gangway. One thing only they had in common--their deadly industry. One
shadow lay over them all--the shadow of death. A momentary gravity
passed across Cornish's face. These men were as far removed from him as
the crawling beetle is from the butterfly. Who shall say, however, that
the butterfly sees nothing but the flowers?

As they passed him, some of them edged away with a dull humility for
fear their poor garments should touch his fur coat. One, carrying a
bird-cage, half paused, with a sort of pride, that Cornish might obtain
a fuller view of a depressed canary. The malgamite workers of this
winter's morning on the pier of Hoek were not the interesting
industrials of Lady Ferriby's drawing-room. There their lives had been
spoken of as short and merry. Here the merriment was scarcely
perceptible. The mystery of the dangerous industries is one of those
mysteries of human nature which cannot be explained by even the
youngest of novelists. That dangerous industries exist we all know and
deplore. That the supply of men and women ready to take employment in
such industries is practically inexhaustible is a fact worth at least a
moment's attention.

Cornish made the necessary arrangements with the railway officials, and
carefully counted his charges, who were already seated in the carriages
reserved for them. He must at all events be allowed the virtues of a
generation which is eminently practical and capable of overcoming the
small difficulties of everyday life. He was quick to decide and prompt
to act.

Then he seated himself in a carriage alone, with a sigh of relief at
the thought that in a few days he would be back in London. His
responsibility ended at The Hague, where he was to hand over the