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

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

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

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

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

Neither man offered to shake hands.

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

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

"You thought me dead?" he asked.

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

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

"You did give me sanction."

"Written?"

"No; your word."

"When?"

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

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

"With pleasure. What do you want?"

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

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

"For £200,000 in ordinary shares. The monetary value is the same. The difference would be that you'll have two hundred thousand with your own money, not the British public's."

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

"You have your nerve!" he commented.

"I'm offering you easy terms."

"Offer me terms!"

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

"Then why don't you?"

"I have my private reasons."

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

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

"I know nothing of that."

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

"Have you such a cable with you?"

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

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

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

"I've not used your name."

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

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

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

"Have you written evidence of that?"

"Martin will swear to it, if necessary."

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

"Then what are the facts?" challenged Matheson.

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

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

"I'm listening."

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

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

"We!"

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

"Get on."

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

Larssen ostentatiously pressed an electric bell.

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

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

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

"Yes. He is the Mr John RiviÈre I shadowed at Arles and NÎmes."

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

"No."

"Sure?"

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

"That will do, Sylvester."

The secretary left the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylvester left the room.

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

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

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

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

If only Matheson would weaken and propose compromise!

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

Presently Matheson stirred in his chair.

"Ring!" said he firmly.

The fight had begun again.

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

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

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

Both men rose to offer a seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evidently she ought to be on her guard.

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

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

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

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

"Very well. This is Mr John RiviÈre."

"RiviÈre?"

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

"I thought it was Dean."

"No—RiviÈre."

"Why is he back from Canada so soon?"

"He never went to Canada."

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

"At his dictation."

"Who wrote it?"

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

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

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

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

"How old is she?"

"I don't know—what does it matter?"

"I want to know."

"About twenty-five, I should say."

"And what were you doing at Arles?"

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

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

"What new work?"

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

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

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

"No; for a holiday."

"A holiday from what—from whom?"

"From financial matters."

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

"Because I intended to take that name permanently."

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

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

"How freedom?"

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

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

"Why did you come back?" she said.

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

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

"Yes, that was it."

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

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

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

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

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

"Then I can't argue."

"Do you deny it?"

"Emphatically!"

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

"To save his face."

"How?"

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

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

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

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

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

His voice rang out in passionate sincerity.

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

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

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

"Against a blind girl?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish to Heaven you were dead!"

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

"I don't understand."

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

"But my divorce?"

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

"What conditions?"

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

"Doesn't he approve it?"

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

"What's wrong with it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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