The train ran them roof-high through endless vistas of the mean grey streets of south-east London, where the street-lamps were beginning to throw out a yellow haze against the murky drizzle of the late afternoon; slowed to a crawl in obedience to the raised arms of imperious signals; stopped over viaducts for long wearisome minutes while flaunting sky-signs drummed into the passengers the superabundant merits of Somebody's Whisky or Somebodyelse's Soap.

Half-an-hour late at the terminus, Riviere had his valise sent to the Avon Hotel, hailed a taxi, and told the man to drive as fast as possible to Leadenhall Street. In that narrow canon of commerce was a large, substantial building bearing the simple sign—a sign ostentatious in its simplicity—of "Lars Larssen—Shipping."

"Tell Mr Larssen that Mr John Riviere wishes to see him," he said to a clerk at the inquiry desk.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Larssen left the office not ten minutes ago."

"Can you tell me where he went to?"

"If you'll wait a moment, sir, I'll send up an inquiry to his secretary. What name did you say?"

"Riviere—John Riviere. The brother of Mr Clifford Matheson."

Presently the answer came down the house 'phone that Mr Larssen had gone to his home in Hampstead.

Riviere re-entered the taxi and gave an address on the Heath. He wanted to thrash out the matter with Larssen with the least possible delay. He would have preferred to confront the shipowner in his office, but since that plan had miscarried, he would seek him out in his private house.

Near King's Cross another taxi coming out from a cross-street skidded as it swerved around the corner, and jolted into his own with a crash of glass and a crumple of mudguards. Delay followed while the two chauffeurs upbraided one another with crimson epithets, and gave rival versions of the incident to a gravely impartial policeman. When Riviere at length reached Hampstead Heath, it was to find that the shipowner had just left the house.

Riviere explained to the butler that it was very important he should reach Larssen without delay, and his personality impressed the servant as that of a visitor of standing. He therefore told Riviere what he knew.

"Mr Larssen changed into evening dress, sir, and went off in his small covered car. I don't know where he's gone, sir, but he told me if anything important arose I was to ring him up at P. O. Richmond, 2882."

That telephone number happened to be quite familiar to Riviere. It was the number of his own house at Roehampton.

He jumped into the waiting taxi once again, and ordered the chauffeur to drive across London to Barnes Common and Roehampton. If he could not confront Larssen at office or house, he would run him to earth that evening in his own home. No doubt Larssen was going there to talk business with Sir Francis.

Roehampton is a country village held within the octopus arms of Greater London. Round it are a number of large houses with fine, spacious grounds—country estates they were when Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England. At Olive's special choice, her husband had purchased one of the mansions and had it re-decorated for her in modern style. She liked its nearness to London proper—it gave her touch with Bond Street and theatreland in half-an-hour by fast car. She liked its spacious lawns and its terraced Italian garden—they were so admirable for garden parties and open-air theatricals. She liked the useless size of the house—it ministered to her love of opulence.

Riviere had grown to hate it in the last few years.

The name of the estate was "Thornton Chase." The approach lay through a winding drive bordered by giant beeches, and passed one of the box-hedged lawns to curl before a front door on the further side of the house.

When at the very gates another delay in that evening of delays occurred. This time it was a tyre-burst. Riviere, impatient of further waste of time, paid off the chauffeur and started on foot along the entrance drive. The drizzle of the afternoon had ceased, and a few stars shone halfheartedly through rents in the ragged curtain of cloud, as though performing a duty against their will.

When passing through the box-hedged lawn as a short cut to the front door, one of the curtains of the lighted drawing-room was suddenly thrown back, and the broad figure of man stood framed in a golden panel of light. It was Lars Larssen.

Riviere stopped involuntarily. It was as though his antagonist had divined his presence and had come boldly forward to meet him. And, indeed, that was not far from the fact. Larssen, waiting alone in the drawing-room, had had one of his strange intuitive impulses to throw wide the curtain and look out into the night. Such an impulse he never opposed. He had learnt by long experience that there were centres of perception within him, uncharted by science, which gathered impressions too vague to put a name to, and yet vitally real. He always gave rein to his intuition and let it lead him where it chose.

Looking out into the night, the shipowner could not see Riviere, who had stopped motionless in the shadow of a giant box clipped to the shape of a peacock standing on a broad pedestal.

Riviere waited.

Presently Larssen turned abruptly as though someone had entered the room. A smile of welcome was on his lips. Olive swept in, close-gowned in black with silvery scales. She offered her hand with a radiant smile, and Larssen took it masterfully and raised it to his lips. Riviere noted that it was not the shipowner who had moved forward to meet Olive, but Olive who had come gladly to him.

They stood by the fireplace, and Olive chatted animatedly to her guest. Riviere scarcely recognized his wife in this transformation of spirit. With him she was cold and abrupt, and captious, eyes half-lidded and cheeks white and mask-like. Now her eyes flashed and sparkled, and there was warm colour in her cheeks.

Of what Olive and Larssen said to one another, no word came to Riviere. But attitude and gesture told him more than words could have done. It was as though he were a spectator of a bioscope drama, standing in darkness while a scene was being pictured for him in remorseless detail behind the lighted window. That Olive's feeling for Larssen had grown beyond mere friendship was plain beyond question. She was infatuated with the man; and he was playing with her infatuation.

For a moment Riviere's fist clenched; then his fingers loosened, and he watched without stirring. Larssen must, in view of his action on the Hudson Bay coup, believe Matheson to be dead. To him, Olive was now a widow. Therefore Riviere had no quarrel with the shipowner on the ground of what he was now witnessing. His desire to crumple Larssen in the hollow of his hand and fling him into the mud at his feet was based on very different grounds.

On the other hand, Olive must believe Matheson to be alive. Larssen would have told her that her husband was away in Canada on business for a few weeks, and he would keep up the fiction until the Hudson Bay scheme were floated to a public issue.

That Riviere could watch the scene pictured before him without stirring—could watch in silence the spectacle of his wife's infatuation for another man—might seem superficially as the height of cynical cold-bloodedness. Yet nothing could be farther from the truth. Riviere was a man of very deep and very strong feelings held habitually under a rigid control. Self-control is very often mistaken superficially for cold-bloodedness, just as heartiness is mistaken for big-heartedness.

He was balanced enough to hold no blame for Olive. Within two years of marriage he had plumbed her to the depths. It was not in her to be more than a reckless spender of other people's money and other people's lives. She was born to waste just as another is born to create. The way in which she was throwing herself at Larssen during his absence for a few weeks was typical of her inborn character, which nothing could uproot.

It was clear beyond doubt that Olive did not want him back. She preferred him out of her way. If he could disappear for ever, leaving his fortune in her hands, she would unquestionably be glad of it. What he had in fact brought about by taking up the personality of John Riviere was what she seemed most to desire.

He was coming home as an intruder. Even in his own house there would be no welcome for him. He was not wanted.

There was a sudden stiffening on the part of Olive, as though she heard someone about to enter the room. Sir Francis came in, shook hands cordially with Larssen, and all three made their way to dinner.

Riviere was left looking into an empty room. With sudden decision he made his way out of the grounds of Thornton Chase. He would see the shipowner to-morrow in his office at Leadenhall Street rather than thrash out the coming quarrel in front of Olive and Sir Francis.

His duty lay in taking up once more the role of Clifford Matheson and returning to Olive's side. Though what he had seen that evening made the duty trebly distasteful, he must carry it out to the end. Yet to himself he was glad of the short respite. For one night more he would breathe freedom as John Riviere.

Only one night more!

For the moment, time was no object to him, and he proceeded on foot through Roehampton village and by the sodden coppices of Putney Heath to the Portsmouth high road and the railway station of East Putney.

He waited at the station until an underground train snaked its way in like a giant blindworm, and went with it to the Temple and so to the quiet hotel he had chosen in Lincoln's Inn Fields. On his way, he sent off a telegram to the shipowner stating that John Riviere would call at Leadenhall Street at eleven o'clock in the morning.

In the coffee-room of the Avon Hotel he sat down to write a long letter to Elaine which would explain all that had been hidden from her. Without sparing himself one jot he told her of the circumstances of his life since the crucial night of March 14th, and of the deception he carried out with her as well as with the rest of the world. It was long past midnight before he put to the letter the signature of "Clifford Matheson."

And then with a stab of pain he remembered that Elaine could not read it. There were passages in the letter which must not be read to her by any outside person. It was evident that what he had to tell her would have to be said by word of mouth.

Riviere tore up his letter into small fragments and burnt them carefully in the grate.



CHAPTER XIX

A THRONE-ROOM

Dinner was over at Thornton Chase, and the three were back in the drawing-room—Olive, Larssen, and Sir Francis. The men smoked at Olive's request; and she herself lighted one of a special brand of cigarettes which she had made for her by Antonides.

"I hate to have my drawing-room smelling of afternoon-tea and feminine chit-chat," she explained. "The two Carleton-Wingate frumps called on me this afternoon for a couple of solid hours' boring, which they dignify to themselves as a duty call. Please smoke away the remembrance of them."

"The Carleton-Wingates are a useful crowd," said Larssen. "There's an M.P., a major-general and a minister plenipotentiary amongst them."

"Give me those to deal with, and you entertain the twin frumps," answered Olive. "Twins are always hateful in a room, because they sit together and chorus their comments together, just as if they were one mind with two bodies. You feel as if you ought to split yourself in two and devote half to each, so as not to cause jealousy. But twin old maids are especially hateful."

"A very old family," was Letchmere's comment. "They go back to Henry VII."

"What's the entertainment for to-night?" asked Olive of Larssen.

"I propose to take you to the new Cabaret," said he.

"First-rate!"

"But it doesn't start until ten-thirty. We've plenty of time. First, I want you to play to me."

Olive went over to the piano, and Larssen followed to light the candles and turn back the case of polished rosewood inlaid with ivory.

She laid her fingers on the keys and looked up at him expectantly.

"Something lively," he ordered, and she rattled into the latest success of the musical comedy stage. Such as it was, she played it brilliantly. To-night she was in that morphia mood of the terrace of Monte Carlo when she had first told him of her contempt for her husband.

Under cover of the playing, while Sir Francis was reading a novel of turf life, Olive whispered: "Can't we have a few moments together by ourselves?"

"I'll arrange it," answered Larssen.

"How?"

"Suppose we drop your father at the Cabaret while we go on to see my offices?"

"Offices—at night-time!" she exclaimed.

"My staff work all night there—I have a night-shift as well as a day-shift. In fact, the offices are busier at night-time than in the day-time."

"Isn't that a very unusual arrangement?"

"Yes. It enables me to deal with routine-work while the other fellow's asleep. That's always been one of my business principles: get to-morrow's work done to-day; get a twelve hours' start of the other man."

"How typical of you!"

"My place is thoroughly worth seeing. Suppose I show you over it?"

Larssen's pride in his office was fully justified. There was nothing in London, nothing in England to match it as a perfect business machine. And there was no private office in Europe which could compare in impressiveness with Larssen's own.

Things went as he arranged, and from the busy hive of industry on the ground and first floors he took Olive to his private room on the second. It was a room some thirty yards long and broad in proportion, with a central dome reaching above the roof. A few broad tables were almost lost in its immensity. Round the walls were maps dotted with flag-pins telling of the position of ships. At the further end was Larssen's own work-table—a horseshoe-shaped desk. Above and behind it hung a portrait of his little boy by Sargent.

"It's almost a throne-room!" was Olive's exclamation of wonder.

Larssen smiled his pleasure. It was a throne-room. He had designed it as such. His private house at Hampstead mattered little to him. His house on Riverside Drive, New York, and his great forest estate in the Adirondacks mattered almost as little. His real home was at the office.

"In my New York office, and in every one of my other offices round the world, there's a room like this. I alone use it. When I'm away, it stands for me. It's my sign."

"Above there," he continued, pointing to the central dome, "is the wireless apparatus which keeps me in touch with my ships. From ship to ship and office to office I can send my orders round the world. I'm independent of the wires and the cables."

"That's epic!" she said, using the word she had used before when he spoke to her of his early career. No other word fitted Lars Larssen so closely.

"Heard from Clifford lately?" he queried.

"Only a brief cable from Winnipeg."

"I had a letter telling me things are going well, but not as quickly as he expected. That letter would be a week old by now. Every moment I'm expecting to hear that his work is put through and sealed up tight."

"I'm not anxious to have him back. If you only could realize how he bores me to extinction."

She waited for an expression of sympathy.

"You've borne with it very bravely," he said, knowing that to a woman like Olive no compliment is dearer than to be called "brave."

"Not that I want to say a word against Clifford," he added quickly. "He's a very clever man of business, and I admire him for it. But a woman wants more than cleverness."

"How well you understand!" said Olive. "So few know me as I really am. If only we had met before——"

She stopped abruptly as a door opened at the farther end of the room. Morris Sylvester entered briskly with a telegram in his hand. As confidential secretary, it was his duty to open all telegrams and most of the letters addressed to his chief. Sylvester passed the open telegram to Larssen, saying:

"Excuse my interruption. This telegram just arrived seems important. I thought you would like to see it."

"Thanks." Larssen glanced over it. "No answer necessary."

Sylvester withdrew.

"It's a wire from your gay brother-in-law," said Larssen to Olive.

"From John Riviere! Where is he?"

"In London. He proposes to call on me to-morrow morning at eleven."

"I wonder what he has to say."

"I'm completely in the dark."

"I'd like to meet him."

"Shall I send him on to Roehampton after he's seen me?"

Olive reflected that Riviere might not want to see her, in view of the way he had avoided her so far. She answered: "Ring me up on the 'phone when he's in your office. I'll speak to him over the wire."

"Right—I'll remember.... By the way, about the Hudson Bay company, did I tell you that the underwriting negotiations are going through fine? Inside a week we ought to be ready for flotation."

Larssen proceeded to enlarge on the subject, and the broken thread of Olive's avowal was not taken up again. They left the offices, and drove back to the Cabaret to rejoin Sir Francis.



CHAPTER XX

BEATEN TO EARTH

At eleven o'clock the next morning, the shipowner was at the horseshoe desk in his throne-room, fingering the snapshot of Riviere which Sylvester had secured at Nimes. He had seen in it the picture of a man very like Clifford Matheson, but not for a moment had he thought of it as the portrait of the financier himself. The shaven lip, the scar across the forehead, the differences of hair and collar and tie and dress had combined to make a thorough disguise.

Yet when the visitor entered by the farther door of the throne-room and came striding resolutely down the thirty yards of carpet, Lars Larssen knew him. The carriage and walk were Matheson's.

For a moment hot rage possessed him. Not at Matheson, but at himself. He ought to have guessed before. This was the one possibility he had completely overlooked. Matheson had tricked him by shamming death. He ought not to have let himself be tricked. That was inexcusable.

A moment later he had regained mastery of himself, and a succession of plans flashed past his mental vision, to be considered with lightning speed. The financier held the whip-hand—and the whip must be torn from him ... somehow.

"Sit down, Matheson," said the shipowner calmly, when his antagonist had reached the horseshoe desk.

Neither man offered to shake hands.

Matheson took the seat indicated, and waited for Larssen to begin.

Larssen knew the value of silence, however, and Matheson was forced to open.

"You thought me dead?" he asked.

"I knew you had disappeared for private reasons of your own. I discovered those reasons, and so I respected your privacy," was the calm reply.

"You had the cool intention of using my name in the Hudson Bay prospectus as though I had given you sanction for it."

"You did give me sanction."

"Written?"

"No; your word."

"When?"

"At our last interview at your Paris office. You passed your word—an Englishman's word—and I took it."

Matheson ignored the cool lie. "Let's get down to business," he said.

"With pleasure. What do you want?"

"When we last met," continued Matheson slowly, "I wanted you to assign half of your four million Deferred Shares to Lord ——, to be held in trust for the general body of shareholders. Well, now—now—I want the whole four million assigned."

"And you propose that I should give them up for nothing?" queried Larssen ironically.

"For L200,000 in ordinary shares. The monetary value is the same. The difference would be that you'll have two hundred thousand with your own money, not the British public's."

There was silence while the two men eyed one another relentlessly. At the side of Larssen's forehead, under the temple, a tiny vein throbbed and jerked. That was the only outward sign of the feelings of murder which lay in his heart.

"You have your nerve!" he commented.

"I'm offering you easy terms."

"Offer me terms!"

"Easy terms," repeated Matheson. "I could, if I chose, step from here to my lawyers' and have you indicted for conspiracy. I could get you seven to ten years. I could have you breaking stones at Portland."

"Then why don't you?"

"I have my private reasons."

"One of them being that you haven't a shred of evidence," was the cool reply.

"Who sends cables in my name to my managers?" demanded Matheson.

"I know nothing of that."

"You do know it. One of your employees sends them."

"Have you such a cable with you?"

Matheson ignored the retort. "You've told my wife and my father-in-law that I was alive."

"I knew you were alive. Is that your idea of fraud?"

"I'm not going to quibble over words. Believing me to be dead, you had me impersonated, planning to use my name on the Hudson Bay scheme."

"I've not used your name."

"You used it to induce St Aubyn and Carleton-Wingate to come on the Board."

"If you're thinking to prove that, you merely waste your time. The negotiations were carried out by your father-in-law."

"You used my name to a reporter on the Europe Chronicle."

"Have you written evidence of that?"

"Martin will swear to it, if necessary."

Larssen laughed harshly. "An out-of-elbows reporter on a sensational yellow journal! Do you dream for one instant that his word would stand against mine in a court of law? See here, Matheson, you'd better go back and read over your brief with the man who's instructing you. He's muddled up the facts."

"Then what are the facts?" challenged Matheson.

Lars Larssen took a deep breath before he leaned forward across the horseshoe desk to answer. At the same time he moved a hidden lever under the desk. This was a device allowing any conversation of his to be heard telephonically in the adjoining room where his private secretary worked. It was useful occasionally when he needed an unseen listener to a business interview of his; and now he particularly wanted Sylvester to hear what he and Matheson were saying to one another. It would give Sylvester his cue if he were to be called in at any point.

"Matheson," said the shipowner, "the facts of your case don't make a very edifying story. If you're sure you want to hear them as you'd hear them in a court of law, I'll spare another five minutes to tell you. You're quite certain you'd like to hear the outside view of your actions this past three weeks?"

"I'm listening."

With brutal directness Larssen proceeded: "On the night of March 14th, you decided you were tired of your wife. Thought you'd like a change of bedfellow. You left your coat and stick about a quarter-mile down the left bank of the Seine from Neuilly bridge, so that people would think you dead. You cut a knife-slit in the ribs of your coat to make a neater story of it. Then, as I guessed you would, you went honeymooning with the other woman. Away to the sunny South. I had you followed.

"You registered together at the Hotel du Forum at Arles, taking the names of John Riviere and Elaine Verney. A man doesn't change his name unless he's got some shady reason for it. Every court of law knows that. You dallied for a day or two at Arles, getting this woman to write a lying letter to your wife saying that you were down with fever. We have that letter."

"We!"

"Yes, we. We have that letter. I advised your wife to let me keep it for possible emergencies. I have it in this office along with the other evidence. I don't bluff—shall I ring and have my secretary show it to you?"

"Get on."

"Then you moved to Nimes, staying for shame's sake at different houses. Hers was the Hotel de Provence, and yours was the Villa Clementine. You went lovemaking with this woman in the moonlight, up to a quiet place on the hillside, and there you nearly got what was coming to you from a peasant called Crau. Then you had this Verney woman stay with you in your Villa Clementine, and finally you took her off to Wiesbaden."

Larssen ostentatiously pressed an electric bell.

"I'll give you chapter and verse," he said.

Morris Sylvester came in quietly from his room close by, a slow smile under his heavy dark moustache, and nodded greeting to Matheson. He had heard by the telephone device all of his chief's case against Matheson, and was quite ready to take up his cue.

"Sylvester, you recognize this man?" said Larssen.

"Yes. He is the Mr John Riviere I shadowed at Arles and Nimes."

Larssen turned to the financier. "Want to ask him any questions? Ask anything you like."

"No."

"Sure?"

"Quite," answered Matheson. There was nothing to be gained at this stage by cross-examining the secretary.

"That will do, Sylvester."

The secretary left the room.

Larssen leant forward across the desk once more and snarled: "There's the facts of the case as they'll go before the divorce court."

"Do you know that Miss Verney is blind?" There was a hoarseness in Matheson's voice; he cleared his throat to relieve it.

"That's no defence in a divorce court."

"Blind and undergoing an operation this very morning? Do you know that it's doubtful if she will ever recover any of her sight?"

Larssen's mouth tightened a shade more. At last he found the heel of Achilles. He could get at Matheson through Elaine. Ruthlessly he answered: "That's no concern of mine. I'm stating facts to you. These facts are not all in your wife's possession. Do you want me to put them there?"

"Your facts are a chain of lies. There's one sound link: that I changed my name. The rest are poisonous lies—provable lies."

"Whatever they may be, do you want them put before your wife?" He reached for a swinging telephone by his desk and called to the house operator: "Get me P. O. Richmond, 2822. Name, Mrs Matheson."

While he was waiting for the connection to be made, Sylvester entered the room and silently showed a visiting-card to his chief. It was Olive's card. Acting on a sudden impulse, she had motored to the office to see this mysterious John Riviere before he should evade her. She knew that the interview was to be at eleven o'clock, and by thus calling in person, she would make certain of meeting him.

Larssen said aloud to his secretary: "Show her up when I ring next."

Then to Matheson: "There's no need to 'phone. Your wife is waiting below."

Sylvester left the room.

As the shipowner's hand hovered over the button of the electric bell, waiting for a yes or no from his antagonist, a great temptation lay before Matheson.

The recital of the events of the past three weeks, as given in the brutal wording of the shipowner, had torn at his nerves like the pincers of an inquisitor. He saw now how the world would judge the relations between Elaine and himself. The change of name, the meeting at the same hotel at Arles, the second meeting, the companionship of that fateful week at Nimes—the world would put only one interpretation on it all. Elaine, lying helpless in her close-curtained room at the nursing home in Wiesbaden, would be fouled with the imaginings of the prurient. Not only had he brought blindness to her, but now he was to bring her to the pillory with the scarlet letter fixed upon her.

Yet he could avoid it if he chose. A choice lay open to him. Larssen would be ready to exchange silence for silence. If Matheson would stand aside and let the Hudson Bay scheme go through, no doubt Larssen would play fair in the matter of Elaine. That in effect was what he offered as his hand hovered over the electric bell.

The shipowner, though an easy smile of triumph masked his feelings as he lay back in his chair, knew that he was at the critical point of his career. If Matheson decided to let Olive be shown in, then Olive would have in her hands the judgment between the two men. To be dependent on a woman's mood, a woman's whim, would be Larssen's position. It galled him to the quick. The seconds that slipped by while Matheson considered were minute-long to him.

If only Matheson would weaken and propose compromise!

Larssen uttered no word of persuasion one way or another. He knew that, if his desire could be attained, it would be attained through silence.

Presently Matheson stirred in his chair.

"Ring!" said he firmly.

The fight had begun again.

Larssen pressed the bell without a moment's hesitation. His bluff had to be carried through with absolute decisiveness. He could not gauge how far his threat of the divorce court had intimidated Matheson. Beyond that, he was not at all sure that Olive would side with him in the matter. She was unstable, unreliable.

But on the outside no trace of his doubts appeared. He was perfectly cool, entirely master of himself. As he waited for Sylvester to fetch Mrs Matheson, he took out a pocket-knife and began to trim his nails lightly.

Olive's appearance as she entered the throne-room was greatly changed from that of the evening before. The transient effect of the drug had worn off. Her features were now heavy and listless, and there were dark shadows under the eyes.

Both men rose to offer a seat.

"I came along to catch Mr Riviere before he left you," she explained to Larssen, and turned with a set smile towards the visitor.

For a moment or two she stared at Matheson in amazement. Then:

"Why, it's Clifford! What have you been doing to yourself? Why have you changed your appearance? Why are you here? What's the meaning of all this?"

"It's a long story," cut in Larssen, and "there are two versions to it. Which will you hear first, your husband's or mine?"

She hesitated to answer, her mind buzzing with surprise, resentment, and anger. She hated to be caught at a disadvantage, as in this case. She was uncertain as to what her attitude ought to be.

Had Clifford, suspecting her feelings towards Larssen, returned hurriedly in order to trap her? What did he know? What did he guess?

Evidently she ought to be on her guard.

"Of course I will hear my husband first," she answered coldly, and Larssen took it as an ill omen. He offered her a chair again, and seated himself so as to command them both.

Matheson, who remained standing, waved his hand towards the shipowner. "Let him speak first."

"I'm not anxious to," countered Larssen. "Fire away with your own version."

"I hate all this mystery!" snapped Olive irritably. "Mr Larssen, you tell me what it all means."

"Very well. This is Mr John Riviere."

"Riviere?"

"Yes; that's your husband's nom de discretion."

"I thought it was Dean."

"No—Riviere."

"Why is he back from Canada so soon?"

"He never went to Canada."

"You don't mean to say that the letter I received from Arles was written by Clifford himself?"

"At his dictation."

"Who wrote it?"

Larssen turned to Matheson. "Do you wish me to explain who wrote it, or will you do it yourself?"

"It was written at my dictation by a Miss Verney—a lady whom I met for the first time on my visit to Arles. Her relation to myself is that of a mere tourist acquaintanceship."

"Why were you at Arles? Why was she at Arles?"

"Miss Verney is—was—a professional scene-painter. She was making a brief tour in Provence to collect material for a Roman drama for which she was commissioned to design the scenery."

"How old is she?"

"I don't know—what does it matter?"

"I want to know."

"About twenty-five, I should say."

"And what were you doing at Arles?"

Matheson found it very difficult to frame his reasons under this remorseless cross-examination. He felt as though he were in the witness-box at a divorce trial, replying to hostile counsel.

"When I left Paris," he answered, "it was to take a quiet holiday for a couple of months before settling down to my new work."

"What new work?"

"I'll explain in detail later. Scientific research, in brief."

Larssen scraped his chair scornfully. He would not comment with words at the present juncture. Matheson was convicting himself out of his own mouth—the revelation was unfolding excellently.

"You went to Arles for research?" pursued Olive.

"No; for a holiday."

"A holiday from what—from whom?"

"From financial matters."

"Why did you take the name of John Riviere?"

"Because I intended to take that name permanently."

Olive was startled. "You meant to leave me!" she exclaimed.

"I meant to disappear and give you your freedom and the greater part of my property," answered Matheson steadily.

"How freedom?"

"On the night of March 14th, the night I said good-bye to you at the Gare de Lyon, I made a sudden decision to take up my brother's work and live his life. He has been dead a couple of years. I happened to be attacked by a couple of apaches, and that gave me the opportunity. I contrived evidence of a violent death, and then cut loose entirely from the name of Clifford Matheson. You would be given leave by the courts to presume death, on the evidence of my coat and stick left by the river-bank at Neuilly. You would come into my money and property, and you would be free to marry again if you chose."

Olive had become very thoughtful. Her chin was buried in her hand. When she spoke again after a few moments' pause, it was in a strangely altered tone.

"Why did you come back?" she said.

"Because Larssen was using my name in a way I won't countenance. I was forced to return in order to put a stop to it."

"Was that the only reason that made you return?"

"Yes, that was it."

"You came back because Mr Larssen called you back?"

"Because I found that he was having me impersonated, and using my name illicitly."

Olive turned on the shipowner with a sudden wild fury, her eyes shooting fire and her lips quivering. "Why did you have Clifford impersonated?" she hissed out.

Larssen was taken aback at this utterly unexpected onslaught. "That's his version!" he retorted.

"My husband says so—that's sufficient for me!"

"Then I can't argue."

"Do you deny it?"

"Emphatically!"

"You told me Clifford was in Canada, when all the time you knew he was at Arles. Didn't you tell me that?"

"To save his face."

"How?"

"Obviously because I knew he was dallying at Arles and Nimes with this Verney woman. You haven't heard one-tenth of the facts yet. You haven't heard that he stayed in the same hotel with her at Arles. Went with her to Nimes when the hotel people began to object. At Nimes, for decency's sake, they stayed at different houses, but he had her hanging around his villa. Went lovemaking with her in the moonlight up to a quiet place on the hillside. Then, had her live with him in the Villa Clementine. Finally, took her to Wiesbaden. These are all facts for which I can bring you irrefutable evidence. I had my secretary shadowing him from the moment he left Paris."

Olive turned on her husband with another lightning change of mood.

"Is she so very beautiful, this enchantress of yours?" she queried with the velvety softness of a cat.

"She is blind," answered Matheson with a quiver in his words. "Blinded for life while trying to warn me of a vitriol attack. Olive, I want you to listen without interruption while I tell you on my word of honour what are the facts underneath that vile story of Larssen's. I want you to believe and have pity.

"We had never seen one another before Arles. There we met as casual tourists. It happened that I was able to defend her from the assault of a half-drunken peasant. After that we parted as the merest acquaintances. By pure chance we met again at Nimes. She came to Nimes to gather further material for her scene-painting. For scene purposes she had to make a sketch at night-time, and I went with her as escort as I would have done with any other woman. We were followed by the peasant Crau. He was about to throw vitriol on me when Miss Verney intervened. She received the acid full in her eyes. She is, I believe, blinded for life. Even now, as I speak, she lies on the operating table.... Olive, there has been nothing between us!"

His voice rang out in passionate sincerity.

"I don't believe it," she replied icily.

"You must believe it! I give you my word of honour!"

"I don't believe it! It's against human nature. You're in love with her—that's plain. You had opportunity enough. I know sufficient of human nature to put two and two together. I shall certainly sue for a divorce!"

"Against a blind girl?"

"I don't care a straw whether she's blinded or not!"

And then, for the first time in all that long interview, Matheson blazed into open anger.

"You know human nature?" he cried. "By God, you know your own, and you measure every other woman by yourself! Behind my back you throw yourself at this damned scoundrel!" He flung out his hand toward Larssen.

There was no answering anger in Larssen. He knew too well the value of keeping cool. He merely put in a word to egg Matheson on to a further outburst.

"That's a chivalrous accusation to make," said he.

"It's true as everything else I've said! Last night, at Thornton Chase, in the drawing-room before dinner, I saw through, the uncurtained window...."

Too late he pulled himself up short. The irrevocable word had been said.

Olive was now implacable. Her voice was steely as she answered:

"I wish to Heaven you were dead!"

Larssen saw his supreme moment. "Why not?" he suggested.

"I don't understand."

"Let him disappear. Let him become John Riviere for good and all."

"But my divorce?"

"Give it up—on conditions. You'll have your freedom just the same."

"What conditions?"

"Ask your husband to sign approval of my Hudson Bay prospectus as it stands."

"Doesn't he approve it?"

"No," answered Matheson. "That's why I came back."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It gives Larssen control. It's greatly unfair to the public."

"And just for that you came back? What a reason!" Scorn lashed from her. "Yes, Mr Larssen is right! I owe it to my self-respect to be magnanimous. You can return to your mistress—I'll forego my divorce. Sign the papers he wants you to, and you can live out your life as John Riviere. Your money, of course, comes to me."

The shipowner, grimly triumphant, said nothing. Matheson, in his blaze of anger, had turned Olive definitely and finally against himself. There was no call for Larssen to add to the command of her words.

Matheson's anger was spent. A great tiredness crept over his will. He could fight no more. Larssen and Olive had beaten him down—beaten him down through his anxiety to shield Elaine. Why should he sacrifice her for the sake of an altruistic ideal? The public he had striven to protect would not thank him for intervening in their interests. He would be merely a quixotic fool.

He felt will-tired, soul-tired, more tired even than on the night of March 14th. He could fight no more.

He sank down into a chair, and presently he said dully: "Show me the prospectus."

Larssen unhurriedly produced from a drawer in his desk a private draft prospectus such as is offered to the underwriters. On it was a list of names—the firms to whom it was being shown confidentially before public issue.

He reached for the electric bell to summon Sylvester as a witness to Matheson's signature, but at that very moment the secretary knocked and entered quickly with an open cablegram, which he passed to his chief.

Larssen's face grew white as he read it, but he said nothing beyond: "Wait to witness a signature."

Matheson took the prospectus and read it through mechanically. The shipowner, with an appearance of casualness, turned to a map on the wall behind him and studied the position of his Atlantic liners as indicated by the flag-pins.

Olive remained seated, her eyes fixed remorselessly on her husband.

Presently Matheson reached for a pen. "What do you want on it?" he asked.

"Simply 'O.K., Clifford Matheson,'" answered the shipowner without turning round. "No date."

Matheson wrote across the printed document the formal letters "O.K.," and signed below.

Sylvester witnessed the signature, and passed the document to his chief.



CHAPTER XXI

THE BOLTED DOOR

The moment he had that vital document safe in his breast-pocket, Lars Larssen was a changed man. His mask of cool indifference and his assumption of perfect leisure were thrown aside. His face was drawn with lines of anxiety as he snapped a rapid stream of orders at Sylvester:

"Send a wireless to the 'Aurelia' to put back at once to Plymouth. 'Phone Paddington to have a special ready for me in half-an-hour. 'Phone my house to pack me a portmanteau and send it to Paddington by fast car to catch the special. Get my office car round at once. Tell Bates and Carew and Grasemann I'd like them to travel with me to Plymouth to talk business. Let me know when all that's moving. Hurry!"

Sylvester sped away to execute his orders.

Larssen looked up at the portrait of his little boy, and the cablegram fluttered to the ground.

"What's the matter?" asked Olive.

"Pneumonia. Dangerously ill."

"Poor little chap!"

"My only child!"

"He'll get over it, I'm sure."

"He's never been strong and hardy."

"Still, with the best doctors...."

"If money can pull him through, I'll pour it out like water. I'm off to the States to look after those fool doctors. The 'Aurelia' is one of my fastest boats, and she'll take me across in five days. I'll give treble pay to every engineer and stoker."

"How long will you be away?"

"Can't say exactly."

"How unfortunate, just at this time!"

"I can finish off the Hudson Bay deal by wireless. My ordinary business on this side will run on in the hands of Bates, Carew, and Grasemann, who form my executive committee for London."

They had both ignored Matheson through this conversation. He was squeezed dry and done with. Larssen had no further use for him at present, and Olive had no sympathy to waste on a beaten man.

He had been sitting brokenly in a chair at the desk where he had signed away his independence, gazing into a new-spilt ink-blot on the polished surface of the desk, seeing visions in its glistening, blue-black pool.

But now he pushed back his chair with a rasping noise and rose decisively to face Larssen.

"We'll call it a month's truce!" he flung out.

"What d'you mean?"

"For a month from now neither you nor I will move further in the Hudson Bay scheme. For a month it'll be hung up."

"Who's to hang it up?"

"I."

"But I've got your signed approval in my pocket. Signed and witnessed!"

"The issue is not yet underwritten." It was a sheer guess, but in Larssen's face Matheson could read that his guess was correct.

"Well?" snapped Larssen.

"Either you or I will tell the underwriters that the scheme goes no further until a month from date—until May 3rd. Which is it to be—you or I?"

Sylvester came in rapidly. "All your orders are being carried out, and the car's on the way here from the garage."

For a few tense moments Larssen hesitated. The underwriting of the five-million issue was an absolute essential to a successful flotation, and the negotiations were not yet completed. If Matheson were to interfere in them during his absence from London, big difficulties might develop. Before that cablegram arrived, the shipowner could have beaten down any such threat on Matheson's part, but now, with his little son calling for his presence, with the special train at Paddington coupling up to speed him to Plymouth, with the "Aurelia" turning back, against the protest of its thousand passengers, to take him on board, the situation was radically changed.

Matheson had realised the altered situation, and putting aside any over-fine scruples, had gripped advantage from it.

Larssen's eyes blazed anger at the financier. Then he held out his hand to Olive.

"Good-bye!" he said.

"Good-bye!" she answered, taking his hand.

"You or I?" repeated Matheson.

The shipowner turned at the door through which he was hurrying out.

"I," he conceded.

"Then sign on it."

"Don't sign!" cried Olive.

"He must sign!"

Larssen rushed back to his desk and scribbled on a sheet of paper: "Until May 3rd, I fix up nothing with the underwriters."

He scrawled his signature under it, and without further word hurried from the throne-room.

Matheson and his wife were left alone.

When Larssen had closed the door behind him, Olive felt as if a big strong arm of support had suddenly been taken away from her. Larssen's mere presence, even if he remained silent, gave her a fictitious sense of her own power, which now was crumbling away and leaving her with a feeling of insecurity and self-distrust.

Openly it expressed itself in peevish annoyance.

"Why couldn't you have stayed away altogether?" she muttered fretfully. "Nobody wanted you back. Your scruples, indeed! I must say you have a pretty mixed set of them. If you had had any consideration for me, you'd have stayed away altogether, instead of coming back and making scenes of this kind. I hate scenes! And why did you force that month's wait at the last moment? Now things are complicated worse than ever!"

Matheson waited patiently for his wife to finish the recital of her complaints. He wondered if it were possible to appeal once more to her better feelings. At all events he would make the attempt. The signature he had forced out of Larssen had given him back some of his self-respect, and he felt his brain as it were cleared for action once more.

When Olive had finished, Matheson asked her quietly: "Why did you marry me?"

"Why did you marry me?" she retorted.

"Because I honestly believed at the time that I loved you."

"I suppose you found out afterwards that you'd made a mistake, and then blamed it on to me?"

"I'm not blaming you—I'm trying to get the right perspective on to our marriage. I'm wondering if the woman I loved was yourself, or merely my idealization of you."

"I can't help it if I'm not the incarnation of all the virtues you imagined me to be!" Olive sat down and played nervously with a penholder, jabbing meaningless lines and dots on to a loose sheet of paper.

"When I married you, I thought you were in sympathy with me over the big things of life—the things that matter. But you turned them aside with a laugh. That put a barrier between us."

"I never could stand prigs. I thought I was marrying a man of the world."

"We seemed to be radically opposed in ideas. We drifted farther and farther away from one another. At the end of five years, our marriage was empty even of tepid affection. If there had been children, perhaps...."

"No doubt you'd have wanted to wheel them out in the perambulator!"

Matheson let the flippancy pass. He continued steadily: "I felt I could not do my big work under the constant friction of our married life, and my life in the financial world. I felt you longed for complete liberty."

"I did, and I do so still."

"So, when opportunity came to me on the night of March 14th, I made the sudden decision you know of. I thought I had cut myself loose. If it had not been for that one unthought-of thread—Larssen's scheme to use me dead or alive—I should never have come back.... My sudden decision was wrong. I realise now that no man can cut himself utterly loose from the life he has woven for himself. He is part of the pattern of the great web of humanity. He is joined to the world around him by a thousand threads. If he tries to cut loose, there will always be some one unnoticed thread linking him to the old life."

"That sort of thing may be interesting to people who're interested in it. It merely bores me."

"Olive, I want to say this: I'm ready to try once more. I'm ready to take up our married life as we started it on our wedding day. I'll try to forget the past and start afresh. I'll make allowances for you—will you make allowances for me?"

Olive laughed mirthlessly. "In plain words, that means you want me to be somebody I've never pretended to be and never want to be. The idea is fatuous."

"Won't you believe me when I say that I'm genuinely anxious to do the right thing by you, and clear up the tangle I've made of your life and mine? I'm sorry for what I said in Larssen's presence a little while ago. I was angry and carried beyond myself."

"No apology can wipe out that sort of thing."

"I'll do my best to make amends.... You're not looking at all well. There's a big change in you. Monte Carlo does you no good—the reverse in fact. Why not see a doctor and get him to prescribe you a tonic and a quiet place to build up your health in? We'll go there together and start our married life afresh."

"You've had your say—now let me have mine!" flung out Olive. "When we married, I was mistaken too. I thought at the time you were a man who could do things. I judged on your previous career. After we were married, I found I was utterly misled. It isn't in you to climb to the top. You've too many sides to your nature. First one thing pulls you one way, and then another thing pulls you another way. To succeed, a man has to run in blinkers—straight on without minding the side issues. I imagined you a hundred per center, and I found you only a ninety per center. You can't climb to the top—it isn't in you!"

"Climb to where?"

Olive looked around at the vast throne-room of the shipowner, and her meaning was conveyed in the glance.

"Larssen has that final ten per cent.," admitted Matheson. "But do you know what it means in plain language?"

"What?"

"Utter unscrupulousness. Utter ruthlessness. Napoleon had that extra ten per cent. Bismarck had it. You're right when you say I haven't it."

Olive moved irritably in her chair. "Sour grapes," she commented.

"Call it that if you wish."

She dug her pen viciously into the polished surface of the desk, leaving the holder quivering at the outrage.

"Larssen has been merely playing with you," continued Matheson. "I don't want to blame, but to warn. I know the man far better than you do. He thinks you might be useful to him."

"What are you going to do when the month is up?" she asked abruptly.

"What do you want me to do?"

She looked him straight in the eye, her pupils narrowed with hate. "Go out of my life!"

"A legal separation?"

"No use at all. That ties me indefinitely."

"What then?"

"One of two things: divorce or disappearance."

"You mean a framed-up divorce? The usual arranged affair?"

"No, I don't. I mean a divorce with that Verney woman as co-respondent."

"I'll not have you insult her by calling her 'that Verney woman!'"

"Miss Verney, then.... It's either divorce or total disappearance."

"Larssen spoke glibly enough of disappearance, but the circumstances are very different now from what they were on the night of March 14th. Then, not a soul outside myself knew of my intention. You'd have claimed leave from the Courts to presume death, and it would certainly have been granted you. You would legally have been a widow, and I—as Clifford Matheson—should legally have been dead.... But now, both you and Larssen, and his secretary as well, know that Clifford Matheson is alive."

"Does anyone else know?"

"No one."

"Larssen will certainly keep the secret. So will his secretary. So shall I. That's no difficulty."

"You mean to apply to the courts for a certificate of my death, knowing that it will be fraudulent."

"That, or divorce against you and Miss Verney." The lines of obstinacy were hard-set around her mouth.

"Why are you so bitter against her?"

Olive remained contemptuously silent. Her reason, as she saw it, should be obvious enough. If Clifford was so dense as not to see it, she was certainly not going to enlighten him.

Even in face of what had gone before, Matheson was still hoping to soften his wife towards Elaine. He tried again. "Her life is ruined. Her work was her happiness as well as her livelihood. Now, both are snatched away from her. She is an orphan; she has no relatives in sympathy with her; her means are very limited; she has heavy expenses to face over the operation and the convalescence. She is under Hegelmann's care at Wiesbaden. This very morning he is operating on her. I must go back to Wiesbaden at once to hear how things are going."

"You can wire and find out."

"I prefer to go personally."

"Is she so very attractive to you?"

Matheson, sick at heart, reached for his hat and stick preparatory to taking his leave.

A sudden thought struck Olive. "You swear to me that you've told no one you're Clifford Matheson?"

"No one knows beyond yourself, Larssen, and Sylvester."

"And you'll tell no one else?"

"I must reserve that right."

"It's not in our bargain!" protested Olive. "You were to disappear completely."

"It won't affect our bargain," he retorted.

"That's for me to say."

"Heaven knows that I've given up to you enough already!"

"I ask you to swear to me you'll never tell anyone else! Not even hint at it!"

"I can't promise it."

"That's your last word?"

"Yes."

Olive flashed hate at him. Her hands were quivering when she answered, as though she could have torn him in pieces.

"Very well, then! I'll reserve my right of action too!" Her fingers reached for the electric bell and pressed it imperatively.

When Sylvester appeared, she said decisively: "Have a cab called for Mr Riviere."

"Certainly," he answered.

The financier took up hat and stick, and with a cold "good-bye" passed out of the open door, Sylvester following him.

Presently the secretary returned to confer with Olive. Larssen had told him to keep in touch with her.

* * * * *

Clifford Matheson was once more John Riviere. He picked up his valise at the Avon Hotel and caught the first boat train for Germany. It took him to the Continent via Queenboro'—Flushing.

His thoughts on the railway journey to Queenboro' were very different to those which had filled his mind when he sped Calaiswards on his way to England. Then, he had felt as if he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake, and emerged tingling in every limb with the vigour of health renewed. The course before him had seemed straight; the issue clean-cut.

Now, he felt as if he had been tripped up and pushed bodily into a pool of mire.

Circumstances seemed more tangled than ever. Finality had not been reached either in regard to his relations towards his wife, towards Elaine, or towards Larssen; in regard to the Hudson Bay scheme, or in his regard to his future freedom for work on the lines he so earnestly desired. The whirlpool had sucked him back, and he was once more battling with swirling waters.

Out of all the welter of his thoughts one course became clearer and clearer. He must tell Elaine. He must put her in possession of the main facts of the situation which had developed in Larssen's office. That he could tell her without violating the spirit of his bargain with Olive was certain. He knew he could trust absolutely in Elaine's silence.

Till then—till he had told her—there was no definite line of action he could see as the one inevitable solution.

If the elements had seemed to bar his passage to London the day before, to-day they seemed to be calling welcome to him as train and boat sped him eastwards. The marshes of the Swale were almost a joyous emerald green under the sparkle of the sun in the early afternoon; the estuary of the Thames was alive with white and brown sail swelling full-bloodedly to the drive of a care-free, joyful breeze; torpedo-boats and destroyers sped in and out from Sheerness with the supple strength of greyhounds unleashed, tossing the blue waters in curling locks of foam from their bows; the open sea sparkled and glinted and danced with the joy of life in its veins.

At sundown, the sky behind the foaming wake of the packet was a blaze of glory. The sinking sun wove a cloth of gold on the halo of cloud about it, and circled the horizon with a belt of rose and opal. Gradually the gold faded into fiery purple, with arms of unbelievable green stretching out to clasp the round cup of ocean; the purple died away reluctantly like the drums of a triumphant march receding to a distance; night took sea and sky into her arms, and crooned to them a mother-song of rest.

On the railway station at Flushing a telegram was handed to Riviere—the reply to a telegram of inquiry sent by him from London. It was from Elaine herself:

"Operation well over. Doctor hopeful. Little pain. Glad when you are back," it ran, and he had almost worn through its creases, by reason of folding and unfolding, before he fell asleep that night in the train for Wiesbaden.



CHAPTER XXII

THE CHAMELEON MIND

Many men are chameleons. They take their mental colour from the surroundings of the moment. They are swayed by every fresh change of circumstance, influenced by every strong mind with whom they come in contact. If such a man goes on from year to year in the same even groove of work, the chameleon mind may not be apparent on the surface; but if by any chance he is suddenly jolted from his accustomed groove, the mental instability becomes plain to read.

Arthur Dean was of this class.

When a clerk at L2 per week he had looked forward to promotion to L3 a week as something dazzling in its opulence, while L4 a week represented the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow. Now a sudden turn of Fortune's wheel had lifted him to a salary of L6 a week and all expenses paid, and the work he was required to do for his money was so trifling in amount as to be almost ludicrous. He had merely to read over a few letters and send off a few brief cablegrams saying nothing in particular.

As Lars Larssen had tersely phrased it, he was no longer a "clerk"—he was a "business man."

And he knew that if he carried out orders faithfully and intelligently, his future with his employer was assured. Larssen had a strong reputation for loyalty to his employees. He exacted much, but he gave much in return. As his own fortunes grew, so did those of his right-hand men. If a man after faithful service was stricken down by illness, Larssen allowed him a liberal pension.

That was "business" as the shipowner viewed it in his broad, far-sighted way. He saw business not as the mere handling of goods, but as the handling of men. In the attainment of his ambitions he was dependent on faithful service from his employees, and accordingly he made it worth their while to be faithful. He was liberal to them because liberality paid him. His position in the world was somewhat like that of a robber baron in the Middle Ages, carving out a kingdom with the help of loyal followers. The people he plundered were the outsiders, and a certain share of the spoils went to his men.

So Dean knew that if he carried out thoroughly the work entrusted to him, Larssen would stand by his spoken promise. He resolved to obey orders as faithfully and as intelligently as he possibly could. He did not write home what form his new work was taking. In his letters to Daisy he explained simply that he was being sent to Canada on a confidential mission, at a big increase of salary, and that he was having a regal time of it. At Quebec and Montreal and Ottawa and Winnipeg he scoured the shops to find presents which would carry to her a realisation of his new position.

Dean began to feel his importance growing rapidly as he journeyed across the Atlantic and around the principal cities of Canada. He thought he realised the meaning of "business" as it was viewed by the men up above, the men at the roll-top desks. He saw now that it was not hard, plugging work that earned them their big salaries. In a short fortnight he had begun to look a little contemptuously on the grinders and plodders. Why couldn't they realise how little their patient, plodding service could ever bring them? But some men, he reflected, were born to be merely clerks all their days. He was different—out of the common ruck. He could see largely, like Lars Larssen did. He was a man of importance.

Canada pressed a broad thumb on his plastic mind without his conscious knowledge. Canada with her young, red-blooded vigour swept into him like a tidal wave of open sea into a sluggish, marshy creek. Canada thrust her vastness and her limitless potentialities at him with a careless hand, as though to say: "Here's opportunity for the taking." Canada taught him in ten days what at home he would never have learnt in a lifetime: that London is not the British Empire.

The clerk who lives out his life in the rabbit-warren of the city of London by day, and in a cheap, pretentious, red-brick suburb by night, believes firmly that outside London not much matters. He lumps together the Canadian, the South African, the Australian, and the New Zealander under the slighting category of "colonials." He imagines them bowing themselves humbly before the majesty of the Londoner, taking their cues from London and reverencing it as the fount of all wisdom and might and wealth.

There is no one more "provincial" than the Cockney born and bred.

After ten days of Canada, Dean with his chameleon mind felt himself almost a Canadian. He was beginning to pity the limitations of the Londoner. He considered himself raised above that level.

Winnipeg, the new "wheat pit" of North America, impressed him most strongly. He could feel the bursting strength of the young city—a David amongst cities. He could feel it growing under his feet to its kingdom of the granary of Britain. The epic of the wheat pulsed its stately poetry into him—thrilled him with the majestic chords of its mighty song.

He had a half-idea that Lars Larssen's big scheme was in some way connected with the epic of the wheat, and it gave him fresh importance to think that he was serving such a man in so confidential a position.

He tried a little gamble in "May wheat" with a Winnipeg bucket-shop, plunging what was to him the important sum of twenty dollars. Luck was with him full-tide. From the moment he bought, May wheat shot upwards, and in a few days he had closed the deal with fifty dollars to his credit.

That evening he wandered around the city with money jingling in his trouser-pockets. He bought himself a good seat at a music-hall, and at the bar boldly ordered cocktails with weird names of which the contents were wonderful mysteries to him.

On his way home to his hotel about midnight, a flaming placard outside a tin-roofed chapel caught his eye and stopped him for a moment. The wording was crudely sensational:

THE WICKED FLOURISH! BUT FOR HOW LONG? A LIFETIME OF EASE FOR AN ETERNITY OF HELL-FIRE! DO YOU CHOOSE HELL? MAKE YOUR CHOICE TO-NIGHT!

The meeting inside the chapel was in full swing. A roar of voices raised in a marching hymn swept out to the deserted street. Dean's lips curved contemptuously for a moment. Then the whim came to him to finish his night's amusement by a sarcastic enjoyment of the revivalist service. He would go inside and watch other people making fools of themselves.

He entered the swinging doors of the chapel into a room hot with the odour of packed humanity, and found a place for himself at the rear.

Presently the hymn ended on a shout of triumph and a deep, solemn "Amen." There was a shuffling and scraping of feet as the congregation sat down and prepared itself to listen to the preacher.

He was a tall, lean man of fifty-five, with a thin grey beard and a hawk nose, and eyes that burnt with the intensity of inner fire. He was the ascetic, the fanatic, the man with a burning message to deliver. His eyes sought round his congregation before he gave out his text, seeking for the souls that might be ready for the saving.

"And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom; the rich man also died, and was buried. And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented."

The preacher read out the words with a slow, even intensity, making them carry the weight of the inevitable. He paused for them to sink in before he began the delivery of his own message.

"My friends," he said, "listen to this story from life. Many years ago there was a young man in this very city who had a great temptation placed before him. He was a clerk in an office, as many of you are. He was ambitious, as many of you are. He was hoping for riches and power, as many of you are.

"One day the devil tempted him. He could become rich if he chose to sacrifice his conscience. The devil promised him riches and power and all that his heart could desire. And he fell.

"My friends, the devil kept his literal promise. He always does. When he comes to you in the watches of the night, and offers you all that you desire on earth in return for your soul, you can know that he will keep his promise.

"The young man is now rich and famous, and if I told you his name, you would say that he is a man to be envied. You see his portraits in the papers; you hear of his mansions and his motor-cars, his yachts and his splendid entertainments; and you would never dream that he is the most unhappy man in Canada.

"The devil has given him everything he lusted for. And yet, not ten days ago, he came to me in secret and begged for help and counsel. His riches and power have turned to wormwood in his mouth. His wife and children hate him. His friends are only friends because he has money. He is the most lonely, the most miserable of men."

The preacher leant forward over the pulpit and half whispered: "The wicked flourish like the green bay tree, but who knows what secret canker eats into their hearts? The devil stands beside them and whispers mockingly: 'I have given you everything your heart lusted for; does it taste sweet? Does it taste sweet?' So much for this world; and now, my friends, what of the next world?"

The preacher straightened himself and with passionate sincerity flung out a torrent of warning and exhortation to his congregation—a lava-stream of burning words that bit into their very souls. Dean, who had come to mock, listened with a clutch at his heart that made him first shiver and then turn burning hot and faint. He passed his handkerchief over his forehead nervously, gripped at the seat to steady himself.

At length he could stand the strain no longer As he rose and stumbled his way towards the door, towards the fresh air, the preacher stopped in his discourse to send an individual message to him.

"Stay, my friend!" he cried. "To-night is the hour for you to choose. To-morrow I shall be gone. To-morrow will be too late. Choose now!"

But Dean had thrust open the swinging doors and had disappeared into the night.

At his hotel the porter handed him a telegram just arrived. It was from Lars Larssen—an order to proceed to New York and wait the shipowner's arrival there. It had been despatched by wireless from on board the s.s. "Aurelia."

That scrap of paper came as a bracing tonic to Arthur Dean. It was an order, and just now he ached to be ordered. The curt message out-weighed all the burning words of the preacher. Even from three thousand miles away Lars Larssen could grip hold of the mind of the young fellow and bend it to his purpose.

The next morning Dean was smiling scornfully at his weakness of the night before. He paid for a train ticket for New York via Toronto in a newly confident frame of mind. He was Larssen's man again.

* * * * *

At the beginning of the journey Dean read papers and magazines and smoked away the long hours. Tiring of that eventually, he sauntered to the observation platform at the rear of the train.

And there he found the preacher.

There was an embarrassing silence. The minister knew him at once for the young man who had left his chapel the night before in the middle of the discourse. Dean knew that he was recognized, but did not wish to appear cognizant of it. He tried to look indifferent, but with poor success.

The minister broke the silence by offering his card and saying: "One day you may need my help. If it please the Lord that I am alive then, come to me and I will help you."

Dean took the card and read the name, the Rev. Enoch Stephen Way, and a Toronto address. He pocketed the card and murmured a conventional thanks.

"You are an Englishman?" said the minister.

"Yes."

"Travelling on business?"

"Yes."

The answer was curt, and the minister saw that the young man resented any cross-examination of his private affairs. He therefore turned the conversation at once to impersonal matters.

"How do you like Canada? How does it strike you?"

"Fine!" answered Dean, relieved at the turn of the conversation. "So big."

"You mean the extent of the country?"

"It's not that, quite. I mean that people seem to think in a bigger way. I suppose it comes from having so much space around one."

The train was now passing through the endless miles of forest-land and tangled hills on the route to Fort William, with scarcely a sign of human habitation except by the occasional wayside stations. Now and again the train would thunder over a high trestle bridge above a leaping torrent-river. Dean waved his hand vaguely to include the primeval vastnesses around them.

"That's right," answered the minister. "There's no cramping here. Room for everyone. Room for spiritual growth as well as material growth. I know the feeling you have. When I was a young man about your age I came to Canada from the slums of Liverpool. I had been twice in jail in Liverpool. It was for theft. In England I should probably have developed into a chronic thief. There's little chance for a man who has once been in prison.... But Canada gave me my chance. Canada didn't bother about my past. Canada only wanted to know what I could do in the future."

Dean's eyes widened at this frank avowal. He had never seen or heard of a man—and especially a man in the ministry—who would openly confess to a prison-brand upon him.

"No wonder you like Canada," was his lame answer.

"Tell me, my friend, why you left my chapel so hurriedly last night."

Dean flushed. "I was feeling a bit faint," he returned.

"That's conscience."

"Oh, I don't know. The chapel was very packed and hot."

"It was conscience. Why won't you be frank with me?"

"There's nothing to be frank about."

The minister looked steadily at him, and Dean flushed still further and fidgetted uncomfortably.

"I must be getting back to my carriage," he murmured.

"The Lord has brought you to me a second time. There may never be a third time. The Lord has——"

A sudden jerk of the car threw them both off their feet. They were passing now over a high trestle bridge above a foaming torrent. There was a horrible grinding and jarring and crashing. The tail-car of the train flicked out sideways and hung half over the river, dragging with it the cars in front. For an age-long second it seemed as if the whole train would be precipitated into the water.

Then the couplings parted.

The end car, turning over and over, struck the river a hundred feet below and impaled itself on a jagged spur of rock hidden under the swirl of waters.

Dean had been battered to insensibility before the car reached the rocks.

He awoke to consciousness through the agonized dream that fiends were staking him down under water and torturing him by letting the water rise higher and higher, until finally he would be drowned by inches.

He awoke, struggling frantically, to the reality which had dictated the dream.

Waters were swirling around him, and his legs were pinned fast in the wreckage of the car tilted up on end amongst the sunken rocks. Burning pains shot through him. Far up above on the bridge men were shouting and rushing wildly.

He screamed out for help. A wave dashed at him and choked the scream on his lips. He struggled to free himself from the wreckage that pinned him fast, and blinding pain drove him to unconsciousness again.

As he awoke for the second time, a groan near by made him twist his head to see who it might come from. It was the minister, held fast amongst the splintered wreckage of the car, his face streaming red from a jagged gash in his grey head.

"I can't get to you! I'm helpless!" cried Dean.

The minister answered very simply: "My friend, see to yourself. The Lord has called me to his side."

With a sudden jerk the car settled deeper in the torrent. Only by straining to the uttermost could Dean keep his mouth to the air above the swirl of waters.

"Help!" he screamed to the bridge above. "I'll be drowned! Help!"

The minister began to pray aloud: "Lord, Thou hast been pleased to call me, and I come. Receive my soul in pity, and forgive me my many sins. And, oh Lord God, grant that this my young friend may live to see the light and to worship Thee. Let this be his hour of repentance. Start him upon a new path, and keep his feet from straying. In thy mercy save him that he might live to Thy glory. Show him what Thou hast shown me, and——"

The minister's hand dropped suddenly forward, and the waters closed over him with a snarl.

From the bridge far above a man was being lowered on a rope, like a spider hanging from a thread.

Dean watched him with paralyzed tongue. The strain to keep his head above the waters was racking him like a torment of the Inquisition. The horror of the situation grew with every second. Why did they lower so slowly? Would release ever come in time to save him?

His hour of repentance! Yes, the preacher was right. This was his punishment for the part he had taken in the fraudulent personation of Clifford Matheson. It came to Dean like a blinding flash of light that God was demanding of him whether he would repent or no—whether he would vow to run straight for the future.

The man on the rope was growing larger. His face held the solemnity of an Eternal Judge. In his two hands were scrolls marked Riches and Poverty. He held them out towards Dean, demanding his instant choice. The young man begged for a moment to consider. He shut his eyes against the decision thrust upon him. A voice thundered in his ears....



CHAPTER XXIII

LARSSEN'S MAN ONCE AGAIN

Of the eleven passengers in the car that plunged over the bridge, Arthur Dean was the only one saved. Nine had been drowned in the interior of the car when it crashed amongst the rocks of the torrent. Only Dean and the minister, standing in the observation platform at the rear of the car, had had a chance of life, and the minister had died before help had reached him. The shock affected Dean more seriously than his injuries, which were nothing worse than severe bruises and cuts. He knew that he had had a miraculous escape, and the horror of the peril wove in and out of his thoughts as he lay in hospital at Fort William, haunting dreams and waking thoughts alike.

When he left the hospital he was a changed man—white and gaunt of face, and resolved in purpose to tell Lars Larssen at once that he would serve him no longer.

He made for New York, and went straight to the shipowner's offices. These were situated at the very beginning of Broadway, overlooking Battery Park, on the tip of the tongue of Manhattan Island. Inside, they were very much on the same lines of the London offices—in fact, the latter were modelled on them. Above the dome of the building stretched the antennae of Larssen's wireless.

To his intense disappointment, Dean was informed that the chief was away from New York, by the bedside of his little son at his school in Florida.

The young fellow had worked himself up to the point of handing in his resignation; he had fixed on just what he would say to his employer; and this check threw him back on his haunches. To travel down to Florida would cost money, and he did not feel justified in paying for the journey out of the expenses allowance given him by Larssen. To explain by letter was too difficult. After some thought he decided to take a return ticket by day coach, and to pay for it out of his own pocket.

Golden Beach, where the school was situated, was a fashionable winter resort on the Florida coast. In one of its several palatial hotels, Larssen had engaged a suite of rooms and had made himself a temporary office. Dean carried his modest portmanteau to the hotel, and waited in the piazza until Larssen should return from a visit to his boy.

It was late in the afternoon when the shipowner came striding along the white, palm-shaded road, purpose and masterfulness in every movement. When he caught sight of Dean waiting on the piazza, he came up with a hand outstretched in cordial greeting.

"Well, Dean, how are you feeling now? The accident must have given you a terrific shake-up."

"Much better, thank you, sir."

"Looks to me you could do with a fortnight's complete holiday," said Larssen, surveying critically the gaunt white face of the young man. "Say so, and it's yours."

Dean stammered some words of thanks. This cordial greeting threw him into confusion—made it so much more difficult to say what he had come to say. For a moment's respite, he asked after Larssen's little boy.

"He'll pull round. The crisis is over. His constitution's weak, but he'll pull round. Money saved him. On the 'Aurelia' I got hold of all the facts of the case by wireless, and took a grip of the situation. I sized up the doctors here as a couple of well-meaning fools. I wired to Chicago for a man who's made a speciality of opsonic treatment for pneumonia. His own invention—something the other doctors sneer at. I had him packed from Chicago to Golden Beach by special train, with full authority to boss the case.... Yes, it's money that saved my boy. Money, Dean, holds the power of life and death. Money is the mightiest thing in this world. I expect you've come to realise that lately, now you've left off being a clerk."

Dean gulped and answered: "That's what I've come to speak to you about, sir."

The shipowner shot a swift glance at him. "Come to my office," he said, and led the way.

When he had the young fellow seated with the light full on him, Larssen asked coldly: "What's your song? Looking for a raise already?"

"No, it's not that. I don't feel I can carry out this work."

"What work?"

"Your work."

"Talk it longer."

"It's like this, sir. When I was in Winnipeg, I went one night to a music-hall, and on my way home I went by chance into a chapel meeting."

"Music-hall or chapel—it's all one to me, so long as you're not a drinker. You're free to spend your evenings as you like, provided it doesn't interfere with your work."

"There was a preacher there, a Mr Enoch Way, who impressed me very strongly, sir. So much so that I had to leave the meeting. When I got back to my hotel, I found a wire from you telling me to travel to New York. I caught the morning train, and on the train I met Mr Way again. We were on the observation platform together when the railway-car went over the bridge. He died not a yard away from me, down in the river! He was a fine man—a great man! and if I could die like he died, with a prayer on his lips for someone who was only a stranger——" Dean choked and stopped.

Presently he resumed: "And when I lay in hospital at Fort William, I thought things over and over. I began to see clearly that I ought never to have taken on the work you asked me to do."

"Why not?"

"It's not right, sir! You know what you asked me to do wasn't right! It's fraud!" The words came clear and strong now.

If Larssen had been a man of ordinary passions, he would have kicked Dean out of the door and told him to go to the devil. But the shipowner had not reached his present power by giving way to ordinary feelings.

He answered very quietly: "I should have liked to meet that Mr Way. He must have been a man of personality. What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything. I think he guessed. He was that kind of man—he could read right into you."

"What did he tell you?"

"The story of his life. He had been in prison twice when he was a young man."

"I mean, what did he tell you to do?"

"He told me it was my hour for repentance. That was when we were in the observation platform together. The next moment we were thrown over the bridge."

"And then?"

"He died praying God to help me to repent and live straight!"

"Repent of what?"

"Of taking part in a fraud. Of pretending a dead man was still alive—going to Canada and sending letters in his name so that his friends would think he was still alive. I don't know how I could have brought myself to do such a thing! I was tempted, I suppose, and I fell. But temptation is nothing—it's falling to temptation that matters! That's what he said in his sermon."

"Anything else to repent of?"

"Nothing very much, sir. Of course I've not been all I should have been, but I'd never done anything radically wrong until then."

The shipowner rose and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I appreciate your feelings," he said. "They do you credit, Dean. You're sound and straight, and that's what I want in my young men."

Dean looked up in surprise. "I don't think you quite understand, sir. I've come here to-day—come at my own expense—to hand you in my resignation."

"Well, there's no need for it. You've been worrying yourself over a bogey."

"A bogey!"

"Yes. There's been no 'fraud' at all. Clifford Matheson is as alive as you are. He knows perfectly well that you've been in Canada for him."

"But the overcoat and stick! They were his—I'll swear to it!"

"Yes, they were his right enough. He laid them by the river-bank at Neuilly himself."

"Why?"

"That's complicated to answer. I don't know that I ought to tell you without Mr Matheson's express permission. In fact, I want you to keep what I've just told you entirely to yourself."

Dean felt bewildered. There was suspicion in his eyes.

Larssen saw the suspicion and continued rapidly. "You think I'm trying to bluff you? I never bluff with my staff, whatever I may do outside. I'll give you proof. Have you got those signatures of Clifford Matheson's?"

Dean produced them from his pocket-book.

The shipowner rapidly unlocked his desk and drew out a printed document which he placed in the young man's hands.

"Now see here. This prospectus was printed off a week after you left for Canada. You can know that by the printed date. Now what is the wording written over it in ink?"

"'O.K., Clifford Matheson,'" read out Dean.

"Compare it with your two signatures."

"It's the same."

"Exactly. That prospectus was passed by Mr Matheson some time after you imagined him dead and buried."

Dean could answer nothing. The world had turned upside down for him. Larssen took the prospectus and the two specimen signatures, and locked them away in his desk.

"Well?" he asked smilingly. "Am I the devil tempting you to run crooked?"

"I must apologize, sir—apologize sincerely! I didn't know of all this. I thought——I thought——"

"That's all over now. We'll forget it. You've proved to me you're sound and straight. You've carried out orders well. Carry out future orders in the same way, and I'll do everything I've promised for you. You know that I never break a promise to my staff?"

"Yes, indeed, sir. That's well known."

"Well, my next order is this: take a fortnight's holiday and get strong again.... Do you fish?"

"I'd like to."

"I'll put you in the way of some splendid fishing. Tarpon! After that you'll return to England with me. Sound good to you?"

"You're too generous, sir!" answered the young fellow with deep feeling.

He was Larssen's man once again.



CHAPTER XXIV

CONFESSION

Riviere was at his glass-topped, bevel-edged bench in the private biological laboratory at Wiesbaden, surrounded by his apparatus of experiment. At the moment he was looking down with one eye through the high-power immersion lens of his microscope at two tiny blobs of life in a drop of water. From day to day the salinity of the water was being slowly altered, and this was only one of thousands of experiments he had planned on the effect of changing conditions of life on the elemental organisms.

Every day he was passing in review scores of slides on which the elemental reaction to abnormal conditions was unfolding itself for his observation. Each drop of water was a world where the vital spark was struggling against the harshness of nature. Each drop of water embodied a fight of primitive protoplasm against disease. Each drop of water was contributing its tiny quota to the new book of knowledge he hoped one day to give to his fellow-men.

Like all trained microscopists, Riviere worked with both eyes open. The amateur observer has to screw one eye tight in order to avoid a confusion of impressions, and quickly tires himself. The trained man keeps both eyes open, and schools his brain to concentrate on the one vision and ignore the other. He sees only the miniature world at the further end of his complex of lenses.

But Riviere, self-controlled as he was, could not keep attention on his experimental slide. The vision of the miniature world faded out, and through the other eye came the impression of the outside of the polished brass tube of the microscope; the glass slide beyond, lit up by the reflector as though with a searchlight; and the plate-glass bench mirroring the cases of specimens and the shelves of chemical reagents.

And then the material vision of both eyes faded away, and he saw only the inner vision of Elaine lying with bandaged eyes in the darkened room of the Dr Hegelmann's surgical home. The great specialist, pulling at his beard with his long, delicately-chiselled fingers, so out of keeping with the shapelessness of his bulky, untidy figure, had taken Riviere aside and had given him orders in that wonderfully musical voice of his.

"Fraulein is worrying—that is bad for the recovery. I will not have her worried. You must tell her that everything will come right—you must make her smile again."

"But I'm only a casual acquaintance. We met by mere chance a few days before the attack at Nimes," Riviere had said.

"Nevertheless, you can do much for her. She will listen to you gladly. You are no longer casual acquaintances. I am an observer of human nature as well as a surgeon, and I know that the mind is the key to the bodily health. I know that you can influence her. Talk to her freely—it will not tire her. That is my order."

But Riviere had not been able to carry out the spirit of the old man's shrewd command. When he was by her bedside, a great constraint had come upon him. What had been easy to embody in a letter, was terribly difficult to frame in spoken speech. Several times he had tried to open the way to a confession. He knew it must scarify Elaine, and he shrank from it. But yet it was plain her mind was not at rest, and that was worse for her than the knowledge of the truth.

He, too, must act the surgeon.

With sudden resolution, Riviere put away his microscope and placed his experimental slides in their air-tight incubating chamber. He changed from his laboratory coat to his outdoor coat, and made his way rapidly towards the surgical home.

As he crossed the Wilhelmstrasse—gay with its alluring shops and its crowd of well-dressed, leisured saunterers—a man came up with outstretched hand to Riviere and then hesitated visibly.

"Excuse me, sir, but I thought for the moment you were a friend of mine, a Mr Clifford Matheson. I see now that I was mistaken by a very striking resemblance."

"My half-brother."

"Ah, that's it!" said the man, visibly relieved. "Well, remember me to him when you see him. Warren is my name—Major Warren."

"I'll certainly do so."

"Thanks—good afternoon."

It was not the first proof Riviere had had of the safety of his new identity. Though Larssen and Olive had penetrated the disguise, others who knew him well, even his own clerks, had been perfectly satisfied with the explanation of the "half-brother."

When he was ushered into the darkened room at the surgical home, Elaine smiled greeting to him, and the smile stabbed him with self-reproach. He had come to wound her. There must be no further delay. He must act the surgeon now.

Elaine half-sat, half-lay in a chaise longue. His white lilac and fuchsia—those were her favourite flowers he had discovered—were on a small table by her side, scenting the room faintly but definitely. She had a letter in her hands, which she asked him to open and read to her.

"The nurse doesn't read English well," she explained.

Riviere looked first at the signature. "It's from your friend Madge in Paris."

"Then it will be good reading."

As he read it out to her, he kept glancing now and again at her face to note the effect of the words. The letter was mostly a gay account of the girl's doings in Paris—the amusements of the past week, little scraps about mutual friends, theatrical gossip, and so on. It was meant to cheer, but it did not cheer. Riviere could see that Elaine was reading into every sentence the might-have-been of her own wrecked life. He hurried through it as quickly as possible, and then they chatted for some time of impersonal matters.

His words began to come from him with a curious husky abruptness. Elaine felt the tension, and knew that he had something important to tell her. She sought to help him to it.

"Your journey to London," she said. "Did it effect your purpose? You haven't told me much."

"I had the hardest fight of my life," he replied, taking up her opening with relief. This would lead him to what he had come to tell her.

"And you won?"

"I was beaten to my knees."

"That doesn't sound like you as I knew you at Arles."

"The fight's not over yet. I managed to stumble up again for a final round."

"May I know what the fight was about?"

"I want you to know every detail of it," he answered swiftly. "I want your advice—your help."

"My help?" There was a faint flush in her cheeks below the bandages. "What can I do?"

He paused a moment before replying, seeking the right beginning to his story.

"You remember at Nimes telling me that your father had lost the last remnant of his fortune speculating in one of the Clifford Matheson companies?"

"Yes. And I was surprised to find how different you were to my conception of your brother."

"I am Clifford Matheson."

"I don't understand!" she gasped.

"I am Clifford Matheson. I took the name of John Riviere because ... well, the reason for that is one part of the story I have to tell you."

The pain, so evident in the drawn lines about her mouth, made him pause. It was the first stroke of the scalpel.

From outside the window came the care-free chirping of the birds making their Spring nests and telling the whole world of their happiness.