Olive, as Elaine had guessed, went straight to RiviÈre'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 RiviÈre's hotel:

"When Mr RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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.

RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre'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.

RiviÈre 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."

RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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?"

RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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. RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre 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.

RiviÈre 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?"

RiviÈre'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!"

RiviÈre 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 RiviÈre, 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 RiviÈre 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.

RiviÈre, 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 RiviÈre sent no answer to her message? What had Olive said to him? Had she done the best possible thing to free RiviÈre? That was the never-ceasing anxiety. In her great love for him, the one thing she most desired was to give.