“l'homme s'agite et dieu le mêne.”

the two men on the edge of the canal waited and listened again. it seemed still possible that von holzen had swum away in the darkness—had perhaps landed safely and unperceived on the other side.

“this,” said cornish, at length, “is a police affair. will you wait here while i go and fetch them?”

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

“come, man,” said cornish, kindly—“come, pull yourself together.”

he held him steadily and patiently until the shaking eased.

“i'll go,” said roden, at length. “i couldn't stay ere alone.”

and he staggered away towards the hague. it seemed hours before he came back. a carriage rattled past cornish while he waited there, and two foot-passengers paused for a moment to look at him with some suspicion.

at last roden returned, accompanied by a police official—a phlegmatic dutchman, who listened to the story in silence. he shook his head at cornish's suggestion, made in halting dutch mingled with german, that von holzen had swum away in the darkness.

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

“can you go home alone? are you all right now?” cornish asked roden, as he walked away with him towards the villa des dunes.

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

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

“yes.”

and they walked towards each other.

“i did not know that von holzen was there. you will believe that?”

“yes; i will believe that,” answered cornish.

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

“i say,” he said, in his hollow voice—“i say, get up. they have found him—and we are wanted. we have to go and identify him—and all that.”

while cornish was dressing, roden sat heavily down on a chair near the window.

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

“that is only nerves,” said cornish, who was ever optimistic and cheerful. he was too wise to weigh carefully his reasons for looking at the best side of events. “that is nothing. you have not slept, i expect.”

“no; i've been thinking. i say, cornish—you must stick by me—i have been thinking. what am i to do with the malgamiters? i cannot manage the devils as von holzen did. i'm—i'm a bit afraid of them, cornish.”

“oh, that will be all right. why, we have wade, and can send for white if we want him. do not worry yourself about that. what you want is breakfast. have you had any?”

“no. i left the house before dorothy was awake or the servants were down. she knows nothing. dorothy and i have not hit it off lately.”

cornish made no answer. he was ringing the bell, and ordered coffee when the waiter came.

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

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

“i know something,” he said to cornish, “of this malgamite business. we have had our eye upon von holzen for some time—if only on account of the death-rate of the city.”

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

“what is the matter?” he asked.

“didn't you see?” gasped roden.

“see what?”

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

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

“yes; the knife was mine. everybody knows it. it is an old dagger that has always lain on a table in the drawing room at the villa des dunes.”

“i have never been in the drawing room at the villa des dunes, except once by lamplight,” said cornish, indifferently.

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

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

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

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

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

at the hotel, cornish found mr. wade and marguerite lingering over a late breakfast.

“you look,” said marguerite, “as if you had been up to something.” she glanced at him shrewdly. “have you smashed roden's corner?” she asked.

“yes,” answered cornish, turning to mr. wade; “and if you will come out into the garden, i will tell you how it has been done. monsieur creil said that the paper-makers could begin supplying themselves with malgamite at a day's notice. we must give them that notice this morning.”

mr. wade, who was never hurried and never late, paused at the open window to light his cigar before following marguerite.

“ah,” he said placidly, “then fortune must have favored you, or something has happened to von holzen.”

cornish knew that it was useless to attempt to conceal anything whatsoever from the discerning marguerite, so—in the quiet garden of the hotel, where the doves murmur sleepily on the tiles, and the breeze only stirs the flowers and shrubs sufficiently to disseminate their scents—he told father and daughter the end of roden's corner.

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

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

“is percy here?” she asked cornish. “have you seen him this morning?”

“he is not here, but i parted from him a couple of hours ago on the vyverberg. he was going down to the works.”

“then he never got there,” said dorothy. “i have had nearly all the malgamiters at the villa des dunes. they are in open rebellion, and if percy had been there they would have killed him. they have heard a report that herr von holzen is dead. is it true?” “yes. von holzen is dead.”

“and they broke into the office. they got at the books. they found out the profits that have been made and they are perfectly wild with fury. they would have wrecked the villa des dunes, but——”

“but they were afraid of you, my dear,” said mr. wade, filling in the blank that dorothy left.

“yes,” she admitted.

“well played,” muttered marguerite, with shining eyes.

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

“but you cannot go there alone,” put in dorothy, quickly.

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

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

“he's a game old thing,” she said, aside to dorothy, while her father collected his papers.

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

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

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

“he was a clever man,” commented mr. wade, shutting up his gold pencil case and putting it in the pocket of his comfortable waistcoat. “but clever men are rarely happy——”

“and clever women—never,” added marguerite—that shrewd seeker after the last word.

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

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

“they are quite welcome to do that,” said cornish. mr. wade, who was always business-like, had reopened his writing-case when he saw roden, and now came forward to hand him a written paper.

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

“and drink themselves to death as expeditiously as they think fit,” added cornish, the philanthropist—the fashionable drawing-room champion of the masses.

“i got back here through the wood,” said percy roden, who was still breathless, as if he had been hurrying. “one of them, a swede, came to warn me. they are looking for me in the town—a hundred and twenty of them, and not one who cares that”—he paused, and gave a snap of the fingers—“for his life or the law. both railway stations are watched, and all the steam-boat stations on the canals; they will kill me if they catch me.”

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

“if i had not met that swede i should have gone on to the works, and they would have pulled me to pieces there,” continued roden. “i do not know how i am to get away from the hague, or where i shall be safe in the whole world; but the money is at hamburg and antwerp. the money is safe enough.”

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

“if you stay here, in my room upstairs,” said cornish, “i will go down to the works now. and this evening i will try and get you away from the hague—and from europe.”

“and i will go to the villa des dunes again,” added dorothy, “and pack your things.”

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

“where are you going?” asked her father.

“to the villa des dunes,” she replied; and, turning to dorothy, added, “i shall take some clothes and stay with you there until things straighten themselves out a bit.”

“why?”

“because i cannot let you go there alone.”

“why not?” asked dorothy.

“because—i am not that sort,” said marguerite; and, turning, she ascended the iron steps.