Roden's Corner Part 24

"Yes--now and here."

Roden was slowly folding away his papers and closing his books. He glanced curiously at Von Holzen, as if he were displaying a hitherto unknown side to his character. Von Holzen, too, was collecting the papers scattered on his desk, with a patient air and a half-suppressed sigh of weariness, as if he were entering upon a work of supererogation.

"As to the deaths," he said, "I can demonstrate that as we go along.

You will see where the dangers lie, and how criminally neglectful these people are. It is a curious thing, that carelessness of life. I am told the Russian soldiers have it."

It seemed that in his way Herr von Holzen was a philosopher, having in his mind a store of odd human items. He certainly had the power of arousing curiosity and making his hearers wish him to continue speaking, which is rare. Most men are uninteresting because they talk too much.

"Then I think I will go," said Roden, rising. He looked from one to the other, and received no answer. "Good night," he added, and walked to the door with dragging feet.

"Good night," said Cornish. And he was left alone for the first time in his life with Von Holzen, who was clearing the table and making his preparations with a silent deftness of touch acquired by the handling of delicate instruments, the mixing of dangerous drugs.

"Then our good friend Lord Ferriby does not know that you are here?" he inquired, without much interest, as if acknowledging the necessity of conversation of some sort.

"No," answered Cornish.

"When I have shown you this experiment," pursued Von Holzen, setting the lamp on a side-table, "we must have a little talk about his lords.h.i.+p. With all modesty, you and I have the clearest heads of all concerned in this invention." He looked at Cornish with his sudden, pleasant smile. "You will excuse me," he said, "if while I am doing this I do not talk much. It is a difficult thing to keep in one's head, and all the attention is required in order to avoid a mistake or a mishap."

He had already a.s.sumed an air of unconscious command, which was probably habitual with him, as if there were no question between them as to who was the stronger man. Cornish sat, pleasantly silent and acquiescent, but he felt in no way dominated. It is one thing to a.s.sume authority, and another to possess it.

"I have a little laboratory in the factory where I usually work, but not at night. We do not allow lights in there. Excuse me, I will fetch my crucible and lamp."

And he went out, leaving Cornish alone. There was only one door to the room, leading straight out into the open. The office, it appeared, was built in the form of an annex to one of the storehouses, which stood detached from all other buildings.

In a few minutes Von Holzen returned, laden with bottles and jars. One large wicker-covered bottle with a screw top he set carefully on the table.

"I had to find them in the dark," he explained absent-mindedly, as if his thoughts were all absorbed by the work in hand. "And one must be careful not to jar or break any of these. Please do not touch them in my absence." As he spoke, he again examined the stoppers to see that all was secure. "I come again," he said, making sure that the large basket-covered bottle was safe. Then he walked quickly out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Almost immediately Cornish was conscious of a bitter taste in his mouth, though he could smell nothing. The lamp suddenly burnt blue and instantly went out.

Cornish stood up, groping in the dark, his head swimming, a deadly numbness dragging at his limbs. He had no pain, only a strange sensation of being drawn upwards. Then his head b.u.mped against the door, and the remaining glimmer of consciousness shaped itself into the knowledge that this was death. He seemed to swing backwards and forwards between life and death--between sleep and consciousness. Then he felt a cooler air on his lips. He had fallen against the door, which did not fit against the threshold, and a draught of fresh air whistled through upon his face. "Carbonic acid gas," he muttered, with shaking lips. "Carbonic acid gas." He repeated the words over and over again, as a man in delirium repeats that which has fixed itself in his wandering brain. Then, with a great effort, he brought himself to understand the meaning of the words that one portion of his brain kept repeating to the other portion which could not comprehend them. He tried to recollect all that he knew of carbonic acid gas, which was, in fact, not much. He vaguely remembered that it is not an active gas that mingles with the air and spreads, but rather it lurks in corners--an invisible form of death--and will so lurk for years unless disturbed by a current of air.

Cornish knew that in falling he had fallen out of the radius of the escaping gas, which probably filled the upper part of the room. If he raised himself, he would raise himself into the gas, which was slowly descending upon him, and that would mean instant death. He had already inhaled enough--perhaps too much. He lay quite still, breathing the draught between the door and the threshold, and raising his left hand, felt for the handle of the door. He found it and turned it. The door was locked. He lay still, and his brain began to wander, but with an effort he kept a hold upon his thoughts. He was a strong man, who had never had a bad illness--a cool head and an intrepid heart.

Stretching out his legs, he found some object close to him. It was Von Holzen's desk, which stood on four strong legs against the wall.

Cornish, who was quick and observant, remembered now how the room was shaped and furnished. He gathered himself together, drew in his legs, and doubled himself, with his feet against the desk, his shoulder against the door. He was long and lithe, of a steely strength which he had never tried. He now slowly straightened himself, and tore the screws out of the solid wood of the door, which remained hanging by the upper hinge. His head and shoulders were now out in the open air.

He lay for a moment or two to regain his breath, and recover from the deadly nausea that follows gas poisoning. Then he rose to his feet, and stood swaying like a drunken man. Von Holzen's cottage was a few yards away. A light was burning there, and gleamed through the cracks of the curtains.

Cornish went towards the cottage, then paused. "No," he muttered, holding his head with both hands. "It will keep." And he staggered away in the darkness towards the corner where the empty barrels stood against the fence.

CHAPTER XX.

FROM THE PAST.

"One and one with a shadowy third."

"You have the air, _mon ami_, of a malgamiter," said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into Cornish's face--"lurking here in your little inn in a back street! Why do you not go to one of the larger hotels in Scheveningen, since you have abandoned The Hague?"

"Because the larger hotels are not open yet," replied Cornish, bringing forward a chair.

"That is true, now that I think of it. But I did not ask the question wanting an answer. You, who have been in the world, should know women better than to think that. I asked in idleness--a woman's trick.

Yes; you have been or you are ill. There is a white look in your face."

She sat looking at him. She had walked all the way from Park Straat in the shade of the trees--quite a pedestrian feat for one who confessed to belonging to a carriage generation. She had boldly entered the restaurant of the little hotel, and had told the waiter to take her to Mr. Cornish's apartment.

"It hardly matters what a very young waiter, at the beginning of his career, may think of us. But downstairs they are rather scandalized, I warn you," she said.

"Oh, I ceased explaining many years ago," replied Cornish, "even in English. More suspicion is aroused by explanation than by silence. For this wise world will not believe that one is telling the truth."

"When one is not," suggested Mrs. Vansittart.

"When one is not," admitted Cornish, in rather a tired voice, which, to so keen an ear as that of his hearer, was as good as asking her why she had come.

She laughed. "Yes," she said, "you are not inclined to sit and talk nonsense at this time in the morning. No more am I. I did not walk from Park Straat and take your defences by storm, and subject myself to the insult of a raised eyebrow on the countenance of a foolish young waiter, to talk nonsense even with you, who are cleverer with your non-committing plat.i.tudes than any man I know." She laughed rather harshly, as many do when they find themselves suddenly within hail, as it were, of that weakness which is called feeling. "No, I came here on--let us say--business. I hold a good card, and I am going to play it. I want you to hold your hand in the mean time; give me to-day, you understand. I have taken great care to strengthen my hand. This is no sudden impulse, but a set purpose to which I have led up for some weeks. It is not scrupulous; it is not even honest. It is, in a word, essentially feminine, and not an affair to which you as a man could lend a moment's approval. Therefore, I tell you nothing. I merely ask you to leave me an open field to-day. Our end is the same, though our methods and our purpose differ as much as--well, as much as our minds.

You want to break this Malgamite corner. I want to break Otto von Holzen. You understand?"

Cornish had known her long enough to permit himself to nod and say nothing.

"If I succeed, _tant mieux_. If I fail, it is no concern of yours, and it will in no way affect you or your plans. Ah, you disapprove, I see.

What a complicated world this would be if we could all wear masks! Your face used to be a safer one than it is now. Can it be that you are becoming serious--_un jeune homme serieux?_ Heaven save you from that!"

"No; I have a headache; that is all," laughed Cornish.

Mrs. Vansittart was slowly unb.u.t.toning and reb.u.t.toning her glove, deep in thought. For some women can think deeply and talk superficially at the same moment.

"Do you know," she said, with a sudden change of voice and manner, "I have a conviction that you know something to-day of which you were ignorant yesterday? All knowledge, I suppose, leaves its mark.

Something about Otto von Holzen, I suspect. Ah, Tony, if you know something, tell it to me. If you hold a strong card, let me play it.

You do not know how I have longed and waited--what a miserable little hand I hold against this strong man."

She was serious enough now. Her voice had a ring of hopelessness in it, as if she knew that limit against which a woman is fated to throw herself when she tries to injure a man who has no love for her. If the love be there, then is she strong, indeed; but without it, what can she do? It is the little more that is so much, and the little less that is such worlds away.

Cornish did not deny the knowledge which she ascribed to him, but merely shook his head, and Mrs. Vansittart suddenly changed her manner again. She was quick and clever enough to know that whatever account stood open between Cornish and Von Holzen the reckoning must be between them alone, without the help of any woman.

"Then you will remain indoors," she said, rising, "and recover from your ... strange headache--and not go near the malgamite works, nor see Percy Roden or Otto von Holzen--and let me have my little try--that is all I ask."

"Yes," answered Cornish, reluctantly; "but I think you would be wiser to leave Von Holzen to me."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Vansittart, with one of her quick glances. "You think that."

She paused on the threshold, then shrugged her shoulders and pa.s.sed out. She hurried home, and there wrote a note to Percy Roden.

"DEAR MR. RODEN,

"It seems a long time since I saw you last, though perhaps it only seems so to _me_. I shall be at home at five o'clock this evening, if you care to take pity on a lonely countrywoman. If I should be out riding when you come, please await my return.