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 machin 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."