Cornish, having tried the main entrance gate, found it locked, and no bell with which to summon those within. He went round to the northern end of the enclosure, where the sand had drifted against the high corrugated iron fencing, and where there were empty barrels on the inner side, as Uncle Ben had told him.
“After all, I am a managing director of this concern,” said Cornish to himself, with a grim laugh, as he clambered over the fence.
He walked down the row of huts very slowly. 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.” He bit his lips, restraining a sudden desire to laugh without any mirth in his heart, and went towards Von Holzen's office, where a light gleamed through the ill-closed curtains. For these men were working night and day now—making their fortunes. He caught, as he passed the window, a glimpse of Roden bending over a great ledger which lay open before him on the table, while Von Holzen, at another desk, was writing letters in his neat German hand.
Then Cornish went to the door, opened it, and passing in, closed it behind him.
“Good evening,” he said, with just a slight exaggeration of his usual suave politeness.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Roden, with a startled look, and instinctively closing his ledger.
He looked hastily towards Von Holzen, who turned, pen in hand. Von Holzen bowed rather coldly.
“Good evening,” he answered, without looking at Roden. Indeed, he crossed the room, and placed himself in front of his companion.