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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Much better, thank you, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What work?"

"Your work."

"Talk it longer."

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

"What did he tell you?"

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

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

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

"And then?"

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

"Repent of what?"

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

"Anything else to repent of?"

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

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

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

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

"A bogey!"

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

Dean felt bewildered. There was suspicion in his eyes.

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

Dean produced them from his pocket-book.

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

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

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

"Compare it with your two signatures."

"It's the same."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like to."

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

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

He was Larssen's man once again.