Roden's Corner

CHAPTER XXIV. A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT.

When Lord Ferriby decided to accede to Roden's earnest desire that he should go to The Hague, he was conscious of conferring a distinct favour upon the Low Countries.

“It is not a place one would choose to go to at this time of year,” he said to a friend at the club. “In the winter, it is different; for the season there is in the winter, as in many Continental capitals.”

One of the numerous advantages attached to an hereditary title is the certainty that a hearer of some sort or another will always be forthcoming. A commoner finds himself snubbed or quietly abandoned so soon as his reputation for the utterance of egoisms and platitudes is sufficiently established, but there are always plenty of people ready and willing to be bored by a lord. A high-class club is, moreover, a very mushroom-bed of bores, where elderly gentlemen who have traveled quite a distance down the road of life, without finding out that it is bordered on either side by a series of small events not worth commenting upon, meet to discuss trivialities.

“Truth is,” said his lordship to one of these persons, “this Malgamite scheme is one of the largest charities that I have conducted, and carries with it certain responsibilities—yes, certain responsibilities.”

And he assumed a grave air of importance almost amounting to worry. For Lord Ferriby did not know that a worried look is an almost certain indication of a small mind. Nor had he observed that those who bear the greatest responsibilities, and have proved themselves worthy of the burden, are precisely they who show the serenest face to the world.

It must not, however, be imagined that Lord Ferriby was in reality at all uneasy respecting the Malgamite scheme. Here again he enjoyed one of the advantages of having been preceded by a grandfather able and willing to serve his party without too minute a scruple. For if the king can do no wrong, the nobility may surely claim a certain immunity from criticism, and those who have allowance made to them must inevitably learn to make allowance for themselves. Lord Ferriby was, in a word, too self-satisfied to harbour any doubts respecting his own conduct. Self-satisfaction is, of course, indolence in disguise.

It was easy enough for Lord Ferriby to persuade himself that Cornish was wrong and Roden in the right; especially when Roden, in the most gentlemanly manner possible, paid a cheque, not to Lord Ferriby direct, but to his bankers, in what he gracefully termed the form of a bonus upon the heavy subscription originally advanced by his lordship. There are many people in the world who will accept money so long as their delicate susceptibilities are not offended by an actual sight of the cheque.

“Anthony Cornish,” said Lord Ferriby, pulling down his waistcoat, “like many men who have had neither training nor experience, does not quite understand the ethics of commerce.”

His lordship, like others, seemed to understand these to mean that a man may take anything that his neighbour is fool enough to part with.

Joan was willing enough to accompany her father, because, in the great march of social progress, she had passed on from charity to sanitation, and was convinced that the mortality among the malgamiters, which had been more than hinted at in the Ferriby family circle, was entirely due to the negligence of the victims in not using an old disinfectant served up in artistic flagons under a new name. Permanganate of potash under another name will not only smell as sweet, but will perform greater sanitary wonders, because the world places faith in a new name, and faith is still the greatest healer of human ills.

Joan, therefore, proposed to carry to The Hague the glad tidings of the sanitary millennium, fully convinced that this had come to a suffering world under the name of “Nuxine,” in small bottles, at the price of one shilling and a penny halfpenny. The penny halfpenny, no doubt, represented the cost of bottle and drug and the small blue ribbon securing the stopper, while the shilling went very properly into the manufacturer's pocket. It was at this time the fashion in Joan's world to smell of “Nuxine,” which could also be had in the sweetest little blue tabloids, to place in the wardrobe and among one's clean clothes. Joan had given Major White a box of these tabloids, which gift had been accepted with becoming gravity. Indeed, the major seemed never to tire of hearing Joan's exordiums, or of watching her pretty, earnest face as she urged him to use “Nuxine” in its various forms, and it was only when he heard that cigar-holders made of “Nuxine” absorbed all the deleterious properties of tobacco that his stout heart failed him.

“Yes,” he pleaded, “but a fellow must draw the line at a sky-blue cigar-holder, you know.”

And Joan had to content herself with the promise that he would use none other than “Nuxine” dentifrice.

Lord Ferriby and Joan, therefore, set out to The Hague, his lordship in the full conviction (enjoyed by so many useless persons) that his presence was in itself of beneficial effect upon the course of events, and Joan with her “Nuxine” and, in a minor degree now, her “Malgamiters” and her “Haberdashers' Assistants.” Lady Ferriby preferred to remain at Cambridge Terrace, chiefly because it was cheaper, and also because the cook required a holiday, and, with a kitchen-maid only, she could indulge in her greatest pleasure—a useless economy. The cook refused to starve her fellow-servants, while the kitchen-maid, mindful of a written character in the future, did as her ladyship bade her—hashing and mincing in a manner quite irreconcilable with forty pounds a year and beer money.

Major White met the travellers at The Hague station, and Joan, who had had some trouble with her father during the simple journey, was conscious for the first time of a sense of orderliness and rest in the presence of the stout soldier, who seemed to walk heavily over difficulties when they arose.

“Eh—er,” began his lordship, as they walked down the platform, “have you seen anything of Roden?”

For Lord Ferriby was too self-centred a man to b keenly observant, and had as yet failed to detect Von Holzen behind and overshadowing his partner in the Malgamite scheme.

“No—cannot say I have,” replied the major.

He had never discussed the malgamite affairs with Lord Ferriby. Discussion was, indeed, a pastime in which the major never indulged. His position in the matter was clearly enough defined, but he had no intention of explaining why it was that he ranged himself stolidly on Cornish's side in the differences that had arisen.

Lord Ferriby was dimly conscious of a smouldering antagonism, but knew the major sufficiently well not to fear an outbreak of hostilities. Men who will face opposition may be divided into two classes—the one taking its stand upon a conscious rectitude, the other half-hiding with the cheap and transparent cunning of the ostrich. Many men, also, are in the fortunate condition of believing themselves to be invariably right unless they are told quite plainly that they are wrong. And there was nobody to tell Lord Ferriby this. Cornish, with a sort of respect for the head of the family—a regard for the office irrespective of its holder—was so far from wishing to convince his uncle of error that he voluntarily relinquished certain strong points in his position rather than strike a blow that would inevitably reach Lord Ferriby, though directed towards Roden or Von Holzen.

Lord Ferriby heard, however, with some uneasiness, that the Wades were in The Hague.

“A worthy man—a very worthy man,” he said abstractedly; for he looked upon the banker with that dim suspicion which is aroused in certain minds by uncompromising honesty.

The travellers proceeded to the hotel, where rooms had been prepared for them. There were flowers in Joan's room, which her maid said she had rearranged, so awkwardly had they been placed in the vase. The Wades, it appeared, were out, and had announced their intention of not returning to lunch. They were, the hotel porter thought, to take that meal at Mrs. Vansittart's.

“I think,” said Lord Ferriby, “that I shall go down to the works.”

“Yes, do,” answered White, with an expressionless countenance.

“Perhaps you will accompany me?” suggested Joan's father.

“No—think not. Can't hit it off with Roden. Perhaps Joan would like to see the Palace in the Wood.”

Joan thought that it was her duty to go to the malgamite works, and murmured the word “Nuxine,” without, however, much enthusiasm; but White happened to remember that it was mixing-day. So Lord Ferriby went off alone in a hired carriage, as had been his intention from the first; for White knew even less about the ethics of commerce than did Cornish.

The account of affairs that awaited his lordship at the works was, no doubt, satisfactory enough, for the manufacture of malgamite had been proceeding at high pressure night and day. Von Holzen had, as he told Marguerite, been poor all his life, and poverty is a hard task-master. He was not going to be poor again. The grey carts had been passing up and down Park Straat more often than ever, taking their loads to one or other of the railway stations, and bringing, as they passed her house, a gleam of anger to Mrs. Vansittart's eyes.

“The scoundrels!” she muttered. “The scoundrels! Why does not Tony act?”

But Tony Cornish, who alone knew the full extent of Von Holzen's determination not to be frustrated, could not act—for Dorothy's sake.

A string of the quiet grey carts passed up Park Straat when the party assembled there had risen from the luncheon-table. Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade were standing together at the window, which was large even in this city of large and spotless windows. Dorothy and Cornish were talking together at the other end of the room, and Marguerite was supposed to be looking at a book of photographs.

“There goes a consignment of men's lives,” said Mrs. Vansittart to her companion.

“A human life, madam,” answered the banker, “like all else on earth, varies much in value.” For Mr. Wade belonged to that class of Englishmen which has a horror of all sentiment, and takes care to cloak its good actions by the assumption of an unworthy motive. And who shall say that this man of business was wrong in his statement? Which of us has not a few friends and relations who can only have been created as a solemn warning?

As Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade stood at the window, Marguerite joined them, slipping her hand within her father's arm with that air of protection which she usually assumed towards him. She was gay and lively, as she ever was, and Mrs. Vansittart glanced at her more than once with a sort of envy. Mrs. Vansittart did not, in truth, always understand Marguerite or her English, which was essentially modern.

They were standing and laughing at the window, when Marguerite suddenly drew them back.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Vansittart.

“It is Lord Ferriby,” replied Marguerite.

And looking cautiously between the lace curtains, they saw the great man drive past in his hired carriage. “He has recently bought Park Straat,” commented Marguerite.

And his lordship's condescending air certainly seemed to suggest that the street, if not the whole city, belonged to him.

Mr. Wade pointed with his thick thumb in the direction in which Lord Ferriby was driving.

“Where is he going?” he asked bluntly.

“To the malgamite works,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, with significance. And Mr. Wade made no comment. Mrs. Vansittart spoke first.

“I asked Major White,” she said, “to lunch with us to-day, but he was pledged, it appeared, to meet Lord Ferriby and his daughter, and see them installed at their hotel.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Wade.

Mrs. Vansittart, who in truth seemed to find the banker rather heavy, allowed some moments to elapse before she again spoke.

“Major White,” she then observed, “does not accompany Lord Ferriby to the malgamite works.”

“Major White,” replied Marguerite, demurely, “has other fish to fry.”

CHAPTER XXV. CLEARING THE AIR

Percy Roden, who had been to Utrecht and Antwerp, arrived home on the evening of the day that saw Lord Ferriby's advent to The Hague. Though the day had been fine enough, the weather broke up at sunset, and great clouds chased the sun towards the west. Then the rain came suddenly and swept across the plains in a slanting fury. A cold wind from the south-east followed hard upon the heavy clouds, and night came in a chaos of squall and beating rain. Roden was drenched in his passage from the carriage to the Villa des Dunes, which, being a summer residence, had not been provided with a carriage-drive across the dunes from the road. He looked at his sister with tired eyes when she met him in the entrance-hall. He was worn and thinner than she had seen him in the days of his adversity, for Percy Roden, like his partner, had made several false starts upon the road to fortune before he got well away. Like many—like, indeed, nearly all—who have to try again, he had lightened himself of a scruple or so each time he turned back. Prosperity, however, seems to kill as many as adversity. Abundant wealth is a vexation of spirit to-day as surely as it was in the time of that wise man who, having tried it, said that a stranger eateth it, and it is vanity.

“Beastly night,” said Roden, and that was all. He had been to Antwerp on banking business, and had that sleepless look which brings a glitter to the eyes. This was a man handling great sums of money. “Von Holzen been here to-day?” he asked, when he had changed his clothes, and they were seated at the dinner-table.

“No,” answered Dorothy, with her eyes on his plate.

He was eating little, and drank only mineral water from a stone bottle. He was like an athlete in training, though the strain he sought to meet was mental and not physical. He shivered more than once, and glanced sharply at the door when the maid happened to leave it open.

When Dorothy went to the drawing-room she lighted the fire, which was ready laid, and of wood. Although it was nearly midsummer, the air was chilly, and the rain beat against the thin walls of the house.

“I think it probable,” Roden had said, before she left the dining-room, “that Von Holzen will come in this evening.”

She sat down before the fire, which burnt briskly, and looked into it with thoughtful, clever grey eyes. Percy thought it probable that Von Holzen would come to the Villa des Dunes this evening. Would he come? For Percy knew nothing of the organized attempt on Cornish's life which she herself had frustrated. He seemed to know nothing of the grim and silent antagonism that existed between the two men, shutting his eyes to their movements, which were like the movements of chess-players that the onlooker sees but does not understand. Dorothy knew that Von Holzen was infinitely cleverer than her brother. She knew, indeed, that he was cleverer than most men. With the quickness of her sex, she had long ago divined the source and basis of his strength. He was indifferent to women—who formed no part of his life, who entered in no way into his plans or ambitions. Being a woman, she should, theoretically, have disliked and despised him for this. As a matter of fact, the characteristic commanded her respect.

She knew that her brother was not in Von Holzen's confidence. It was probable that no man on earth had ever come within measurable distance of that. He would, in all likelihood, hear nothing of the attempt to kill Cornish, and Cornish himself would be the last to mention it. For she knew that her lover was a match for Von Holzen, and more than a match. She had never doubted that. It was a part of her creed. A woman never really loves a man until she has made him the object of a creed. And it is only the man himself who can—and in the long run usually does—make it impossible for her to adhere to her belief.

She was still sitting and thinking over the fire when her brother came into the room.

“Ah!” he said at the sight of the fire, and came forward, holding out his hands to the blaze. He looked down at his sister with glittering and unsteady eyes. He was in a dangerous humour—a humour for explanations and admissions—to which weak natures sometimes give way. And, looking at the matter practically and calmly, explanations and admissions are better left—to the hereafter. But Von Holzen saved him by ringing the front-door bell at that moment.

The professor came into the room a minute later. He stood in the doorway, and bowed in the stiff German way to Dorothy. With Roden he exchanged a curt nod. His hair was glued to his temples by the rain, which gleamed on his face.

“It is an abominable night,” he said, coming forward. “Ach, Fräulein, please do not leave us—and the fire,” he added; for Dorothy had risen. “I merely came to make sure that he had arrived safely home.” He took the chair offered to him by Roden, and sat on it without bringing it forward. He had but little of that self-assurance which is so highly cultivated to-day as to be almost offensive. “There are, of course, matters of business,” he said, “which can wait till to-morrow. To-night you are tired.” He looked at Roden as a doctor may look at a patient. “Is it not so, Fräulein?” he asked, turning to Dorothy.

“Yes.”

“Except one or two—which we may discuss now.”

Dorothy turned and glanced at him. He was looking at her, and their eyes met for a moment. He seemed to see something in her face that made him thoughtful, for he remained silent for some time, while he wiped the rain from his face with his pocket-handkerchief. It was a pale, determined face, which could hardly fail to impress those with whom he came in contact as the face of a strong man.

“Lord Ferriby has been at the works to-day,” he said; and then, with a gesture of the hands and a shrug, he described Lord Ferriby as a nonentity. “He went through the works, and looked over your books. I wrote out a sort of certificate of his satisfaction with both, and—he signed it.”

Roden was leaning forward over the fire with a cigarette between his lips. He nodded shortly. “Good,” he said.

“Yesterday,” continued Von Holzen, “I met an old acquaintance—a Miss Wade—one of the young ladies of a Pensionnat at Dresden, in which I taught at one time. She is a daughter of the banker Wade, and told me, reluctantly, that she is at The Hague with her father—a friend of Cornish's. This morning I took a walk on the sands at Scheveningen; there was a large fat man, among others, bathing at the Northern bathing-station. It was Major White. It is a regular gathering of the clans. I saw a German paper-maker—a big man in the trade—on the Kursaal terrace this morning. It may be a mere chance, and it may not.”

As he spoke he had withdrawn from his pocket a folded paper, which he was fingering thoughtfully. Dorothy, who knew that she had by her looks unwittingly warned him, made no motion to go now. He would say nothing that he did not deliberately intend for her ears as much as for her brother's. Von Holzen opened the paper slowly, and looked at it as if every line of it was familiar. It was a sheet of ordinary foolscap covered with minute figures and writing.

“It is the Vorschrift, the—how do you say?—prescription for the malgamite, and there are several in The Hague at this moment who want it, and some who would not be too scrupulous in their methods of procuring it. It is for this that they are gathering—here in The Hague.”

Roden turned in his leisurely way, and looked over his shoulder towards the paper. Von Holzen glanced at Dorothy. He had no desire to keep her in suspense, but he wished to know how much she knew. She looked into the fire, treating his conversation as directed towards her brother only.

“I tried for ten years in vain to get this,” continued Von Holzen, “and at last a dying man dictated it to me. For years it lived in the brain of one man only—and he a maker of it himself. He might have died at any moment with that secret in his head. And I,”—he folded the paper slowly and shrugged his shoulders—“I watched him. And the last intelligible word he spoke on earth was the last word of this prescription. The man can have been no fool; for he was a man of little education. I never respected him so much as I do now when I have learnt it myself.” He rose and walked to the fire. “You permit me, Fräulein,” he said, putting the logs together with his foot.

They burnt up brightly, and he threw the paper upon them. In a moment it was reduced to ashes. He turned slowly upon his heel, and looked at his companions with the grave smile of one who had never known much mirth.

“There,” he said, touching his forehead, with one finger; “it is in the brain of one man—once more.” He returned to the chair he had just vacated. “And whosoever wishes to stop the manufacture of malgamite will need to stop that brain,” he said, with a soft laugh. “Of course there is a risk attached to burning that paper,” he continued, after a pause. “My brain may go—a little clot of blood no bigger than a pin's head, and the greatest brain on earth is so much pulp! It may be worth some one's while to kill me. It is so often worth some one's while to kill somebody else, even at a considerable risk—but the courage is nearly always lacking. However, we must run these risks.”

He rose from his chair with a low and rather pleasant laugh, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was evidently his intention to take his leave. Dorothy rose also, and they stood for a moment facing each other. He was a few inches above her stature, and he looked down at her with his slow, thoughtful eyes. He seemed always to be making a diagnosis of the souls of men.

“I know, Fräulein,” he said, “That you are one of those who dislike me, and seek to do me harm. I am sorry. It is long since I discarded a youthful belief that it was possible to get on in life without arousing ill feeling. Believe me, it is impossible even to hold one's own in this world without making enemies. There are two sides to every question, Fräulein—remember that.”

He brought his heels together, bowed stiffly, from the waist, in his formal manner, and left the room. Percy Roden followed him, leaving the door open. Dorothy heard the rustle of his dripping waterproof as he put it on, the click of the door, the sound of his firm retreating tread on the gravel. Then her brother came back into the room. His rather weak face was flushed. His eyes were unsteady. Dorothy saw this in a glance, and her own face hardened unresponsively. The situation was clearly enough defined in her own mind. Von Holzen had destroyed the prescription before her on purpose. It was only a move in that game of life which is always extending to a new deal, and of which women as onlookers necessarily see the most. Von Holzen wished Cornish, and others concerned, to know that he had destroyed the prescription. It was a concession in disguise—a retrograde movement—perhaps pour mieux sauter.

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.

“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.”