There are two sides to Wiesbaden. The one is with the gay, cosmopolitan life that saunters along the Wilhelmstrasse and dallies with the allurements of the most enticing shops in Germany; suns itself in the gardens of the Kursaal or on the wind-sheltered slopes of the Neroberg; listens to an orchestra of master-artists in the open or to a prima donna in the brilliance of the opera-house; dines, wines, gambles, dissipates, burns the lamp of life under forced draught.

The other side is with the life behind the curtains of the nursing homes, where dim flickers of life and health are jealously watched and tended. Wiesbaden is both a Bond Street and a Harley Street. Specialists in medicine and surgery have their consulting rooms a few doors away from those of specialists in jewellery, flowers or confectionery. Their names and their specialities are prominent on door-plates almost as though they were competing against the lures of the traders.

But Dr Hegelmann had no need to cry his services in the market-place. His consulting rooms and nursing home were hidden amongst the evergreens of a cool, restful garden well away from the flaunting life of the Wilhelmstrasse. By the door his name and titles were inscribed in inconspicuous lettering on a small black marble tablet. His specialty needed no proclaiming.

RiviÈre found the great surgeon curiously uncouth in appearance. His brown, grey-streaked beard was longer than customary and ragged in outline; his eyebrows projected like a sea-captain's; his almost bald head seemed to be stretched tight over a framework of knobs and bumps; his clothes were baggy and shapeless. But all these unessentials faded away from sight when Dr Hegelmann spoke. His voice was wonderfully compelling—a voice tuned to a sympathy all-embracing. His voice could make even German sound musical. And his hands were the hands of a musician.

Before bringing Elaine into the consulting-room, RiviÈre explained the facts of the vitriol outrage, gave into his hands the letter of advice from the doctor at NÎmes, and then broached the subject of payment. They spoke in German, because Dr Hegelmann had steadfastly refused to learn any language beyond his own. All his energies of learning had been focused on his one specialty.

"I want to explain," said RiviÈre, "that FraÜlein Verney is not well-to-do. She is, I believe, practically dependent on her profession."

"Then we shall adjust the scale of payment to whatever she can afford," answered the doctor readily. "I value my rich patients only because they can pay me for my poorer patients."

"Many thanks. But that was not quite my meaning. I want to ask you to charge her at the lowest rate, and allow me to make up the difference."

"Without letting her know it."

"Precisely."

"That shall be as you wish. I appreciate your motives." His voice was full of sympathy, giving a treble value to the most ordinary words. "That is the action of a true friend."

RiviÈre brought Elaine into the consulting-room, and left her in the great specialist's gentle hands. An assistant surgeon was there to act as interpreter.

The verdict came quickly. For a week Elaine was to be in the surgical home receiving preliminary treatment, and then Dr Hegelmann was to operate on her right eye. For the left eye there was no hope.

During the week of waiting, RiviÈre came twice a day to Elaine's bedside, to chat and read to her.

One day he told her that he had arranged for the use of a bench at a private biological laboratory at Wiesbaden belonging to one of the medical specialists.

"That will enable me to begin my research while you're recovering from the operation. You'll have no need to think that you might be keeping me here away from my work."

"I'm glad. It's very good to have a friend by one, but I should have worried at keeping you from your work. Now I'm relieved.... Is the laboratory here well equipped?"

"Quite sufficiently for my purposes. Of course I'm sending to Paris for my own microscope—it's a Zeiss, with a one-twelfth oil immersion—and I'll have my own rocker microtome sent over also. There's a microtome in the laboratory here, but I might take weeks to get on terms with it. If you'd ever worked with the instrument, you'd know how curiously human it is in its moods and whims. If a microtome takes a liking to you, she'll work herself to the bone while you merely rest your hand on the lever. But if she has some secret objection to you, she'll pout and sulk, and jib and rear, and generally try to drive you distracted."

Elaine smiled. "I notice that man always applies the feminine gender to anything unreliable in the way of machinery. If it's sober and steady-going, you label it masculine, like Big Ben. But if it's uncertain in action, like a motor-boat, you call it Fifi or Lolo or Vivienne."

"That's a true bill," confessed RiviÈre. "Henceforth I'll keep to the strictly neutral 'it' when I mention a microtome."

"I want to know the nature of your research work. You've never yet told me except in vague, general terms."

RiviÈre hesitated. It seemed to him scarcely a subject to discuss with one who herself was in the hands of the surgeon.

"Wouldn't you prefer a more cheerful topic?" he ventured.

Elaine appreciated the reason for his hesitation, and answered: "I want to hear of the spirit behind your technicalities. It won't depress me in the least. Please go on."

RiviÈre began to explain to her the big idea which he was hoping to develop in the coming years. He avoided any details that might seem to have even a remote personal bearing. He spoke with enthusiasm—his voice became aglow with inner fire. And it was clear from her attitude and from the questions she interjected from time to time that she realized the value of his idea, appreciated his motives, and was whole-heartedly interested in what he was telling her.

As Elaine listened, a tiny voice within her was whispering: "Here is your rival." And she felt glad that her rival was one of high purpose. The call of science and a high, impersonal aim, touched her as something sacred.

RiviÈre had brought with him a daily paper—the Frankfort edition of the Europe Chronicle—in order to read it to her. Thinking that she might be getting wearied of his personal affairs, he broke off presently, and with her agreement, opened the paper at the news pages, calling out the headlines until she intimated a wish to hear a fuller reading.

He had finished the news pages for her, and was about to put the paper aside, when the instinct of long habit made him glance at the headlines of the financial page.

Elaine heard a sudden decisive rustle of the paper as he folded it quickly, and then came a minute of silence which carried to her sensitive brain a strange sensation of tenseness.

"What is it?" she asked. "Won't you read it out?"

RiviÈre's voice had altered completely when he answered her. There was now a reserved, constrained note in it. "An item of news which touches me personally," he said.

"Am I not to hear it?"

"I would rather you didn't ask me."

There was silence again. RiviÈre sat stiff with rigid muscles while he thought out the bearings of the news item he had just read. Then he asked her to excuse him on a matter of immediate urgency.

At the post office he managed after some waiting to get telephonic communication with the Frankfort office of the Europe Chronicle.

"Tell the financial editor that Mr John RiviÈre wants to speak to him," he said authoritatively. "Please put me through quickly. I'm on a trunk wire."

After a pause the stereotyped reply came that the financial editor was out. His assistant was now speaking, and would take any message. Clifford Matheson would not have had such an answer made to him, but RiviÈre was an unknown name. He realized that he must now cool his heels in anterooms, and communicate with chiefs through the medium of their subordinates.

"You have an item in to-day's paper regarding the forthcoming notation of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. Mr Clifford Matheson's name is mentioned as Chairman. I should very much like to know if you have had confirmation of that item, and from where it was obtained."

"Hold the line, please. I'll make enquiries."

Presently the answer came. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Mr Matheson is my half-brother, and though I'm in close touch with him, I've had no intimation of any such move on his part."

"Hold the line, please."

Another pause ensued, followed by the formal statement. "The news came to us last night from our Paris office. We believe it to be correct. Do we understand that you wish to deny it?"

"No; I want to get confirmation of it. Thanks—good-bye."

Then he asked the post-office for a trunk call to Paris, and after an hour's wait he was put in touch with the headquarters of the Europe Chronicle. The second 'phone conversation proved as unsatisfactory as the first. A financial editor of a responsible journal does not talk freely with any unknown man who rings him up on a hasty trunk call. The reply came that the information in question reached the paper from a perfectly reliable source. If Mr RiviÈre cared to call at the office, they would give him proof of the accuracy of their statement. They could not discuss such a matter over the 'phone.

RiviÈre urged that he was speaking from Wiesbaden.

They were sorry, but they did not care to discuss the matter over the 'phone. He must either take their word for it that the information was correct, or else call in person at the Paris office.

It was clear to RiviÈre that he must make the journey to Paris if he were to unravel the mystery of that astounding statement. The dead Clifford Matheson mentioned authoritatively as Chairman of the new company! Why should such an impossible story be set afloat, and what was the "reliable source" spoken of? He knew that the Europe Chronicle though a sensational paper, would not print self-invented fiction on its financial page.

"I have an urgent call to Paris," he told Elaine. "I hope you will excuse my running away so brusquely? I'll be back before the day of your operation."

"Of course, I excuse you," she replied readily. "I know that something very important is calling you. And in any case, what right would I have to say yes or no to a private decision of your own?"

There leapt in her a sudden hope that he would answer from the heart. But his reply held nothing beyond a bare statement. "This matter is extremely urgent. I propose to catch a night train to Paris and be back by to-morrow evening. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

"I have everything ... but my sight."

"And that, Dr Hegelmann will give you within the month!" he affirmed.

In Paris early the next morning, RiviÈre sought out the financial editor of the Europe Chronicle. At a face-to-face interview, RiviÈre's personality impressed, and the newspaper man showed himself quite willing to prove the bona fides of his journal.

"If you will step into the adjoining room," he said, "I'll send you the reporter who brought us the information. Ask him any questions you like. I've perfect confidence in him, and I stand by any statement of his we print. I don't think people realize how careful we are on financial matters—they seem to think that a popular paper will print any sort of canard offhand."

There followed RiviÈre into the next room a tubby rosy-faced little man, brisk and smiling. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" he rattled off cheerfully. "The financial editor tells me that I'm to preach to you the gospel of the infallibility of the Chronicle. What's the particular text you're heaving bricks at?"

Jimmy Martin's infectious good-humour brought an answering smile from RiviÈre. "I'm not casting doubts on the modern-day Bible," he replied. "I'm seeking information. I want to know who told you that Clifford Matheson, my half-brother, is to head the Board of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd."

"I have it straight from the stable—from Lars Larssen."

RiviÈre's face did not move a muscle—he was still smiling pleasantly.

"Larssen and I are old pals," continued Martin briskly. "So when he was passing through Paris the other day he 'phoned me to the effect of come and crack a bottle with me, come and let's reminisce together over the good old days. I went; and he gave me the juicy little piece of news you saw in yesterday's rag. We saved up some of it for to-day—have you seen? Clifford Matheson heads the festal board, and the other revellers at the guinea-feast are the Right Hon. Lord St Aubyn, Sir Francis Letchmere, Bart., and G. Lowndes Hawley Carleton-Wingate, M.P. Lars Larssen sits below the salt—to wit, joins the Board after allotment. The capital is to be a cool five million, and if I were a prophet I'd tell you whether they'll get it or not."

"Thanks—that's just what I wanted to know."

"You withdraw the bricks?"

"Unreservedly.... By the way, do you know where my brother is at the moment?"

"Vague idea he's in Canada. Don't know where I get it from. Those sort of things are floating in the air."

"Where is Larssen?"

"He was going on to London—dear old foggy, fried-fishy London! Ever notice that London is ringed around with the smell of fried fish and naphtha of an evening? The City smells of caretakers; and Piccadilly of patchouli; and the West End of petrol; but the smell of fish fried in tenth-rate oil in little side-streets rings them around and bottles them up. In Paris it's wood-smoke and roast coffee, and I daresay heaps healthier, but I sigh me for the downright odours of old England! Imitaciong poetry—excuse this display of emotion."

When RiviÈre left the office of the journal on the Boulevard des Italiens, he made his way rapidly to No. 8 Rue Laffitte, second floor. There he inquired for Clifford Matheson, and was informed that the financier was in Winnipeg.

"You're certain of that?" asked RiviÈre.

"Quite, sir!" answered the clerk in surprise. "We get cables from him giving addresses to send letters to. If you'd like anything forwarded, sir, leave it here and we shall attend to it."

It was now clear beyond doubt that Lars Larssen was playing a game of unparalleled audacity. He had somehow arranged to impersonate the "dead" Clifford Matheson, and was using the impersonation to float the Hudson Bay scheme on his own lines.

RiviÈre flushed with anger at the realization of how Lars Larssen was using his name.

But that was a trifle compared with the main issue. When he had fought Lars Larssen, it was not a mere petty squabble over a division of loot. The Hudson Bay scheme was no mere commercial machine for grinding out a ten per cent. profit. If successful, it meant an entire re-organization of the wheat traffic between Canada and Great Britain. It meant, in kernel, the control of Britain's bread-supply. It affected directly fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen.

For that reason RiviÈre had refused to lend his name to a scheme under which Lars Larssen would hold the reins of control. He knew the ruthlessness of the man and his overweening lust of power, which had passed the bounds of ordinary ambition and had become a Napoleonic egomania.

In refusing to act on the Board, RiviÈre had made an altruistic decision. But now the same problem confronted him again in a different guise. If he remained silent, the scheme would in all probability be floated in his name to a successful issue. If he remained silent, he would be betraying fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen.

He had thought to strike out from the whirlpool into peaceful waters, but the whirlpool was sucking him back.

Weighing duty against duty, he saw clearly that he must at once confront Larssen and crumple up his daring scheme. And so he wired to Elaine:

"An urgent affair calls me to London. Shall return to you at the earliest possible moment. Address, Avon Hotel, Lincoln's Inn Fields."