer and took from it a packet of neatly folded papers held together by elastic rings. The top one he unfolded and laid on the table before Mr. Wade.

"Trial balance-sheet of 31st of March," he said.

Mr. Wade glanced up and down the closely written columns, which were like copper-plate—an astounding mass of figures. The additions in the final column ran to six numerals. The banker folded the paper and laid it aside. Then, he turned to the slim cash-books, which he glanced at casually. The journals he set aside without opening. He handled the books with a sort of skill showing that he knew how to lift them with the least exertion, how to open them and close them and turn their stiff pages. The enormous mass of figures did not seem to appal him; the maze was straight enough beneath such skillful eyes. Finally, he turned to a small locked ledger, of which the key was attached to Roden's watch-chain, who came forward and unlocked the book. Mr. Wade turned to the index at the beginning of the volume, found a certain account, and opened the book there. At the sight of the figures he raised his eyebrow and glanced up at Roden.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He had arrived at his destination—had torn the heart out of these great books. All in the room were watching his placid, shrewd old face. He studied the books for some time and then took a sheet of blank paper from a number of such attached by a string to a corner of the table. He reflected for some minutes, pushing the movable part of his gold pencil in and out pensively as he did so. Then he wrote a number of figures on the sheet of paper and handed it to Cornish. He closed the locked ledger with a 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.