Presently she whispered "Go on," as though she had steeled herself to bear the next stroke of the knife.

"My reason was that I wanted to cut myself loose—completely—from my life in the financial world and from my married life. A sudden opportunity came to me two days before I first met you at Arles. I seized the opportunity and planned to disappear entirely from my world. I arranged evidence of a violent death, in the belief that it would be accepted by my friends and by the Courts. My wife would be freed; she would come into my property; and I myself should be free to carry out in quiet the scientific work I'd planned."

"Which was the reason?"

"The last."

"Your wife, then, is the woman I saw in the Cote d'Azur Rapide?"

"Yes."

Elaine considered this in silence for some moments. A question framed itself on her lips; she hesitated; finally it came out:

"Then you were not happy together?"

"My marriage was a ghastly mistake. I was quite unsuited to my wife.... But I made a bigger mistake when I thought to cut loose from the life I'd woven for myself. One thread pulled me back inexorably. I had half committed myself to a deal involving five millions of the public's money with Lars Larssen, the shipowner——"

"Larssen!" she exclaimed.

"You know him?"

"No; but he was once pointed out to me at the Academy, the year the portrait of his little boy was exhibited there. I could feel at once the tremendous strength of will behind the man. Something beyond the human. I was fascinated and repelled at the one time. So that is the man who——"

"Who wants to drag you into a divorce court."

Elaine sat up rigid with shock. "A divorce court! How—why? What possible——?"

"Larssen doesn't stick at possibilities."

"I realise that, but——"

"I'll not let him drag you into court. Be quite sure in your mind of that. But listen, Elaine!" Her name came from him unconsciously. "Listen, I want you to know every detail. It's your right."

Elaine flushed. Her voice held a delicate softness as she answered: "I'll listen without interruption."

Then Riviere told her of what had happened since the crucial night of March 14th, omitting nothing that she ought to know, sparing nothing of himself. She listened quietly to his account of the interview at the Rue Laffitte when he had, as he thought, made the final settlement with Larssen; and to the recital of what had occurred from the moment of his seeing the notice in the Europe Chronicle of the coming flotation of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd.

He did not tell her of what he had seen through the lighted window of Thornton Chase, but passed on to the interview at Larssen's office.

She shuddered as he spoke of the shipowner's brutal insinuations, and burst out: "It was blackmail."

"Yes, but legalized blackmail."

"You never gave in to him on that ground?"

"Listen further."

Riviere spoke of his wife's unexpected entry into the office at Leadenhall Street, and the scene that had followed when Olive and Larssen together had bent their joint wills to the task of forcing him to his knees. When he concluded on the signature wrung out of the shipowner at the last moment, Elaine cried her relief:

"Then you're not beaten down! I'm glad—I'm glad!"

On his further conversation with Olive, Riviere touched very briefly, merely indicating the terms his wife had rigidly demanded.

"And that's how the matter rests at present," he ended bitterly. "I've taken away your livelihood; and dragged your name into this unsavoury mire; and there's no finality reached.... But I'll get this tangle straightened out somehow, if I have to choke Larssen to do it!"

Riviere had strode over to the window—not to look out, because the curtains were close-drawn, but from sheer force of habit. He turned round sharply as a half-whispered question—an utterly unexpected question—came from Elaine.

"Why did you leave me so abruptly at Arles?"

Riviere's blood leapt hot in his veins and he answered recklessly: "Because I loved you! Loved you from the first moment we met! And I hadn't the right to love you. I wasn't running away from you—I was running away from myself."

"Now I see. I thought then.... And when you offered to devote your life to me? You remember that, don't you?" She was trembling as she spoke.

"I meant every word of it!"

"It was not pity for me? I want the truth—nothing but the truth! Oh, if I could only see you now, to know if it were the truth!" Her hands went up impulsively to the bandages over her eyes, then dropped helplessly to her side as she remembered they must on no account be touched.

"As God hears me, it was not pity but love!" he answered with passionate sincerity.

"Then you give me something to live for!"

Her meaning thundered upon him.

"You intended to——?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When my money was exhausted."

"I never dreamt!"

"What else was left for me?"

"Surely you knew that I'd provide for you?"

"I couldn't accept it—then."

"You'll accept it now?"

"I must think."

"I insist! I claim it as my right! You wouldn't torture me all my life with the thought that I'd driven you to——"

"Don't say it."

Riviere took her hand and bent to kiss it reverently. There was silence for many moments—a silence of deep sympathy. Elaine's flushed cheeks told Riviere more plainly than words what she was feeling.

"I'm so glad," she said at length. "So glad to know."

"And I'm glad to have told you."

"I shall get my sight back now. I have something to live for."

"Please God, you will."

"I feel it. I have something to live for.... Dear John!"

She sought to take his hand in hers, but he rose abruptly from beside her couch and strode away.

"We're forgetting!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I'm still Clifford Matheson."

"Not to me."

"Nothing can alter the fact."

"Let us live in dreamland awhile," she pleaded gently.

"But the awakening must come."

"We have till May 3rd."

"Till May 3rd.... And then?"

"And then you will go back to the fight."

"Yes. But Larssen won't relent. Nor will my wife."

"Something may happen before then."

"We must make things happen."

"We?"

"Yes—you and I."

There was silence again for some moments. He came back to her side. She sought for his hand, and he let her take it in hers.

Gradually the glow of an idea lit up her cheeks.

"I think I see the way out!" she exclaimed.

"What's the plan?"

"Will you trust to me—trust to me implicitly without asking for reasons?"

"I'd trust you to the world's end!"

"Then write to your wife for me."

"To say——?"

"To say that I want to meet her."

"But she'd never come!"

"I know her better than you do. I saw her in the train that morning—heard her speak. It told me a great deal. We women know one another's springs of actions. If you write the letter I dictate, she'll come!"

"If she came, it would only exhaust you and hinder your recovery. Dr Hegelmann would certainly not allow it if he knew. He's given me strict orders to chase away worry from you."

"It would worry me still more not to write that letter.... I shall be fighting for you, and that will help me to get back my sight. Please!"

"Then I'll fetch pen and paper and write for you. But we must let a week go by before posting. Every day will give you new strength."

"Through your love," she whispered.



CHAPTER XXV

WHITE LILAC

Happiness is a veil of iridescent gossamer draped over the ugliness of reality. Happiness is rooted in illusion—in the ignoring of harsh fact and jarring circumstance, and the perception only of what is beautiful and joyous.

Happiness is an impressionist painting. One takes a muddy, sullen river flanked by rotting wharves and grimy factories and huddled, festering slums, and under the mantle of evening and the veil of illusion one creates a "Nocturne in Silver." The eye of the artist finds equal beauty in the Thames by sordid Southwark and the Adriatic lapping Venice in her soft caress. The common phrase has it as "the seeing eye"—but more justly it is the ignoring eye. The artist ignores the harsh and the ugly, and transfers to his canvas only the harmonious and the poetic. He epitomises happiness.

Little children know this truth instinctively. They find their highest happiness in make-believe. A child of the slums with a rag-doll and a few beads and a scrap of faded finery can make for herself a world of fairyland. She is a princess clothed in shimmering silk and hung about with pearls and diamonds. She is courted by a knight in golden armour. She is married amidst the acclamations of a loyal populace. She is the mother of a king-to-be. She is radiantly happy.

And in her self-created world of make-believe she is far wiser than these grown-ups who insist with obstinate complacency on "seeing things as they are." They take pride in being disillusioned.

Not realising that happiness is bowered in illusion.

* * * * *

"Let us live in dreamland awhile," Elaine had said with the wisdom of a little child.

It was tacitly agreed to by Riviere. When together, they combined to ignore the tangle of ugly circumstance and the harsh struggle to come. For the time being they were in fancy two lovers with no barrier between and the world smiling joyously upon them.

After a full day's work in his laboratory, he would come to her side and answer her questions with the tenderness of a lover.

"You've brought me white lilac again," she said one day as he entered. "How did you first guess that white lilac is my favourite flower?"

"White lilac is yourself," he answered.

"Why?"

"Every woman suggests a flower. One sees many roses—little bud roses, and big, buxom, full-blown roses, and wild, free-blowing roses. One sees many white camellias, and heavy-scented tuberoses, and opulent Parma violets, and gorgeous tiger-lilies—those have been the women of my world. One sees many marigolds and cornflowers and poppies. But I've seen only one white lilac—you. White lilac is the fresh young Spring. And yet it is a woman grown. White lilac is sweet and tender and gracious. White lilac is so faint in perfume that any other scented flower would smother it, and yet its fragrance lives in my memory beyond any other. White lilac is yourself."

"How many-sided you are! Financier, and scientist, and now ... and now poet."

"No—lover."

"Then love must be living poetry."

"That many-sidedness is my weakness."

"I don't want it otherwise."

"The success race has to be run in blinkers. One must see only the goal ahead. There must be no looking to right or left."

"If success means that, then success is bought too dearly.... Dear John, I don't want you otherwise than you are. I love you for your weakness and not your strength. That's the mother-love in a woman."

"I can do so little for you."

"So little? You've made this sick-room an enchanted castle for me! I dread the time when I shall have to leave it. But we won't speak of that—that's forbidden ground."

"We'll speak only of the world we've created for ourselves. It's a whole planet with only you and I for its sole inhabitants. The planet Earth is far away in space—just a cold white star amongst a wilderness of others."

"I used to think you cold and bloodless—that was at Arles and Nimes."

"We were far apart then. We were next to one another in the physical plane, and yet a million miles away in the plane of reality. Only the invisible things are the realities of life.... You were to leave Nimes the next day, and I never expected to see you again."

"You remember the arena at Arles, at sunset, when you climbed up to stand beside me. Did you know then that I wanted you to speak to me?

"Yes, I knew that. But there was the barrier between us."

"Were we destined to meet, do you think?"

"Quien sabe?"

There was a long silence between them—a silence which held no constraint, a silence that exists only between those in deep sympathy. Silence is the test of true friendship.

"I was so glad to know," she said at length. "It outweighed everything else."

There was no need to put her thoughts more explicitly.

"Didn't you guess before?" he answered gently.

"I couldn't be sure, and the doubt tortured me. I thought it might only be pity. Such a world of difference!"

"You're sure now?"

"Yes; your voice has told me more than your words. Even the notes of the birds soften when they...." She left the sentence uncompleted.

"It was Larssen who brought us together," he meditated.

"Larssen! He dominates us both. He seems to hold us in his hands. He's like ... like Fate. Pitiless, relentless."

"And, like Fate, to be fought to the end."

"I love you for your weakness, and yet I love you as the fighter. How contradictory it sounds!"

"Such seeming contradiction comes from elision. One leaves out the train of thought in between. Between you and me there's no need for the lengthy explanation. There's scarcely need for words at all."

"But yet I love to hear you speak. Your words heal."

"Dr Hegelmann is shrewd as well as marvellously skilful. He said to me to-day: 'I can see you are obeying orders. Frauelein needs your doctoring as much as my surgery.'"

"He's a dear man as well as a great man."

Riviere burst out impulsively: "But the days fly by and my Cinderella's midnight rushes nearer!"

"Not yours alone. Mine too!"

"And when our fairy garments turn back to rags?"

"We'll have had our hour—our hour! No one can take that away from us. Its memories——"

"To me it will be the memory of white lilac."

Elaine felt for the flowers in the tall vase by her side, and broke off a small spray.

"Keep this in symbol."

She kissed it before she gave it into his hands.



CHAPTER XXVI

A CHALLENGE

Olive was at her dressing-table at Thornton Chase, looking searchingly into a mirror.

That afternoon she had been dragged unwillingly to the consulting-room of a Cavendish Square physician by her father, who had insisted on having "a tonic or something" prescribed for her. The physician was one of those men who achieve a fashionable practice by an outrageous bluntness—a calculatedly outrageous bluntness. He had found that women like to be bullied by their doctors.

"You're drugging yourself to a lunatic asylum," he had told her after a very brief examination.

"Drugs? I, doctor?" she had replied with a little surprised raising of her eyebrows.

"Don't prevaricate! Don't try to deceive me. You look a perfect wreck. All the signs of it. Come, which is it—morphia, hashish or what?"

"You're mistaken, doctor. I'm run down, that's all. I want a tonic."

"And I'm a busy man." He rose brusquely and strode to the door to open it for her. "I must wish you good afternoon!"

Olive caved in. "Well, perhaps now and again, when I feel absolutely in need of it, I do take a little stimulant," she conceded.

The physician cross-examined her ruthlessly. Finally he prescribed an absolute cessation of drug-taking, and gave her a special dietary and mixture of his own which would help to create a distaste for the morphia.

"Remember," he warned her as they parted, "you're looking an absolute wreck. Everyone can see it. Three months more of the same pace would make you a hag."

Olive was searching her mirror for refutation of his words, trying to stroke away the flabbiness of her cheek and chin muscles and the heavy strained shadows under the eyes. Yes, it was true—the drug was stamping its mastery on her face, grinning from behind her eyelids.

She must fight it down!

The resolution came hot upon the thought that Clifford had noticed the change in her. No doubt he would like her to drug herself to death. That would suit his plans to perfection. Then he would be free to marry that Verney woman. She must fight down her craving for the drug if only to spite Clifford.

With a curious vindictive satisfaction, Olive took out her hypodermic syringe from its secret place and smashed it to pieces with the bedroom poker. She gathered up the fragments of glass and silver and threw them into the fire, heaping coals over them.

As she was poking the fire, her maid knocked and entered with a letter. The postmark was Wiesbaden; the handwriting was her husband's. No doubt a further appeal to her feelings, she reflected contemptuously. But the letter proved to be from Elaine—written at the invalid's dictation by Riviere.

Olive read it with a mixture of indignation and very lively curiosity. The letter was no appeal to her feelings—rather, a challenge:—

"I think we ought to meet," it said. "I have many things to tell you of which you know nothing at present—unless you have guessed. They affect your husband's position very materially. Unfortunately I am confined to a sick-room, else I should have come to London before this in order to call upon you."

That was all.

Olive's indignation was based on the obvious deduction that Riviere had confided completely in the girl. Her curiosity was roused by the thoughts of what she could be like to exert such a fascination, and what she could have to say. Perhaps the letter was a ruse to see Olive and then make another appeal for pity. Well, in that case there would be a very delicious pleasure in giving an absolute refusal—a pleasure one could taste in anticipation and linger over in execution. One could play with the girl a little—pretend to be influenced, hesitate, ask for time to consider, raise hopes, fan them, and then administer the coup de grace.

To see Elaine promised an exciting diversion, very welcome just now when Olive had to give up the customary stimulation of the drug.

These considerations united in deciding her to travel to Wiesbaden. She would cross to the Continent alone, her father and her maid being left at home. Sir Francis knew nothing as yet of Riviere—for Olive had told him nothing. She had an unlimited capacity for keeping her own counsel when it suited her purpose.

The next day saw her en route for Wiesbaden, following a letter to that effect to Elaine.



CHAPTER XXVII

WOMEN'S WEAPONS

Olive had a genius for dress. Her gowns had not only style, which might be due to the costumier, but also effect, which is entirely personal. They invariably harmonized with the occasion, or with the way she sought to mould the occasion. Sometimes she had snapped her fingers at fashion, taken matters with the high hand—and carried the occasion triumphantly. The illustrated weeklies published portraits of her when the theatrical market was dull.

It was characteristic of Olive that although she was going to visit a blinded girl with bandaged eyes, yet when she left the Hotel Quisisana at Wiesbaden for the surgical home she had dressed studiously for the occasion. The part to be dressed was that of "the outraged wife." The gown was of clinging grey cashmere, cut with simplicity and dignity, with touches of soft violet to suggest sensitive inner feelings. The hat was of grey straw with willowy feathers drooping softly from it. She wore no jewellery beyond a simple pearl brooch and her wedding-ring.

Dressed thus, she felt ready for any cruelty.

A nurse showed her into the room where Elaine lay on her chaise longue with bandages hiding the upper part of her face.

"Do you suffer much?" asked Olive softly, when the nurse had left them alone.

"Thank you—there is no pain now. Only waiting for the day of release, when my bandages are to be removed."

"It must be terrible to know that one's sight can never be restored."

"I don't expect it. But I shall have a fair measure of sight. Dr. Hegelmann promises it."

"Still, it's best not to raise one's hopes too high. Doctors have to be optimistic as part of their trade. I remember one very sad case where——" Olive stopped herself abruptly as though her tongue had run away with her. "Pardon me—I was forgetting."

"I know," affirmed Elaine happily.

"You know what?"

"That I shall have a fair measure of sight. The doctor tells me recovery depends largely on the mental condition. I was worrying myself up till a few days ago, but now I'm supremely happy. So I shall recover—I've something to live for, you see!" Elaine reached for the vase by her side and raised a spray of white lilac to breathe in its fragrance.

The happiness so evident on Elaine's lips stirred Olive uneasily.

"Then you've had good news from outside? I'm very glad to hear it," she said.

"Good news? Why, yes, thanks to you! I want first to thank you for your generosity. I was worrying so until I heard the news from John."

"From whom?"

"Your husband. You see, he will always be John Riviere to me. That's how I knew him during these wonderful days at Arles and Nimes." Her voice became dreamy with memories. "I met him first, you know, at the arena at Arles. We sat for hours in the flooding sunlight reconstructing our pictures of the past. The stone tiers were vivid orange in the sunlight and deep purple in the shadows. A deep, greyish purple. We sat apart, I longing for him to speak to me and exchange thoughts. But there was no one to introduce us. How stupid convention is! At sunset we climbed up to the topmost tier and stood together as though on an island tower in the midst of a sea of marshland. I ached to speak to him, and still we remained silent and apart. That night came the introduction I longed for. I was wandering about the dark, narrow lanes of Arles when a half-drunken peasant tried to attack me. I cried out for help, and John came to my defence with his strong arm and his clenched fist. There was no need for formal introduction after that. We found we were staying at the same hotel...."

Olive made no comment.

Elaine continued: "Nimes is fragrant with its memories for me. The Jardin de la Fontaine, the Maison Carree, the Druids' Tower, the dear Villa Clementine! There was a little pebbly garden and a fountain by which we used to sit for lunch—there were two lazy old goldfish I used to feed with crumbs. Darby and Joan!... Those memories of Nimes wash away the burn of the vitriol, now that you've been so kind and generous."

"I fail to understand," said Olive coldly. The interview was shaping itself very differently to what she had expected.

Elaine turned her bandaged head towards her in surprise. "But John tells me you've offered to release him!"

"Offered to release him! My dear Miss Verney, Clifford must have been saying pretty things to soothe you. I'm sorry to pour cold water on your dreams, but you'll have to learn the truth some time, and it's kinder to tell you now. Release him! My husband is not an employee to be handed over to somebody else at a moment's notice. There are such things as marriage laws ... and divorce laws."

"Aren't we talking at cross-purposes, Mrs Matheson? I quite understand all that. John tells me that you have promised to divorce him. That's very generous of you."

"You seem to ignore the point that a divorce suit involves a co-respondent."

"No; not at all. I wanted to see you in order to thank you; and then to arrange the details so that the matter can go through with as little trouble as possible. Of course, after your kindness, I shall let the suit go undefended."

Olive searched the bandaged face of her rival with merciless scrutiny. But the blinded girl seemed unconscious of that look of stabbing hatred and suspicion. She was apparently smiling happily—weaving day-dreams. Her hand went out to the vase of white lilac caressingly.

For that was the part Elaine had set herself to play for the sake of the man she loved. He had been beaten down to his knees by Larssen and Olive in the shipowner's office because he had had Elaine to protect. To save her from the mire of the divorce court he had had to give in and sign at Larssen's dictation.

Now she was determined to release him for free action. Whatever it might cost her in self-respect, she was going to make Olive believe that a divorce suit was the one thing she most ardently desired.

"I shall let the divorce suit go undefended," she had said, smiling happily.

Olive made a decisive effort to regain the whip-hand. "Divorce by collusion is out of the question!" she retorted sharply. "The King's Proctor sees to that. You don't imagine that it's sufficient merely to say you don't defend the suit? There must be evidence before the Court."

Elaine bowed her head.

"There is evidence," she said in a low voice.

"At Arles, Nimes, or here?"

"At Nimes."

"Then my husband lied to me! He swore to me on his word of honour that there was nothing between you!"

"John is very chivalrous."

"You tell me he lied?"

"I don't know just what he said to you.... And I want you to realise this: the fault was on my side. I loved him. I love him still. I shall love him always. Always, whatever happens."

Then she added, because in the playing of her part she had determined to spare herself no degradation: "I care nothing for what people say. They may sneer and point at me, but nothing shall keep us apart."

Olive went chalk-white with anger. She had not travelled the long journey to Wiesbaden to be fooled in this way. The ground had been cut from under her feet by Elaine's most unexpected attitude, and the situation needed some drastic counter-move on her part.

"A pretty story!" she retorted. "If you imagine your childish bluffing would deceive me, you've a lot to learn yet! Clifford was not lying, and you are! That's the long and short of it!"

"Then call him here and ask him before me!"

Olive saw her opportunity. She could find out Riviere's address from Dr. Hegelmann or from one of the staff of the nursing home, and go to confront him before Elaine could see and warn him of the new development. It would be strategic to allay suspicion of her coming move, however.

"I want to see nothing more of Clifford," she replied. "We've agreed to part. He's to go on with his life as John Riviere. If you like to marry him as John Riviere, you're quite welcome to do so as far as I'm concerned."

"You mean that you want to get permission from the Courts to presume death, and then take possession of his property?"

"Any such arrangement is entirely a private matter between my husband and myself."

"I doubt if John would agree to that arrangement now. He would make you a suitable allowance, of course."

Olive could have choked this girl lying helpless in her chair, and yet holding the whip-hand in their triangle of conflicting interests. She felt as if she had been tripped and thrown without a word of warning. To have travelled to Wiesbaden to play the outraged wife sitting in judgment on the woman who had sinned, and now——!

If only Larssen were here to advise her!

She tried another move, altering her voice to as much sweetness as she could command under her white-hot anger.

"My dear, I appreciate your feelings," she said. "You want to fight for the man you love. You'd even blacken your character for his sake. You'd face the sneers of the world for his sake. I admire you for it. It brings us nearer together. I admit that I had misjudged you a little. That was because I hadn't seen you and spoken to you. Now I know what a fine character you are, and I want you not to bring unnecessary suffering on yourself. I'm older than you, and I've seen very much more of the world. I know that a good woman can't live with a married man for long. The situation becomes intolerable after a time. One can't ignore the conventions of the world one lives in."

"I'm ready to face all that. I've counted the cost."

"But is Clifford ready to? Think of him. Think of his work. He would not only be ostracised socially, but also scientifically. His work would be ignored. You would destroy his life-work. You would kill his ambition!"

Olive's thrust went home, though not to the exact point she aimed at. Elaine remained silent as the thought raced through her of how Olive, if she deemed it to her own interests, might kill Riviere's work.

"So you see, dear," pursued Olive, "that our interests are really very much the same. We both care deeply for Clifford. We both want to help him in his life-work. We both want to do our best for him. That means that we must pull together and not against one another. We must each of us think matters out coolly and dispassionately. Isn't that what you think as well as I?"

"Yes," admitted Elaine.

"Then I'll say good-bye for the present. I mustn't stay longer or Dr. Hegelmann will call me over the coals. I have to remember that you're not altogether strong again yet. So I'll say good-bye now and call again to-morrow morning."

"Good-bye."

"Do you like lilies? I must send you some. As I passed a florist's in the Wilhelmstrasse I saw some splendid tiger-lilies. Good-bye, my dear."

Elaine waited with feverish impatience for three minutes to elapse, when she judged Olive would be clear of the house. Then she rang a bell by her side. She must get a message through to Riviere to let him know of the new development in the situation before Olive could reach him with her story. Riviere knew nothing beforehand of Elaine's plan of self-accusation; it was vital that he should know of it now, when it had been carried to so effective an end.

The nurse came to answer the call.

"I want to telephone," said Elaine in her halting German.

"But the telephone is downstairs!"

"You must lead me there, nurse."

"No; I cannot do that. It is against orders. The doctor has forbidden you to leave this room, Frauelein."

"I must! I tell you I must! It's——It's—oh, what is the German for 'vital?'"

The nurse shook her head uncomprehendingly.

Elaine rose from her couch and stumbled with outstretched arms against the nurse.

"Please lead me to the telephone and get me my number!" she cried in an agony of anxiety.

"It is against orders. Come, you must lie down again and keep quiet."

There was a brisk rap at the door, and Dr. Hegelmann came in to see how his patient was progressing.

"What's this?" he exclaimed, seeing Elaine standing up and the nurse trying to persuade her to return to her couch.

"Doctor, please let me telephone!"

"To whom?"

"To Mr Riviere. I must speak to him quickly—I must!"

"Nurse, do as Frauelein asks," he ordered briefly.

The nurse made no comment, but led her patient downstairs at once, found the telephone number of the laboratory at which Riviere had his research-bench, and called for the connection.

"What do they say?" asked Elaine after a torturing wait.

"They ask me to hold the line."

Again a very long wait.

"What do they say?" asked Elaine again.

"Wait a little.... Yes, I'm here." ... "Mr Riviere has just left the laboratory."

"Where has he gone?" prompted Elaine.

"Where has he gone?" ... "They do not know."

"But I must find him!" cried Elaine. "Try his hotel, please."

The hotel people knew nothing of Riviere's whereabouts.

"Say to them to give him the message to telephone me the moment he arrives."

The nurse gave the message and the telephone number of the home. Suddenly she felt her patient sway heavily against her. The reaction had set in from the feverish tension of the last hour—Elaine had fainted away.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE COUNTER-MOVE

Olive, as Elaine had guessed, went straight to Riviere's laboratory to confront him. Not finding him there, she made her way to his hotel and again drew blank.

This left her uncertain as to her next movements. Should she return to the nursing home, and wait about in its neighbourhood in the hope of meeting her husband on his way to see Elaine? That course seemed undignified. Should she try the laboratory once more? That seemed a mere waste of precious time. Should she walk the length of the Wilhelmstrasse on the chance of crossing him there? That seemed a very long shot.

On the whole she judged it advisable to return to the Hotel Quisisana, and from there to hold her husband by telephone. Accordingly she said to the hotel porter at Riviere's hotel:

"When Mr Riviere comes in, tell him to 'phone up at once No. 352."

"Already haf I taken zat message, lady."

"To 'phone up No. 352?" asked Olive in surprise.

The porter referred to a slate by his side.

"Your pardon, lady, I am wrong. Ze number gifen me before is 392."

Olive opened her purse, took out a gold piece, and passed it into his hand.

"Alter it to 352," she said.

The porter hesitated, looked at the 20-mark piece, looked around the hall to see if anyone were observing him, and then said in a very low voice: "Very goot. Vat name shall I say?"

"Mrs Matheson." She then left for the Quisisana.

And that was why Riviere never received Elaine's message, and why he went first to call on his wife.

Olive received him in her private sitting-room. She was horribly uncertain what line of action she ought to take, now that Elaine had so completely reversed the situation. Her nerves, weakened by the almost continuous drugging of the last few months, were all a-quiver. The threat of the "suitable allowance" drove her to frenzy. She wanted somebody to vent her rage upon, and there was nobody to serve the purpose. For a moment she regretted she had not brought her maid with her to Wiesbaden.

Her attitude must depend on Clifford's attitude. But, whatever line of action was to be taken, one point seemed clear. She must be calm with Clifford—forgiving. She must play for the quixotic side of his nature. She had better be even cordial.

Accordingly she gave him a wifely kiss when he entered.

Riviere wondered how Elaine could have worked this miracle for him.

"You've seen Miss Verney, I suppose?" he suggested.

"Yes; and I must admit I was very pleasantly surprised. I had formed an altogether wrong opinion of her."

"Then I'm glad you met.... You see now that your suspicions of her were absolutely unfounded."

Olive knew the sincerity in Riviere's tone. So it was just as she had guessed—the girl had been attempting a daring bluff by her self-accusation.

"Absolutely unfounded," agreed Olive. "That's why I want to forgive and forget."

She gave him one of her sweetest smiles.

Riviere was puzzled. He had an uneasy feeling that something very vital was being kept from him. He noticed his wife's hands all a-quiver, and that fact jarred against the calm of her words.

He answered: "You've changed your attitude towards me very quickly. I take it you only arrived in Wiesbaden to-day?"

"Yes; but it's more than a fortnight since that scene in Larssen's office. I've had time to reflect over things. I was too hasty in what I said then. You must remember that you sprang a surprise on me when you returned in that secret way, and naturally I was put out. I always hate to be taken at a disadvantage, as you ought to know by now.... Clifford, when will you learn to read women as well as you read men? If you'd approached me a little differently; if you hadn't assumed I was hostile to you; if you'd only taken me a little more patiently and pressed your point more insistently——" Olive paused significantly.

"Which point?"

"Surely you remember?"

"There were many points we discussed."

"The point—when you were generous enough to offer to start our life afresh."

Riviere looked keenly at his wife. Her eyes were downcast, as though it hurt her modesty to have to make overtures. There was a faint blush on her cheeks.

He began to feel he had been a brute.

She continued: "You ought to have given me a day to think it over, instead of rushing away as you did. You ought to have known that a woman's pride won't let her yield without being pressed to yield. I wanted you to press me; I wanted to make a fresh start with you; I wanted to help you with your big work! Clifford when will you learn to read a woman?"

"What's your suggestion now?" he asked.

"My suggestion is your own—to wipe out the past, and start our married life afresh. A few days ago I went to see a doctor—a man in Cavendish Square who has a big reputation for women's ailments. Father insisted on my going to consult him, and he was right. I ought to have gone to him months ago."

"What did he tell you?"

"The long and short of it is that I must give up society engagements and all excitements of that kind, and lead a very quiet life. I ought to go to some quiet place away from people, with someone with me whom I care for and who cares for me. That was the gist of his prescription. Of course I have a special dietary and medicine to take, but that's only incidental!"

Her voice held a pathetic braveness, and Riviere was touched by it.

"I'm awfully sorry," he murmured.

"It's hard on me, to give up all that."

"I know."

"It's meant a big fight with myself. Look at me—you can see it in my face. I'm looking a wreck."

"The kind of life you've been leading would crack up any constitution. I'm glad you've taken advice in time."

"It was the turning-point for me."

"Where are you going for your rest-cure?"

"Isn't that for you to decide, Clifford dear?"

Riviere roused himself with an effort akin to that of Ulysses in the house of Circe.

"I'd better be quite frank with you," he answered. "I can't live with you again as man and wife."

"I realise your feeling so well. I admire you for it. It brings us nearer together. You feel yourself under an obligation to Miss Verney because of her intervention between you and that vitriol-thrower. You don't know just how you can repay it. Obviously you can't offer her money. A girl of her finely-strung feelings couldn't take a pension from you.... Now I have a suggestion that clears away the difficulty completely."

"What is it?" asked Riviere non-committally.

"Let me make her an allowance. Let the money pass through my hands to her. It needn't be a large allowance. I daresay she could live nicely on three or four pounds a week. If you agree, I'll go and arrange it myself, so as not to hurt her feelings."

That would be indeed revenge on Elaine! To buy back Clifford for a paltry four pounds a week—to have the delicate pleasure of doling out the money in the role of Lady Bountiful! She had a mental vision of the sweet little letters she could write to Elaine when she enclosed the monthly cheque—letters so sweet that they would sear.

But Riviere answered abruptly: "What did Miss Verney say to you to make such a complete change in your attitude towards her?"

"We chatted together this afternoon and came to realise one another's point of view—that was all. It was perfectly natural. A blind girl ... helpless ... without resources of her own.... Do you think I'm flint?"

"Then she made some appeal to you?"

"Clifford, dear, I don't think you and I ought to discuss what passed between Miss Verney and myself in the sick-room this afternoon. Some things are sacred."

"I must know this: did she suggest the idea of the allowance or did you?"

Olive hesitated as to how she should answer that question. It was very tempting to say that Elaine had suggested it—but decidedly risky. Riviere might ask the girl point-blank. It was better to be prudent in this game of strategy, and accordingly she replied:

"I don't think you ought to ask me that question."

"I must see Miss Verney at once," said Riviere decisively.

"But we must think of her feelings. She's very sensitive, very highly-strung. Wouldn't it be kinder to let me arrange it?"

"I don't think so."

"I ask you this for her sake!"

"Still, I must see her at once."

"As your wife, I ask you to let me end the matter once and for all. Clifford dear, I must speak out frankly, though I hate to have to do it. Listen to me quietly while I try to put the situation to you in the proper light.... You're in love with Miss Verney—I know it. It's hard for you to have to cut loose—very hard. But for her sake you must cut loose. Now, at once. Matters can't go on as they are. I know perfectly well that the relations between you are absolutely innocent—I haven't a word to breathe against her character now that I've seen her and really know her. But things can't go on as they are. You must put yourself aside and consider her alone. You must think of her reputation. People will begin to talk."

"What people?" asked Riviere uneasily.

"At the nursing home I can see that they regard you as lovers. A woman realises a point like that instinctively. No word was said, but I know.... Things can't remain stationary in a situation of that kind. You know it as well as I do. You are a man of strong passions.... Miss Verney is highly-strung, very impressionable."

And then Olive made her one big mistake. She added: "She confessed to me that—how shall I put it?—that it would be dangerous for her to see more of you."

"Miss Verney told you that?"

"In effect."

"I don't believe it!"

"It's as true as I sit here!"

"I don't believe it for a moment!"

"She said even more than that."

"What?"

"That she would be ready to live with you, divorce or no divorce. Don't you see the danger now? Clifford, I appeal to your chivalry! For her sake cut loose now, at once, before it's too late! Say good-bye to her by letter; leave me to arrange the allowance——"

"I tell you I must see her!"

"No!"

"I must!"

Olive lost control of herself. "I'm your wife! I forbid you to!" she ordered sharply.

Riviere stiffened. "You told me a fortnight ago you never wanted to see me again."

"I've changed my mind!"

"There's a reason for the change."

"I've told you the reasons!"

"Not all the reasons."

"D'you doubt my word?"

Riviere's business training made him recognize the true meaning of that phrase. He had heard it so many times before from men who were planning some shady trick. He answered decisively: "I've the right to hear from Miss Verney herself what she said to you this afternoon, and I'm going to hear it. That's final!"

Olive was now chalk-white with rage. Every nerve of her body was quivering, but by a supreme effort she regained control over her words.

"You're insulting me!" she returned. "You doubt my word when I tell you that Miss Verney is ready to become your mistress. Very well, come with me and I'll repeat it in front of her."

"No."

"You're afraid of the test!"

"I'll not discuss such a matter."

"You're afraid of the test!"

"I'll not have that insult put upon her."

"It's true! I'll swear to it on the Bible! If it's not true, let her deny it before me. There's the challenge. You owe it to her as well as to me to accept. At least give her the opportunity of denying it, if you think you know her. But you don't know women—you never have, and you never will. I tell you you're living on a volcano. You've no right to compromise her as you're doing now. It's currish! At least I thought you had some spark of chivalry in you! But you won't make the test because you know I've spoken truth. You're afraid. If you want to prove to yourself she's the angel you think her, then make the test. Ask her before me in any form of words you like. Either that or take my word!"

"I'll not ask her that."

"Then at least come with me to see her, and satisfy yourself indirectly that I've spoken the truth when I tell you you're living on a volcano. Play the game, Clifford, play the game!"

Riviere took up his hat and stick.

"We'll go to see Miss Verney now," he answered.

Husband and wife drove together to the nursing home to see Elaine. But a nurse informed them decisively that Fraulein Verney could receive no visitors; the excitement of the afternoon had been too much for her slowly returning strength, and Dr Hegelmann had ordered her absolute quietude. To-morrow, perhaps, she might be allowed to receive her friends—or perhaps the day after to-morrow.

"I intend to call to-morrow morning," said Olive to her husband.

"I too."

"Shall we say 10.30?"

"If you wish."

"Then call for me at the Quisisana at ten o'clock.... In the meantime, I leave it to your sense of honour not to communicate with Miss Verney."

"Agreed."

"You needn't trouble to see me to my hotel. I'll go back in the taxi."

It was a night of very troubled thought for all three. To Riviere, with his complex, many-layered nature, especially so. The one inevitable, clean-cut solution to all this tangle of circumstance seemed farther off than ever.

If Riviere had been a man of Larssen's temperament, difficulties would have been smoothed away like hills under the drive of a high-powered car. Lars Larssen would have said to himself: "Which woman do I want?" and having settled that point, would have jammed on the levers and shot his car straight forward without the slightest regard for any other vehicle or pedestrian on his road. Were any obstacle in his path, so much the worse for the obstacle.

If Larssen under similar circumstances had wanted Elaine he would have taken her then and there and left Olive to do whatever she pleased. If he had wanted Olive, he would have thrown Elaine in the discard without a moment's remorse. Decisions are easy for such a man as Larssen, because the burden of scruples has been pitched aside.

Riviere, on the other hand, was cursed with scruples—as Olive had phrased it, "a pretty mixed set of scruples." He felt he had to do the square thing by his wife, by Elaine, and by the public who were being called upon to invest their savings under the guarantee of his name. He had to smash the shipowner's scheme, and he had to get back to his own scientific work in peace and quietude.

For Olive, as for Larssen, decisions were far simpler. Her objective was her own gratification; the only point in doubt was the most prudent way to attain it. Her present dominant wish was to revenge herself on Elaine, and to do that she was ready to make any sacrifice of other desires. Even her infatuation for Larssen paled against the white-hot light of this new passion.

Elaine, exhausted by the tension of her interview with Olive, slept that night in a succession of heavy-dreamed dozes punctuated by violent starts of waking, like a train creeping into a London terminus through an irregular detonation of fog-signals. Why had Riviere sent no answer to her message? What had Olive said to him? Had she done the best possible thing to free Riviere? That was the never-ceasing anxiety. In her great love for him, the one thing she most desired was to give.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE PARTING

At the breakfast-table the next morning, Riviere found a letter with an official seal awaiting him. It was a call to Nimes to give evidence in the coming trial of the peasant Crau. He was asked to be there on a date a few days later.

Olive was already waiting for him in the palm-lounge of the Quisisana when he reached there at ten-o'clock. She was smilingly gracious—had seemingly forgiven him his doubting of her word the evening before. They took a taxi to the nursing home, and on the way Olive stopped at a florist's to buy a bunch of tiger-lilies. Her choice of flower struck Riviere as very characteristic of her own temperament.

They received permission to visit the patient, and were shown to her room by a nurse.

"I have brought you a few flowers, dear," said Olive.

Elaine murmured some words of thanks and felt the flowers to see what they might be. When she recognized them, they conveyed to her the same impression as they had done to Riviere. She drew her vase of white lilac nearer to her, and that trifling action seemed to Riviere as though she were calling upon him for protection.

"We've come to talk matters over calmly and dispassionately," said Olive, taking the reins of conversation into her own hands. "My husband and myself are both anxious to make some arrangement which will be for your happiness. Clifford feels, and I entirely agree with him, that he's under a distinct obligation to you."

"There is no obligation," answered Elaine.

"It's very generous of you to say so, but both Clifford and I feel it deeply. Your livelihood has been taken away from you, and it's our bare duty to make you some form of compensation. The suggestion of letting it come through me would be a very suitable way of solving a delicate problem." She turned to her husband. "Don't you think so, Clifford?"

"I want to hear what Miss Verney has to say."

"Very well."

Elaine paused before she replied, so that her words might carry a fuller significance. "Mrs Matheson," she said, "I don't wish to accept anything from you."

"That means, I take it, that you are ready to accept from my husband?"

"Accept what?"

"Well, financial assistance."

"No."

"Then what are you going to do when you leave the home?"

"I shall return to my relations until I've learnt a new trade and can manage to support myself."

"But surely you will let us help you with the expenses of the first few months?"

"I prefer not."

"Clifford, can't you persuade Miss Verney?"

"I don't wish to persuade her."

Olive tried a fresh avenue of attack. "Very well, then, let's leave that point. What I want to say now is still more delicate. I don't want to wound your feelings, but now that all three of us are together the matter ought to be discussed calmly and dispassionately and settled once and for all."

Riviere interrupted. "You promised me that this matter should not be mentioned."

"Promised?"

"In effect."

"But we must discuss it!"

Elaine put in a word: "I'd sooner the whole situation were threshed out now. Please!"

"As you will," answered Riviere. "But remember that you're perfectly free to close the discussion at any moment."

Olive resumed: "Yesterday, when we had our chat together, I was forced to draw certain inferences. And I had to tell Clifford that it would be only right for him to avoid compromising you further."

"What inferences?"

"Must I speak more definitely?"

"I prefer plain speaking."

"Well, that people would begin to talk malicious gossip about yourself and my husband."

Riviere interrupted again. "This discussion is an insult to Miss Verney."

But Elaine answered: "I prefer to thresh it out.... What people say matters nothing to me. In any case, nobody knows that Mr Riviere is your husband."

"But they will."

"You mean that you'll tell them?"

"It must come out."

"You mean that you want Mr Riviere to return to you openly as your husband?"

"Naturally."

"Then why did you tell me yesterday that you had cut definitely loose from him? That you never wanted to see him again? That he was free to live out his life as John Riviere?"

"Why did you say that you had lived with my husband at Nimes?" retorted Olive sharply. "That you'd let the divorce suit go undefended?"

It thundered upon Riviere what Elaine had done for him—how she had wrought her miracle—and that moment cleared his mind of all doubt and hesitancy.

"I've heard sufficient," he cut in.

"You've not heard all I've got to say!" pursued Olive vindictively, and a torrent of words poured out from her: "It was a pretty scheme your Miss Verney had planned! She was to egg me on to divorce you, so that she could get a clutch on your feelings and marry you and your money! Your money—that puts it in a nutshell! That's the kind of woman a man like you falls in love with! A woman who's too shrewd and too cunning to commit herself. Who provokes and tantalizes and lures on a man, and then stops him short at the very last moment. The musical-comedy type. The 'mind the paint' girl. A hundred times worse than the frankly vicious. A woman who knows that a week of living with a man would sicken him of her. Who's shrewd enough to tantalize him into hand-and-feet marriage. That's your Miss Verney. You're welcome to her as Miss Verney! So long as I live, you'll never have her as your wife! That's my last word—my absolute final last word!"

Olive rose from her chair, quivering in every limb, and swept out of the room.

Elaine bowed her head in the shame of those bitter words.

Riviere came to her side and kissed her hand reverently.

"You did this for me. I understand all. Elaine, dear, I understand it all. There's no need for you to explain."

"You don't believe——?"

"Not a word of it! You're the sweetest, bravest——" Words failed him, and he could only take her hand tenderly in his and let his welter of unspoken thoughts go silently to her.

"The things she said—you don't believe they're true?" she faltered.

"Don't speak of them.... You've piled up a debt on me more than I can ever repay. You've freed my hands to fight down Larssen, but at what a cost to yourself?"

"Then it's freed you?"

"Absolutely. The divorce was Larssen's trump-card. You've fought for me far better than I could ever have fought for myself. To think of you lying there helpless, and yet battling for me! My God, but at what a cost to yourself!"

"If it's freed you, dear John, nothing else matters."

"It has. Now I can smash Larssen's scheme.... But what of you, what of you?"

"We must part—now," she murmured.

"Why now?"

"Don't ask me to explain."

Riviere clenched his hand. "Yes, you're right," he said after a pause. "We must part—for a time."

"It will be best for both of us. You must go back to your world."

"I'm wanted at Nimes a few days hence, to give evidence at the trial."

"Then leave Wiesbaden to-day."

"Give me till to-morrow near you."

"No, you must go to-day.... We'll say good-bye now."

She held out her hand, but he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"No—don't!"

"Forgive me—I'm a brute!"

"Dear John, go now. Don't stay. Go back to your world and fight your battle. I shall recover my sight—I feel that more strongly than ever. I shall need it if only to read your letters. Go now, and take with you my wishes for all happiness and all success in your life-work!"

Riviere tried to answer, but the words choked in his throat.

"Elaine!" was all he could utter.

* * * * *

That night he took train for Paris, to call on Barreze the manager of the Odeon Theatre.

There he fixed up an arrangement by which Barreze would send to Elaine, in the guise of payment for the uncompleted work she had done for him, a substantial sum of money. It was a temporary expedient only, but it would serve Riviere's purpose.

Then he proceeded to Nimes to attend the trial of the youth Crau.



CHAPTER XXX

HEIR TO A THRONE

The liner "Claudia" was ripping her way eastwards through a calm Atlantic, like shears through an endless length of blue muslin.

An unclouded morning sun beat full upon the pale cheeks and delicate frame of Larssen's little twelve-year-old son, alone with his father on their private promenade deck. The contrast between the broad frame of the shipowner and the delicate, nervous, under-sized physique of his boy was striking in its irony. Here was the strong man carving out an empire for his descendants, and here was his only son, the inheritor-to-be. Neither physically nor mentally could Olaf ever be more than the palest shadow of his father, and yet Larssen was the only person who could not see this. He was trying to train his boy to hold an empire as though he were born to rule.

"How clever Mr Dean is!" Olaf was saying.

"Why?"

"Look at the set of wheels he's rigged up for me so as I can sail my boat on deck." He held up a beautiful model yacht, perfect in line and rig, with which he was playing. Underneath it was a crudely-made contrivance of wood and wire, with four corks for wheels—the handiwork of Arthur Dean.

"Was that your idea?" inquired Larssen.

"No, Dad.... Now, watch me sail her up to windward."

"Wait. You ought to have thought out that idea for yourself."

"I haven't any tools on board, Dad."

"Then go and make friends with the carpenter." Larssen took up the crude contrivance and looked it over contemptuously. "I want you to think out a better device; pitch this overboard; then find out where Mr Chips lives, make friends with him, and get him to construct you a proper set of wheels to your own design."

The boy looked troubled. "I don't want to throw it overboard!" he protested. "I want to sail my boat on deck now."

"Sonny, there are heaps of things that are good for you to do which you won't want to do. It's like being told by the doctor to take medicine. It's nasty to take, but very good for you.... I want to see you one day a big strong fellow able to handle men and things—a great big strong fellow men will be afraid of. That's to be your ambition. You've got to learn to handle men and things. Here's one way to do it."

"But Mr Dean wouldn't like it if he knew I'd thrown his wheels overboard."

"Dean is a servant. He's paid to do things for you. His feelings don't matter.... But you needn't tell him you threw his wheels away. Say they slipped over the side. Now, get a pencil and paper, and let me see you work out a better contrivance."

Olaf obeyed, though reluctantly, and presently he was deep amongst the problems of the inventor. Lars Larssen watched the boy with a tenderness that few would have given him credit for.

"I've got it! Look, Dad!" cried the boy excitedly, and began to explain his idea and his tangled drawing.

"Good! That's what I want from you. Now, don't you feel better at having worked out the idea all on your own?"

"Yes, Dad. I'll go to Mr Chips at once and get it made. In which part of the ship does he live?"

"You must find that out yourself."

"How much shall I offer him?"

"Don't offer him anything. Make friends with him, and he'll do it for you for nothing."

"But I always give people money to do things for me."

"That's a bad habit. Drop it. Get things done for you for nothing."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to be a business man when you grow up, and not merely a spender of money."

"What does a business man mean exactly?"

"A ruler of men."

The boy looked troubled again. His confusion of thoughts sorted themselves into his declaration: "I don't want to be a ruler of men; I want people to like me."

"That's a poor ambition."

"Why?"

"Mostly anyone wants that. It's a sign of weakness. Drop it."

"What ought I to want?"

"People to fear you."

"Why should they be afraid of me, Dad?"

"For one thing, because some day you'll have all my money and all my power. Just how big that is you can't realise yet. That's one reason. The other reason must lie with yourself—you must make yourself strong and afraid of nothing. How many fights did you have this term, before you got ill?"

"Only one."

It was clear from the boy's downcast eyes that he had been beaten in his fight.

"That's bad. That's disobeying my orders. Didn't I tell you to fight every boy in the school until they acknowledged you master?"

"I'm not strong enough."

"You must make yourself strong enough. It's not a question of muscle, but will-power. When you're properly over this illness, I'll pick you out a school in England with about thirty or forty boys of your own age. They're soft, these English boys, softer than Americans. I want you to lick your way through them, and then I'll take you back to the States to polish up on Americans."

After a pause came this question: "Dad, must I have all your money when I grow up? Couldn't some one else have some of it?"

"Sonny, don't look at it that way. You're born to an empire; try and make yourself fit for it. I'm building it for you. It'll be a glorious inheritance.... Now throw those wheels overboard, and run along and find Mr Chips."

Presently Arthur Dean came to the private deck to ask if Larssen had any orders for him. He was acting as interim private secretary.

The shipowner dictated a few messages to be sent by wireless, and then remarked:

"When you're back in London, I suppose you'll be going to see your young lady as well as your parents?"

Dean blushed.

"Taking her back any presents?"

"Yes, sir."

"A ring?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, I don't doubt that'll come in its own good time."

"You don't think I ought to——?" began Dean tentatively.

"I don't interfere in that. It's your own private affair and no concern of mine. You can afford to marry her on your present salary. If she's a girl likely to make a good wife, I hope you will marry her. I like my employees to be married. It's healthy for them and makes them better business men. Is she an ambitious girl?"

"I hardly know that."

"Well, my advice to you is this: marry someone ambitious. You'll need it. You're inclined to weaken."

"It's very good of you to take such an interest in me."

"I like you. I want to make you one of my right-hand men eventually. Now I want to say this in particular: keep business affairs to yourself."

"I'll certainly do so, sir."

"Don't talk about them even to your parents, even to your young lady. I'm paying you a very good salary for a man of your age, and I expect a closed mouth about my affairs."

"Of course."

"Get the reason for it. This deal I'm engaged on is a big thing, and there are plenty of City people in London who'd like to know just what I'm planning, and just why Matheson and I sent you to Canada. I want you to keep them guessing until the scheme's floated. D'you get that?"

"Certainly, sir! You may rely on me not to say anything about your business affairs to anybody. I know how things leak around once anybody's told."

"That's right! Now send off those wireless messages, and then go and amuse yourself for the rest of the morning. Cabin and all quite comfortable?"

"Quite, thank you, sir," answered Dean, and went off buoyantly.

In the afternoon Olaf was sailing his yacht on deck on the new set of wheels made for him by the ship's carpenter, while his father sat stretched in a long deck-chair watching him tenderly and weaving dreams for his future. The thought crossed his mind—not for the first time—whether it wouldn't be advisable to get a stepmother for the boy. Larssen had a strong intuitive feeling that he would not live to old age, and he wanted to know that the boy would have someone to care for him and to stand behind him while he was seating himself firmly on his father's throne.

Specifically, the shipowner was reviewing Olive as a possible stepmother. There was no scrap of passion in his thoughts. He was viewing the matter as a business proposition, weighing the pros and cons calmly and cool-bloodedly. Would Olive be the right stepmother for the boy? She was of good family, with influential connections. She made a fine presence as a hostess. Her ambition was undoubted. Even the trifling point of the similarity between Olive's name and that of his boy impressed him, by some curious twist of mind, as favourable.

"Dad, look at me!" called out Olaf. "I've made some buoys, and now I'm going to sail her round a racing course."

He had run needles through three corks, and planted them in the pitch-seams of the deck to form the three points of a large triangle, in imitation of the buoys of a yacht-race course.

"This buoy is Sandy Hook, and this one is the Fastnet, and that one over there is Gibraltar."

"Good!" said the shipowner. "I'll time the race." He took out his watch. "Are you ready?... Go!"

When the course was completed and the yacht lay at anchor again at Sandy Hook, Larssen called his son to the seat at his side.

"Do you remember much of your mother?" he asked.

The boy's face clouded over. "I don't know. Sometimes I seem to see her very plainly, and sometimes again I don't seem to see her at all when I try to. Was mother very beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, to me," assented the shipowner.

"I think I should have loved her very much."

"How would you like to have a new mother?"

Olaf thought this over in silence for some time.

"It depends," he ventured at length.

"Depends on what?"

"I don't know. I must see her. Then I could tell you."

"You care for the idea?"

"I must see her first."

"Yes, that's right. Well, Sonny, as soon as we're in London I'll take you to see her. But remember this: don't breathe a word of it to anyone. Keep a tight mouth. That's what a business man has always got to learn."

"Why?"

"Because silence in the right place means big money."

Olaf reflected over the new problem for some time.

"Dad," he said presently, "I'd like her to like me very much. And I'd like her to be a good sailor."

Larssen smiled at the naive requirement.

"Is that very important?"

"Yes. You see, I want her to live with us on a yacht, and some women are so ill whenever they go on board a boat."

"Which do you like best: the country, or a big city, or the sea?"

"The sea—the sea! I hate a big city. The crowds of people make me feel...." He groped about for a word which would express his feeling " ... make me feel so lonely."

"You'll have to overcome that. One day your work will lie in controlling crowds of people."

"Dad, let me stay on a yacht till I get quite well again!"

Larssen considered for a moment. "Well, if it will help you to get your fighting muscle, I'll arrange it. There's a small cruising yacht of mine—the 'Starlight'—lying in Southampton Water. I might have her cruise about the Channel for you."

"Thank you, Dad, I'd like that immensely."

"Yes, I'll see to that. We must go up to London for a few days, and meanwhile I'll arrange to have the 'Starlight' put in order for you."

"Can I be captain of the yacht?"

"That's the spirit I want! But you can't be captain at a jump. You must work your way up. First you'll have to work for your mate's ticket. I'll tell the captain to put you through your paces—give you your trick at the wheel and so on. But see here, Sonny, it'll be work and not play. You'll have to obey orders just as if you were a new apprentice."

"I love the sea! I'll work right enough."

Larssen grew grave with memories. "Work? You'll never know work as I knew it. At fourteen I was a drudge on a Banks trawler. Kicked and punched and fed on the leavings of the fo'castle. Hands skinned raw with hauling on the dredge-ropes——"

A deck steward bearing a wireless telegram came to interrupt them. The message was from Olive, and it read:

"Important developments. Come to see me as soon as you arrive."

Larssen scribbled an answer and handed it to the steward for despatch.

The boy was thinking over the coming cruise of the "Starlight." Suddenly he exclaimed: "I've got an idea! Invite her on board my yacht!"

Larssen smiled. "That's a very practical test for her!" he said.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE REINS HAD SLIPPED

The Italian garden at Thornton Chase was perfect in its artificiality. It sloped down towards Richmond Park in a series of stately terraces with box-hedge borders trimmed so evenly that not a twig or leaf offended against the canons of symmetry. They were groomed like a racehorse. Centred in a square of barbered lawn was a fountain where Neptune drove his chariot of sea-horses. The Apollo Belvedere, the Capitoline Venus, Minerva, and Flora had their niches against a greenhouse of which the roof formed the terrace above—a greenhouse where patrician exotics held formal court.

Olive was feeding a calm-eyed Borzoi from the tea-table when Larssen and his little boy arrived. The pose was that of a Gainsborough portrait—she had dressed the part as closely as modern dress would allow. Sir Francis was leaning back in an easy-chair with one leg crossed squarely over the other knee, and in spite of country tweeds and Homburg hat, he was somehow well within the picture. But Lars Larssen, with his broad frame and his masterful step, was markedly out of harmony with that atmosphere of leisured artificiality.

A lesser man would have been conscious of his incongruity—not so with Larssen. He forced his personality on his environment. He made the Italian garden seem out of place in his presence. A sensitive would almost have felt the resentment of the trimly correct hedges and shrubs and the classic statues at being thrust out of the picture on Larssen's arrival.

For some time the conversation progressed on very ordinary tea-table lines. Olive made much of the little boy—petted him, sent in for special cakes to tempt him with, showered a host of questions on him about school and games and hobbies. Sir Francis exchanged views on weather, politics, and the coming cricket season with his guest. The latter subject mostly resolved itself into a monologue on the part of the baronet, since cricket held no more interest for Larssen than ninepins; but he listened with polite attention while Sir Francis expounded the chances of the Australian Team (he had been to Lord's that morning to watch them at preliminary practice), and his own pet theory of how the googly ought to be bowled.

Then, having offered libation on the altars of weather, politics, and cricket, the baronet felt himself at liberty to touch on business matters.

"Have you heard when Clifford will be back?" he asked.

"Let me see. To-day's the 26th. I expect him not later than May 3rd. Probably sooner."

"Everything going smooth?"

"Yes; fine. I'm glad we delayed the issue until May. Canada's getting well in the public eye just now. When the leaves spread out on the park-trees, town-dwellers begin to remember that the country grows crops. They recollect that there's 40 million acres of cropland in Canada—250 million bushels of wheat to move. They awake to the notion that the wheat will need transport to Europe. Yes, early May is the time for our Hudson Bay issue—Clifford was right in suggesting the postponement."

Olive caught the new drift of conversation between her father and her guest, and turned to cut in.

"Olaf would like to see the aviary," she said to her father. "Especially the new owl. It's so amusing to look at in the daytime. Will you take him round and show him everything?"

The boy jumped up gleefully, and Sir Francis roused himself from his easy-chair to obey his daughter's order. He had grown accustomed to obeying—experience had shown him it was more comfortable in the long run to do as she wished.

"Bring some cake along, and we'll feed the birds," he said to the boy, and the two moved off together to the aviary, which lay sheltered under the south wall of the house.

When the two were out of earshot, Larssen turned smilingly to Olive, and his tone was that of one who finds himself at home again.

"It's good to be back," he said.

Olive did not smile welcome to him, as he expected. There was an unlooked-for constraint in her voice as she inquired: "Another cup?"

"Thanks."

She took the cup from him.

"I've missed you," he added.

"I've had a worrying time," began Olive as she poured out tea and cream for him.

"Clifford?"

"Ye-es."

Larssen read through the slight hesitancy of her answer. "That means the Verney girl, does it?"

"I've seen her."

"Where?"

"At Wiesbaden."

"What made you travel to there?"

"She wrote me a letter."

"Which roused your curiosity."

"Yes."

"Did you satisfy yourself?"

"I satisfied myself that so far there's nothing to take hold of between her and Clifford."

"If she managed to give you that impression, she must be clever as well as attractive."

"I know I'm right.... Though of course they're in love with one another. Both admit it."

Olive was ill at ease—a most unusual frame of mind for her. Larssen guessed she had some confession to make, and prepared himself for an outwardly sympathetic attitude.

"No doubt she's got the hooks into Clifford tight enough," he answered. "It'll be merely a question of time. No cause for you to worry. Wait quietly. Have them watched."

"I intend to do nothing of the kind!" said Olive sharply.

Larssen at once adjusted himself to her mood. "Well, that's as you please. The affair is yours and not mine. I don't doubt you have good reasons."

Olive played nervously with a spoon. "I've decided to drop the matter."

"Which?"

"Divorce."

Larssen had the sudden feeling that during his absence in the States the reins had slipped from his hands. He would have to play very warily for their recovery.

"No doubt you're right," he answered tacitly, inviting explanation.

"I want my husband back."

"Very natural."

"I want you to get him back for me."

"That's a large order. I don't know the circumstances yet."

"There's nothing much to tell. I saw this Miss Verney and I saw Clifford, and I've changed my mind—that's all."

"What did she say to you."

"She tried to make me believe that she wanted a divorce and would let the suit go undefended."

"Bluff?"

"Yes."

"You saw through it at once?"

"Yes."

"Then what's made you switch?"

"Why shouldn't I change my mind?" countered Olive coldly.

Larssen summed her up now with pin-point accuracy. Jealousy had worked this transformation. She wanted her husband because the other woman wanted him. And he, Larssen, was dependent on Olive's whims! The flotation of his Hudson Bay scheme hinging on her momentary fancies!

The fighting instinct surged up within him. He could look for no help from Olive—it was to be a single-handed battle with Clifford Matheson. Well, he'd give no quarter to anyone—man or woman!

Aloud he said, with a perfect assumption of resignation: "What do you wish me to do?"

"I don't know. I want you to suggest."

"I suppose Sir Francis knows all about everything?"

"No; I've told him nothing. He still believes Clifford went to Canada."

"That simplifies matters."

"How?"

"I've got the glimmering of a plan. Let me work out details before I put it before you for the O.K.... As I see the problem, it's this. You want Clifford to cut loose from Miss Verney. You want him to return to you. You want me to use that signature to my Hudson Bay prospectus to induce him to return."

"Well?"

"You're making a mistake."

"In what?"

"Never try to force a man's feelings in such a matter. Get him to persuade himself. Let him return of his own free will or not at all. Now my plan, if it works out right, will do that."

"What is the plan?"

"Give me time to get details settled. Is Clifford in London?"

"I don't know where he is."

"I suppose I could get his address through Miss Verney?"

"No doubt."

"Where is she in Wiesbaden?"

"With Dr Hegelmann."

"Just one more question: are you a good sailor?"

"Yes; but why? What a curious question!"

Larssen smiled at her reassuringly. "You'll have to trust me a little. Naturally I want my Hudson Bay scheme to go through smoothly, and if at the same time I can bring husband and wife together, why, it'll be the best day's work done in my life! It'll make me feel good all over!"

"Thanks; that's kind of you!" returned Olive, thawed by the cordial ring of his words.

"No need for thanks—wait till I've worked the deus ex machina stunt.... What do you think of my boy?"

"A dear little fellow! But he needs care."

"He looks weak now, but that's the after-effect of the illness. He'll put on muscle presently. He'll be a match for any boy of his age in six months' time."

"I hope so."

"Sure. Let's come and join them at the aviary."

They rose and walked to the house, chatting of impersonal matters, and nothing affecting the Hudson Bay scheme passed between Larssen and Olive or Sir Francis until the moment of leaving.

The baronet was at the door of the motor, seeing his guests depart, when Larssen said in a low voice:

"Important matter to see you about. Could you come to the office?"

"When?"

"To-night?"

"To-night I'm due at the banquet to the Australian Team."

"Couldn't you come on afterwards? I shall be at the office till midnight. It's about the Hudson Bay deal."

"Very well—I'll come about eleven."

"Right! I'll expect you."

As they drove home in the car, Larssen said to his boy:

"Tell me your impressions."

"I think the garden is fine, and the birds are bully little fellows."

"Mrs Matheson—do you like her?"

"Is she——Is she the lady you meant when you said on board ship you were going to marry someone?"

"I want to know what you think of her."

A troubled look came into Olaf's sensitive eyes. "I don't like her very much, Dad."

"Why not?"

"I don't think she means what she says."

"You're mistaken. Mrs Matheson has taken a great liking to you, and I want you to be very nice to her. You must meet her again and get better acquainted. Now see here, I'd like you to invite her on your yacht. That's the big test, isn't it?"

Olaf's eyes brightened at the mention of the yacht. "Very well, Dad," he answered. "If you want me to, of course, I'll try and be nice to her."

"I'll send you down to Southampton Water with Dean, and from the yacht I want you to write a letter to Mrs Matheson. I'll give you the gist of what to say, and you'll put it in your own words."

"Are you going to marry Mrs Matheson, Dad?"

"Not if you don't like her after better acquaintance. I promise you that."



CHAPTER XXXII

THE NEW SCHEME

Larssen had spoken part truth when he told Olive over the tea-table that he had the glimmering of a plan in his mind. But its object was by no means what he had led her to believe. It was a scheme of an audacity in keeping with his previous impersonations of the "dead" Clifford Matheson, and its single objective was the attainment of his personal ambitions. Even his own son was to be used to help in the gaining of that one end.

The new scheme, in its essential, held the simplicity of genius. He would, single-handed, float the Hudson Bay company with Matheson's name at the head of the prospectus, whether Matheson assented or not.

The first move was to evade the spirit of his own written compact: "Until May 3rd, I fix up nothing with the underwriters." To get round this obstacle, he decided on the audacious plan of underwriting the entire issue himself. That is to say, he would give an absolute guarantee that if any portion of the five million pounds were not subscribed for by the general public, he himself would pay cash for and take up those shares. It was a huge risk. In the ordinary course of business no single finance house in London, the world's financial centre, would take on its shoulders the guaranteeing of a five million pound issue. Lars Larssen proposed to do it. In order to provide the requisite security, he would have to mortgage his ships and his private investments. He would be dicing with nine-tenths of his entire fortune.

The second move was to prevent interference, while the issue was being offered to the public, from those who knew anything of the inner history of the flotation—Matheson, Olive, Elaine, and Dean. Arthur Dean could easily be kept out of the way. Elaine would no doubt be still confined to the surgical home at Wiesbaden. Matheson and his wife were problems of much more difficulty. In whatever part of Europe Matheson might be, he would be certain to hear of the flotation. The point was to delay his knowledge of it for two or three days. After that, interference on his part could not undo what had been done. "One cannot unscramble an egg."

For the success of the first move, it was essential to have the willing co-operation of Sir Francis. Consequently Larssen was particularly cordial and gracious to him that evening at the Leadenhall Street offices, passing him compliments about his business abilities, which found their mark unerringly.

Presently the shipowner got down to the crux of the matter, taking out the draft prospectus from the drawer in his desk and smoothing it out to show the signature of Clifford Matheson.

"As you see, I sent it to Clifford to O.K.," he said.

Sir Francis looked at the signature through his pair of business eyeglasses, and nodded an official confirmation.

Larssen continued: "There's no alteration necessary—Clifford passes it as it stands. But I've thought of one point which I reckon would add very considerable weight in its appeal to the public."

"What's that?"

"The underwriting. There are a few blank lines here"—he turned over to a page of small type—"where the details of the underwriting arrangements were to be filled in. We were negotiating on a 4 per cent. basis, you remember. On some of it we should have had to offer an overriding commission of another 1 per cent. Say 4-1/2 per cent. on the average—that's L225,000 on the round five million shares. A big sum for the company to pay out!"

"I don't see how we can avoid it."

"We might cut it out altogether and state that 'No part of this issue has been underwritten.' That sounds like confidence on our part."

Sir Francis shook his head emphatically. "It might do in the States, but it won't do over here. Our public wouldn't like it. It's not the thing."

Larssen knew this latter was an overwhelming reason to the baronet's mind.

"Very well; pass that suggestion," said he. "Here's a far better one. Suppose we could get the underwriting done at 3 per cent. straight. That would save the company L75,000."

"What house would take it on at that?"

"I would."

"You!" exclaimed the amazed Sir Francis.

"Why not?" quietly replied the shipowner.

"But——!" The baronet paused in perplexity.

"Well, what's the particular 'but'?"

"We—the company—would have to ask you for the fullest security."

"Of course."

"Security up to the whole five million pounds."

"Of course."

"But——But I don't quite see your reason for the suggestion."

"My reason is just this," answered Larssen earnestly. "I want that prospectus to breathe out confidence in every line and every word. I want the whole five millions taken up by the public, and not left partly on the underwriters' shoulders. I want to do everything I can to make the public realise that they're being offered the squarest deal that ever was. What better plan could you have than getting the vendor—myself—to guarantee the whole issue at a mere 3 per cent. cover? No financial house of any standing would look at it for a trifle of 3 per cent. But I stand in and take the whole risk—the whole five million risk—and give you securities on my ships that bears looking into with a microscope."

Sir Francis gasped his admiration of the daring offer.

"That's pluck!" he exclaimed.

"Well, what do you say? Are you agreeable, for one?"

"Certainly—certainly!"

"Then will you bring St Aubyn and Carleton-Wingate here, and get their consent? Say to-morrow morning?"

"That's very short notice."

"You can get them on the telephone. If they're here to-morrow morning and consent—there ought to be no difficulty about that—you three Directors can sick the lawyers on to me at once and fix up the security deeds in a day or so."

"You ought to have been born an Englishman!" said the baronet admiringly.

"One point occurs to me. Let's keep this matter close until the prospectus is actually launched. I don't want any Stock Exchange 'wreckers!' trying to stick a knife into my back. You know some of their tricks?"

"Certainly—certainly!"

"I don't think I'd even mention it to your daughter. Women—even the best of them—can't help talking."

"Women are not meant for business," agreed the baronet sententiously.



CHAPTER XXXIII

LARSSEN'S APPEAL

In pursuance of his second move, Larssen had to see Miss Verney. To write to her would probably be fruitless waste of time; and it was emphatically not the kind of interview to delegate to a subordinate. He had to seek her in person.

It was curious to reflect that, in this tangle of four lives, the balance of power had shifted successively from one to the other. At first it was with Matheson. A letter of his had brought the shipowner hastening to Paris to see him. Later, it was Larssen who sat still and Matheson who hurried to find him. Later again, it was Olive who held decision between the two men. And now Elaine.

As soon as he had settled the underwriting affair with Sir Francis and his two co-Directors, Larssen went straight to Wiesbaden to the surgical home, and had his card sent in to Elaine.

Elaine received him in the garden of the home, under the soft shade of a spreading linden, where she had been chatting with another patient. Near by, a laburnum drooped in shower of gold over a bush of delicate white guelder-rose as Zeus over Danae. Upon the wall of the home wistaria hung her pastel-shaded pendants of flower, like the notes of some beautiful melody, sweet and sad, along the giant staves of her stem. A Chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds.

The bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light.

After a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, Larssen drew up a chair beside hers. "You're wondering why I've called on you," he began. "You're thinking that a stranger—and a busy man at that—wouldn't have travelled to Wiesbaden merely to inquire after you. You're thinking that I want something."

"What is it you want from me?" asked Elaine with frank directness.

"I want your help," returned Larssen with an assumption of equal frankness.

"My help! For what?"

"For Matheson."

"And what is this help you want from me?"

"It's simple enough, but first let me spread out the situation as I see it. If I'm wrong, you'll correct me.... To begin with, Matheson is a man of complex character and high ideals. The latter have been snowed under in his business career. He's like an Alpine peak. From the distance, it looks cold and aloof, but underneath there's a carpet of blue gentian waiting to spring out into blossom when the sun melts off the snow-layer. I don't pay idle compliments when I say that I haven't far to look for the sun that's melting off the snow."

He paused.

Elaine remained silent, but Larssen's vivid metaphor went home to her.

"I used to admire Matheson as a financier," pursued the shipowner. "Now I respect him as a man. He's put up the fists to me over what he believes to be his duty to the British public, and I like him all the better for it."

"You threatened Mr Matheson that you would have me dragged into a divorce court if he didn't sign agreement to your prospectus."

It was a definite statement and not a question, and from it Larssen judged that the financier had told her everything from start to finish.

"I did, and there's where my mistake lay. One mustn't threaten a man of Matheson's calibre. Please understand this, Miss Verney, all question of divorce is dead."

"It would make no difference to me."

"It was fine of you to say so to Mrs Matheson. You've pluck."

"Then you've been talking matters over with Mrs Matheson?"

"Certainly. I want to arrive at a final settlement for all of us."

"How?"

"That's where I want your help. First let me complete my lay-out of the situation.... Matheson is a man of high ideals. But he tangled up his life pretty badly on the night of March 14th, when he tried to cut loose from his old career. It was a mistake. We've both made mistakes, he and I. The unfortunate part is that the consequences don't fall on us. They fall on Mrs Matheson and yourself. You note that I place Mrs Matheson before yourself? That's deliberate."

Again he paused, but Elaine did not make any comment. She guessed now what Larssen had come to say to her, and a shiver of fear went through her. Not fear of Larssen as a man, but as a spokesman for Fate. In the deliberate unfolding of his statement, there was the passionless gravity of Fate.

Guessing her thoughts, Larssen's voice deepened as he continued: "I definitely place Mrs Matheson before yourself. She is his wife. He married her for better or worse. However mistaken he may have been in his estimate of her, he must keep to his promise of the altar-side. She is his wife. As a man of honour, Matheson's first duty is to stand by his wife. I don't want to wound your feelings, believe me. But I have to say this: you must realise Mrs Matheson's point of view."

"I think I do."

"Do you realise that she is eating her heart out in loneliness?"

"I didn't know."

"I do know. I went to see her a couple of days ago at Thornton Chase. The change in her these last few weeks startled me. I deliberately say this: you have, unknowingly, dealt her a blow from which she will never recover. She is naturally far from strong, and though I'm not a doctor, I venture to make this prophecy: within three years, Mrs Matheson will be dead."

A low cry of expostulation came from Elaine.

"It's an ugly, brutal fact," pursued Larssen, pressing home his advantage to the fullest extent. Now that he had probed for and reached the raw nerve of feeling, he intended to keep it tight gripped in the forceps of his words. "It's brutal, but it's true. Unwittingly, you have shortened her life."

"I've sent Mr Matheson away," faltered Elaine.

"I guessed that. But will he stay away from you?"

"Yes."

"I doubt it."

"We've said good-bye!"

"But he writes to you?"

There was an answer in her silence.

"He writes to you. That means a great deal—a very great deal."

"What do you want from me?" cried the tortured girl.

"Reparation," was the grave answer.

"To——?"

"To Mrs Matheson—to his wife."

"What more can I do than I have done?"

"Doesn't your heart tell you?"

"I'm torn with——"

"With love for him. I know. I know. I'm asking from you the biggest sacrifice of all—for his sake and for her sake. While she lives, give her back what happiness you can," Larssen's voice had lowered almost to a whisper.

"What more can I do than I have done?"

"Much more. Write to Matheson definitely and finally. Send him back to his wife. She is to cruise on board the 'Starlight'—a yacht of mine—with my little son. Send Matheson to meet her on the yacht."

"And then?"

"Then they will come together again. I'm certain of it. I've seen Mrs Matheson and read the change in her feelings. She'll be a different woman now.... Can you see to write?"

"Yes—faintly."

"Then write to Matheson what your heart will dictate to you," said Larssen gently.

Presently he resumed: "Where is he now?"

"At Nimes."

"Ah, yes—the trial."

"It should be finished to-day."

"Then Matheson will probably be returning to London to see me. There's no need for him to hurry back. He could board the 'Starlight' at Boulogne or any other port he might prefer."