In pursuance of his second move, Larssen had to see Miss Verney. To write to her would probably be fruitless waste of time; and it was emphatically not the kind of interview to delegate to a subordinate. He had to seek her in person.

It was curious to reflect that, in this tangle of four lives, the balance of power had shifted successively from one to the other. At first it was with Matheson. A letter of his had brought the shipowner hastening to Paris to see him. Later, it was Larssen who sat still and Matheson who hurried to find him. Later again, it was Olive who held decision between the two men. And now Elaine.

As soon as he had settled the underwriting affair with Sir Francis and his two co-Directors, Larssen went straight to Wiesbaden to the surgical home, and had his card sent in to Elaine.

Elaine received him in the garden of the home, under the soft shade of a spreading linden, where she had been chatting with another patient. Near by, a laburnum drooped in shower of gold over a bush of delicate white guelder-rose as Zeus over DanÆ. Upon the wall of the home wistaria hung her pastel-shaded pendants of flower, like the notes of some beautiful melody, sweet and sad, along the giant staves of her stem. A Chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds.

The bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light.

After a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, Larssen drew up a chair beside hers. "You're wondering why I've called on you," he began. "You're thinking that a stranger—and a busy man at that—wouldn't have travelled to Wiesbaden merely to inquire after you. You're thinking that I want something."

"What is it you want from me?" asked Elaine with frank directness.

"I want your help," returned Larssen with an assumption of equal frankness.

"My help! For what?"

"For Matheson."

"And what is this help you want from me?"

"It's simple enough, but first let me spread out the situation as I see it. If I'm wrong, you'll correct me.... To begin with, Matheson is a man of complex character and high ideals. The latter have been snowed under in his business career. He's like an Alpine peak. From the distance, it looks cold and aloof, but underneath there's a carpet of blue gentian waiting to spring out into blossom when the sun melts off the snow-layer. I don't pay idle compliments when I say that I haven't far to look for the sun that's melting off the snow."

He paused.

Elaine remained silent, but Larssen's vivid metaphor went home to her.

"I used to admire Matheson as a financier," pursued the shipowner. "Now I respect him as a man. He's put up the fists to me over what he believes to be his duty to the British public, and I like him all the better for it."

"You threatened Mr Matheson that you would have me dragged into a divorce court if he didn't sign agreement to your prospectus."

It was a definite statement and not a question, and from it Larssen judged that the financier had told her everything from start to finish.

"I did, and there's where my mistake lay. One mustn't threaten a man of Matheson's calibre. Please understand this, Miss Verney, all question of divorce is dead."

"It would make no difference to me."

"It was fine of you to say so to Mrs Matheson. You've pluck."

"Then you've been talking matters over with Mrs Matheson?"

"Certainly. I want to arrive at a final settlement for all of us."

"How?"

"That's where I want your help. First let me complete my lay-out of the situation.... Matheson is a man of high ideals. But he tangled up his life pretty badly on the night of March 14th, when he tried to cut loose from his old career. It was a mistake. We've both made mistakes, he and I. The unfortunate part is that the consequences don't fall on us. They fall on Mrs Matheson and yourself. You note that I place Mrs Matheson before yourself? That's deliberate."

Again he paused, but Elaine did not make any comment. She guessed now what Larssen had come to say to her, and a shiver of fear went through her. Not fear of Larssen as a man, but as a spokesman for Fate. In the deliberate unfolding of his statement, there was the passionless gravity of Fate.

Guessing her thoughts, Larssen's voice deepened as he continued: "I definitely place Mrs Matheson before yourself. She is his wife. He married her for better or worse. However mistaken he may have been in his estimate of her, he must keep to his promise of the altar-side. She is his wife. As a man of honour, Matheson's first duty is to stand by his wife. I don't want to wound your feelings, believe me. But I have to say this: you must realise Mrs Matheson's point of view."

"I think I do."

"Do you realise that she is eating her heart out in loneliness?"

"I didn't know."

"I do know. I went to see her a couple of days ago at Thornton Chase. The change in her these last few weeks startled me. I deliberately say this: you have, unknowingly, dealt her a blow from which she will never recover. She is naturally far from strong, and though I'm not a doctor, I venture to make this prophecy: within three years, Mrs Matheson will be dead."

A low cry of expostulation came from Elaine.

"It's an ugly, brutal fact," pursued Larssen, pressing home his advantage to the fullest extent. Now that he had probed for and reached the raw nerve of feeling, he intended to keep it tight gripped in the forceps of his words. "It's brutal, but it's true. Unwittingly, you have shortened her life."

"I've sent Mr Matheson away," faltered Elaine.

"I guessed that. But will he stay away from you?"

"Yes."

"I doubt it."

"We've said good-bye!"

"But he writes to you?"

There was an answer in her silence.

"He writes to you. That means a great deal—a very great deal."

"What do you want from me?" cried the tortured girl.

"Reparation," was the grave answer.

"To——?"

"To Mrs Matheson—to his wife."

"What more can I do than I have done?"

"Doesn't your heart tell you?"

"I'm torn with——"

"With love for him. I know. I know. I'm asking from you the biggest sacrifice of all—for his sake and for her sake. While she lives, give her back what happiness you can," Larssen's voice had lowered almost to a whisper.

"What more can I do than I have done?"

"Much more. Write to Matheson definitely and finally. Send him back to his wife. She is to cruise on board the 'Starlight'—a yacht of mine—with my little son. Send Matheson to meet her on the yacht."

"And then?"

"Then they will come together again. I'm certain of it. I've seen Mrs Matheson and read the change in her feelings. She'll be a different woman now.... Can you see to write?"

"Yes—faintly."

"Then write to Matheson what your heart will dictate to you," said Larssen gently.

Presently he resumed: "Where is he now?"

"At NÎmes."

"Ah, yes—the trial."

"It should be finished to-day."

"Then Matheson will probably be returning to London to see me. There's no need for him to hurry back. He could board the 'Starlight' at Boulogne or any other port he might prefer."

"Isn't May 3rd the day that ends your agreement?" asked Elaine.

"It is; but I'll extend that date." Larssen took from his pockets a fountain-pen and a scrap of paper and scribbled a few words on it, signing his name underneath. "Suppose you enclose this when you're writing to Matheson? It extends our agreement until May 20th."

He passed the paper to her.

The power of the human word, of the human voice—how limitless it is! Larssen, master of word and voice, had Elaine convinced through and through of his sincerity in the matter of reconciling husband and wife. He had appealed with unerring judgment to her finest feelings, and she read her own altruism into his words.

Larssen knew that his point was won, and long experience had taught him to close an interview as soon as he had carried conviction.

"I won't tire you any longer," he said, rising. "I just want to say this: you're big. You're the finer woman by far, but she is his wife."