The trial at NÎmes proved a wearisome, sordid affair, and its result was a foregone conclusion. If there had been some motive of romantic jealousy on the part of the youth Crau, a French jury might have returned a sentimental verdict of acquittal. As it was, they found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to three years penal servitude.

RiviÈre was heartily glad when the trial was over. It was now the end of April—close to the date of May 3rd, when the truce between Larssen and himself would expire. The shipowner would be back in London, and no doubt would have heard from Olive something of the changed situation. Force of circumstance would make him readjust his attitude, and he would probably be ready to offer compromise.

RiviÈre judged it advisable to return to England, and there to wait for overtures on the part of Larssen. He had taken ticket for London, and was preparing for travel, when two letters reached him, from Olive and Elaine.

The latter gave him a keen thrill of pleasure. It was written by Elaine herself, and this was proof indeed of the miracle of surgery wrought by Dr Hegelmann. But its contents made him very thoughtful. She was asking him to go back to his wife. She was pointing out to him a path of duty exceedingly hard to tread.

Olive's letter added further pressure on his feelings. She was advised to try a sea-voyage for her health, she told him; Larssen had placed his yacht at her disposal; she begged her husband to meet her at Boulogne and once more to give her a chance to explain. It was an appeal utterly different to the attitude she had taken at Wiesbaden—there was now a sincerity in it which RiviÈre could not mistake.

The enclosure in Elaine's letter did not surprise him. If Larssen of his own accord offered to extend the truce until May 20th, it must mean that the shipowner was aware of his shaky position and ready to suggest compromise.

The effect of those three communications on RiviÈre's mind was what Larssen had so shrewdly planned. RiviÈre wired to his wife that he would meet her at Boulogne Harbour.

That evening he caught a Paris express with a through P.L.M. carriage for Boulogne. At the Gare de Lyon, in the early morning, they shunted him round the slow and tedious Girdle Railway to the Gare du Nord, clanked him on the boat train, and sped him northwards again in a revigorated burst of railway energy. North of Paris, a P.L.M. carriage undergoes a marked change of character. It deferentially subdues its nationality, and takes on an Anglo-American aspect. Harris-tweeded young men pitch golf-bags and ice-axes on the rack, and smoke bulldog pipes in its corridors with an air of easy proprietorship. American spinsters, scouring Europe in couples, order lunch in high-pitched American without troubling to translate. The few Frenchmen who find themselves in the train have almost the apologetic air of intruders.

While passing through the corridor of a second-class carriage, RiviÈre happened on the tubby little figure and rosy smiling countenance of Jimmy Martin the journalist. Martin never forgot a face or a name—it was part of his profession to make an unlimited acquaintanceship with everyone who might possibly "have a story to tell."

"Hail, sir!" said he cheerily. "You haven't forgotten the little sermon I had to preach to you on the infallibility of my owners, the Europe Chronicle?"

RiviÈre shook hands cordially. "I remember perfectly. You're going home on holiday, I expect?"

"I'm going home for good, praise be. I've sacked my owners. I told them that they were a set of unmitigated liars, scoundrels and bloodsuckers, and that I couldn't reconcile it with my conscience to work for them any longer without a 20 per cent. increase in pay. They demurred, and I promptly sacked them—having in my pocket an offer from a London paper. Thus we combine valour with prudence—a mixture which is more colloquially known as 'business.'"

"What's your new post?"

"Reporter for the London Daily Truth. If you've a story to tell at any time, and want a platform to speak from, 'phone me up."

"Thanks; I will."

"I've been turning my think-tank on to the Hudson Bay Transport flotation. You certainly had some inside information on that deal. Why did it shut up with a snap, I ask myself. Who banged the lid down?"

Martin's effort to pump information was very transparent, but his infectious good humour made it impossible to take offence.

RiviÈre was a keen judge of men, and he felt instinctive confidence in the honesty of the whimsical little journalist. One could trust this man. There was nobody within hearing along the corridor of the railway carriage. Accordingly he answered:

"If you'll keep the information strictly to yourself until I want publication, I'll tell you."

Martin sobered instantly. "Mr RiviÈre," said he, "you can trust me absolutely. I play square."

"So I judge.... You ask me who banged the lid down. I did."

"Phew! You must have landed Larssen a hefty one on the solar plexus."

"The matter is not finally settled yet. It's just possible that I might need the platform you offered me. Then I'll talk further."

"Exclusive?" asked Martin, with the journalist part of him on top.

"I can't promise that. It depends."

"Well, first call at any rate. We might get out a special edition in front of the other fellows. We've started a new evening paper at the Daily Truth office, and I'd like to secure a scoop for one of the two.... My stars, if I could have seen the scrap between you and Larssen! There must have been some juicy copy in that!"

"No doubt," commented RiviÈre drily. "Well, I'll say good-bye now."

"Anyhow, thanks for your promise. I'll look forward to the next meeting. Au revoir, as they say in this whisker-ridden country."

Boulogne harbour was crowded with grimy tramp steamers, fishing boats, and a rabble of plebeian harbour craft, but the yacht "Starlight" was not in view. RiviÈre inquired at the office of the harbour-master, and was informed that a telegram promised the yacht's arrival by nightfall.

She arrived true to promise, and lay out beyond the twin piers of the harbour-mouth in the quiet of sunset of the evening of April 30th—a trim-lined, quietly capable, three-masted craft. Larssen had referred to her as a "small cruising yacht," but in reality the "Starlight" was much more than that casual description would convey. In addition to her extensive sailing power, she had a set of marine oil engines for use in light winds or special emergency, and her cabins and saloons were roomy and comfortable. She could carry a party of a dozen passengers with comfort if there were need, and had four life-boats as well as a shore dinghy. The kitchen equipment was admirable. Altogether, a trim, well-found yacht which might have voyaged round the world without mishap.

The dinghy was sent off with the mate and a couple of seamen, and entered the harbour to enquire for RiviÈre at the harbour-master's office, according to arrangement.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said the mate. "Mrs Matheson's compliments, and will you come aboard?"

"Is Mr Larssen on the yacht?"

"No. Mrs Matheson, her maid, and Master Olaf—that's all. We're giving the little chap a training in seamanship.... Jim, take the gentleman's luggage."

They rowed out to the "Starlight," lying trimly at anchor like a capable, self-possessed hostess awaiting the arrival of a week-end guest at a country-house. Olive waved greeting to her husband as he came near. By her side was Larssen's little son, holding her hand. He might have almost been posed there by the shipowner to inspire confidence in the peaceful intentions of the yachting cruise.

Olive thoroughly believed that Larssen's sole object in placing the yacht at her disposal was to reconcile husband and wife, and so indirectly to smooth over the quarrel between himself and Clifford. She had no suspicion that his real objective was to get Matheson on the high seas, the only region where he could not hear of the coming flotation of the Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. Larssen had told her that she was free to order the yacht's movements as she pleased—he merely suggested in a perfectly casual way that a cruise to the Norwegian fjords might prove enjoyable.

"It was good of you to come!" said Olive as her husband mounted the gangway to the white-railed deck. There was unmistakable sincerity in her greeting.

"I'm to be captain of the 'Starlight' as soon as I get my skipper's ticket," confided the little boy as he shook hands.

Matheson had made up his mind to carry out Elaine's wish. He had come back to his wife; and he was prepared to fall in with any plan that she might propose. Accordingly, when she suggested the alternatives of a cruise down the Channel and up to the Hebrides, or a cruise to Norway, he left the decision to her. She chose Norway. Matheson, with the shipowner's agreement in his pocket to extend their truce to May 20th, raised no objection. There was ample time to be back in England before that date.

Olive gave her orders to the captain. Before weighing anchor, the latter sent on shore for further provisions. At the same time he dispatched a telegram to Larssen stating that they were bound for Norway that evening.

A smooth deft dinner was served to Matheson and his wife in the comfortable saloon as the yacht weighed anchor, slung round to a light wind from the south-east, and made gently towards the outer edge of the Goodwins. Through the starboard portholes Wimereux Plage twinkled gaily to them from its string of lights on esplanade and summer villas; Cap Grisnez flashed its calm white light of guardianship; Calais town sent a message of kindly greeting from the far distance; only the Varne Sands whispered a wordless warning as they swirled the waters above them and sent a flock of shivering wavelets to beat against the smooth hull of the "Starlight."

On that night of April 30th, while Clifford Matheson slept on board the yacht, the presses of Fleet Street thundered off millions of newspapers which bore on their financial page the impressive prospectus of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. The post bore off to every town and village in the United Kingdom hundreds of thousands of copies of the issue in its full legal detail.

Heading the prospectus were these names on the Board of Directors:—

• Clifford Matheson, Esq. (Chairman).
• The Right Hon. Lord St Aubyn, P.C., K.C.V.O.
• Sir Francis Letchmere, Bart.
• Gervase Lowndes Hawley Carleton-Wingate, Esq., M.P.
• Lars Larssen, Esq. (Managing Director). To join the Board after allotment.

The capital was divided into 5,000,000 Ordinary £1 Shares, and 4,000,000 Deferred Shares of 1s. The latter were assigned to the vendor, Lars Larssen, in payment for various considerations. He had also underwritten the entire issue of Ordinary Shares for a commission of 3 per cent. The lists for subscription were to open on May 1st and close at midday on May 3rd. The London and United Kingdom Bank, in which Lord St. Aubyn was a Director, was receiving subscriptions and carrying out the routine of issuing allotment letters.

Such in essence was the prospectus of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. It embodied every point that Larssen aimed for. It was entirely legal, since Matheson had O.K.'d a copy of the prospectus, and the further agreement between the two men had been technically evaded by the fact of Larssen underwriting the entire issue himself.

By the time the "Starlight" reached Norway, the subscription lists would be closed and Matheson would be impotent to veto the issue. If he were three days on the high seas between France and Norway, Larssen would have gained the control of Britain's wheat-supply.

And Matheson had no knowledge of the daring game that his adversary was venturing. Not even a suspicion of it. In his pocket was the shipowner's agreement to extend their truce to May 20th. His mind was at rest regarding the Hudson Bay Scheme.

His thoughts were now centred on Olive and the strange volte face in her feelings towards him. The change in her was scarcely understandable. Yet it was entirely a normal outcome of her essential character. Olive had never appreciated Clifford's value to herself until that day at Wiesbaden when she had realised his value to the woman who was ready to sacrifice her reputation and her happiness in order to free his hands. The torrent of bitter words she had poured on Elaine was the reflex action of that sudden realisation. It was born of uncontrollable jealousy.

Now she wanted to win Clifford back. It was not sufficient that he had returned to her side. She wanted his regard, his esteem, his affection, his love. She wanted a child by him to bind them together. The tenderness with which she was looking after Larssen's little son was an outward expression of that inner hope. It was a prophecy of the future. Olaf stood for what might be. If she should have a child of her own, she felt convinced that Clifford would remain with her.

Those feelings were now the focus of Olive's thoughts. The sincerity of her greeting to Clifford was not an assumed emotion. It was inner-real. And yet it might not last for long. The effect of her drug-taking was to make every momentary feeling seem an eternal, ineradicable mainspring of action. Her many moods were each at the moment vitally important to her. They obsessed her. The morphia had not only undermined her physical health, but had made her mind the prey of every passing emotion.

For his part, Matheson was trying to weigh up the essential value of this sudden change in his wife. He admitted the sincerity; he doubted the permanency. He realised that she ardently desired a child of her own—that was plain to read from her attitude towards Larssen's son. But in the past she had always been impatient with children, and he questioned whether her present feeling was more than transitory.

The morning of May 1st brought grey sky, grey waters, and a tumbling sea. The yacht was beating north-east, close-hauled, into a stiff breeze from eastwards. No land was in sight—only a few trawler sails and a squat, ugly tramp steamer flinging a pennant of black smoke to westwards. As the day wore on the wind rose steadily, and in the afternoon the watch turned out to reef sails. Matheson was an excellent sailor, and this tussle with the elements exhilarated him. Olive, too, was quite at home on board a yacht, and the two marched the decks together in keen enjoyment of the bite of the wind and the whip of the salt spray.

By nightfall the wind had increased to a half-gale but the "Starlight" rode through the sea in splendid defiance, sure of her staunchness and steady in her purpose.

In this fight for the control of Britain's wheat-supply, Larssen had played to the highest his powers of intellect, his foresight, and his ruthless determination. He had forced the signature of Clifford Matheson to the draft prospectus, thus sanctioning its issue. He had evaded by one daring stroke the spirit of his own signed agreement. He had most carefully and minutely arranged for the flotation of the company at the time when Matheson would be on the high seas and out of touch with London news.

The "Starlight" was a well-found yacht, capable of weathering any North Sea gale. She had oil-engines to supplement her sailing power. She was provisioned for a month. Rough weather would not drive her back to harbour. She could fight through any wind or sea to Norway. Nothing had been overlooked to carry Larssen's scheme to perfect success.

Save only the hand of Providence.... Fate....

For such a man as Lars Larssen there is no other antagonist he need fear.

But Fate, with its little finger, can squeeze him to nothingness.

Out in the North Sea, wallowing sullenly in the trough of the waves, her masts gone by the board and her deck awash, lay the derelict schooner "Valkyrie" of Bergen. She would have been at the bottom of the sea had it not been for her cargo of Norway pine, keeping her painfully afloat against her will. Fate, with its little finger, moved this uncharted peril right in the track of the "Starlight," beating close-reefed through the buffeting waves on the night of May 1st, while Larssen, in his London home, satisfied that his plans had foreseen every human eventuality, slept the easy sleep of the successful.