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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.
"Oh," replied Marguerite, hesitating for perhaps the first time in her life, "to enlarge our minds, mein Herr." She was looking at the paper he held in his hand, and he saw the direction of her glance. In response, he laughed quietly, and held it out towards her. "Yes," he said, "you have guessed right. It is the Vorschrift, the prescription for the manufacture of malgamite."
And I had quite forgotten both your face and your name, Herr ... Herr ... von Holz" she broke off, and stepped back from him "von Holzen," she said slowly. "Then you are the malgamite man?" "Yes, Fraeulein," he answered, with his grave smile; "I am the malgamite man."
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.
She glanced across the yellow sand hills, where the works were effectually concealed by the rise and fall of the wind-swept land, from whence came no sign of human life, and only at times, when the north wind blew, a faint and not unpleasant odour like the smell of sealing-wax. For all that the world knew of the malgamite workers, they might have been a colony of lepers. "You speak," said Mrs.
Some of them were empty. The door of one stood ajar, and a sudden smell of disinfectant made him stop and look in. There was something lying on a bed covered by a grimy sheet. "Um m," muttered Cornish, and walked on. There had been another visitor to the malgamite works that day. Then Cornish paused for a moment near Uncle Ben's hut, and listened to "Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay."
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.
They had merely to ask, and that which they asked for was given to them without comment. "Yes," said Uncle Ben to the new-comers, "you has a slap-up time while it lasts." For Uncle Ben was a strong man, and waxed garrulous in his cups. He had made malgamite all his life and nothing would kill him, not even drink. Von Holzen watched Uncle Ben, and did not like him.
The reserved carriages had been in readiness at the Hook. The officials were prepared. "I have omnibuses and carts for them and their luggage," were the first words that Roden spoke. Cornish instinctively placed himself under Roden's orders. The man had risen immensely in his estimation since the arrival in London of the first malgamite maker.
"Yes," he said, looking into her steady grey eyes, "I am in Holland because I cannot stay away because I cannot live without you. I have pretended to myself and to everybody else that I come to The Hague because of the Malgamite; but it is not that. It is because you are here. Wherever you are I must be; wherever you go I must follow you. The world is not big enough for you to get away from me.
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