The train made its way cautiously over the fog-ridden plain, and
Cornish shivered as he looked out of the window. "Schiedam," the
porters called. This, Schiedam? A mere village, and yet the name was so
familiar. The world seemed suddenly to have grown small and sordid. A
few other stations with historic names, and then The Hague.

Cornish quitted his carriage, and found himself shaking hands with
Roden, who was awaiting him on the platform, clad in a heavy fur coat.
Roden looked clever and capable--cleverer and more capable than Cornish
had even suspected--and the organization seemed perfect. 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. The grim reality of the one had enhanced the
importance of the other. Cornish had been engaged in so many charities
_pour rire_ that the seriousness of this undertaking was apt to
exaggerate itself in his mind--if, indeed, the seriousness of anything
dwelt there at all.


"I counted them all over at the Hook," he said. "One hundred and
twenty--pretty average scoundrels."

"Yes; they are not much to look at," answered Roden.