"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