Rodens Corner | Page 3

have lived longer than any
of them," he said. How many of us pride ourselves upon possessing an
advantage which others never covet!
"Yes," answered Von Holzen, gravely. "How old are you?"
"Nearly thirty-five," was the answer.
Von Holzen nodded, and, turning on his heel, looked thoughtfully out
of the window. The light fell full on his face, which would have been a
fine one were the mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A high
forehead looked higher by reason of a growth of thick hair standing
nearly an inch upright from the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in life,
without curl or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face, this, that
any would turn to look at again. One would think that such a man
would get on in the world. But none may judge of another in this
respect. It is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has made for
himself a great name leads to the inevitable conclusion that he is
unworthy of it.
"Wonderful!" murmured Von Holzen--"wonderful! Nearly thirty-five!"
And it was hard to say what his thoughts really were. The only sound
that came from the bed was the sound of drinking.
"And I know more about the trade than any, for I was brought up to it
from boyhood," said the dying man, with an uncanny bravado. "I did
not wait until I was driven to it, like most."
"Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told."

"Not all skill--not all skill," piped the metallic voice, indistinctly.
"There was knowledge also."
Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets of his thin overcoat,
shrugged his shoulders. They had arrived by an oft-trodden path to an
ancient point of divergence. Presently Von Holzen turned and went
towards the bed. The yellow hand and arm lay stretched out across the
table, and Holzen's finger softly found the pulse.
"You are weaker," he said. "It is only right that I should tell you."
The man did not answer, but lay back, breathing quickly. Something
seemed to catch in his throat. Von Holzen went to the door, and furtive
steps moved away down the dark staircase.
"Go," he said authoritatively, "for the doctor, at once." Then he came
back towards the bed. "Will you take my price?" he said to its occupant.
"I offer it to you for the last time."
"A thousand gulden?"
"Yes."
"It is too little money," replied the dying man. "Make it twelve
hundred."
Von Holzen turned away to the window again thoughtfully. A silence
seemed to have fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room. The
angel of death, not for the first time, found himself in company with the
greed of men.
"I will do that," said Von Holzen at length, "as you are dying."
"Have you the money with you?"
"Yes."
"Ah!" said the dying man, regretfully. It was only natural, perhaps, that
he was sorry that he had not asked more. "Sit down," he said, "and

write."
Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a pocket-book and
pencil in readiness. Slowly, as if drawing from the depths of a
long-stored memory, the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture
of dog-Latin and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to understand readily
enough. The money, in dull-coloured notes, lay on the table before the
writer. The prescription was a long one, covering many pages of the
note-book, and the particulars as to preparation and temperature of the
various liquid ingredients filled up another two pages.
"There," said the dying man at length, "I have treated you fairly. I have
told you all I know. Give me the money."
Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes within the yellow
fingers, which closed over them.
"Ah," said the recipient, "I have had more than that in my hand. I was
rich once, and I spent it all in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing.
I will treat you fairly."
Von Holzen stood by the window and read aloud from his book.
"Yes," said the other. "One sees that you took your diploma at Leyden.
You have made no mistake."
Von Holzen closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. His face bore
no sign of exultation. His somewhat phlegmatic calm successfully
concealed the fact that he had at last obtained information which he had
long sought. A cart rattled past over the cobble-stones, making speech
inaudible for the moment. The man moved uneasily on the bed. Von
Holzen went towards him and poured out more milk. Instead of
reaching out for it, the sick man's hand lay on the coverlet. The notes
were tightly held by three fingers; the free finger and the thumb picked
at the