Lars Larssen turned to the young clerk with a questioning look. "It was the first time I had ever seen him, sir," said the clerk. "He came in and asked quite naturally for Mr Matheson. There was an astonishing likeness between them, but that was explained at once when he told me they were half-brothers."

"An astonishing likeness?"

"When I say a likeness, sir, I mean of course in a general way. Mr Riviere is younger and different in many ways."

"Describe him."

The clerk did so to the best of his ability.

"Did he leave an address?"

"No, sir."

"Or a message?"

"No."

"Or say where he was going?"

The clerk could offer no clue to the whereabouts or intentions of John Riviere. Repeated questioning added little to the meagre information already given.

"Mr Matheson has not been at the office to-day or yesterday. Have you seen anything of him?" asked Coulter of the shipowner.

"I know. He's away to Canada."

"To Canada!"

"Yes. We discussed the matter the night I was here. Hasn't he written you?"

"We've heard nothing."

"Reckon you will to-day.... Say, couldn't you look in Mr Matheson's desk to find the address of this Mr Riviere?"

Coulter was the financier's confidential man. He had full power to go over his employer's desk except for certain drawers labelled "Private,"

and he did so now.

When he came back from the search, he had an envelope in his hand addressed "Lars Larssen, Esq."

"All I could find was this envelope for you, sir. There seems to be no record of Mr Riviere's address."

The shipowner slit open the letter and read it with a countenance that gave no clue whatever to what was pa.s.sing in his mind.

"My dear Larssen," it ran, "I estimate your expenses on the Hudson Bay scheme at roughly 20,000, and I enclose cheque for that amount. If this is right, please let me have a formal receipt and quittance. I want you to understand that my decision on the matter is final. I regret that I am obliged to back out at the last moment, but no doubt you will be able to proceed without my help."

The letter was in handwriting, and had not been press-copied. Larssen noted that point at once with satisfaction. But the letter itself gave him uneasiness. It explained nothing of Matheson's motives. From the 'phone conversation with Olive, it was clear that she had no suspicion that her husband wanted to withdraw from the Hudson Bay deal. In fact, she had asked anxiously if anything had gone wrong with the scheme. Sir Francis Letchmere might of course be closer in Matheson's business confidence, and that was one of the reasons for travelling to Monte Carlo and talking to him face to face.

But with his keen intuitive sense, Lars Larssen felt that the explanation was in some way connected with this mysterious John Riviere.

It was imperative to get in touch with the man.

Where was Riviere? Was there n.o.body who could throw light on his whereabouts? His jaw tightened as he began to chew on the problem. Paris is too big a city in which to hunt for a mere name.

After thanking the manager, Larssen withdrew from the room. Pa.s.sing through the outer office, he was addressed by the other of the two clerks, a young Frenchman.

"Monsieur," said he in French, "here is a point which perhaps will be of service. I am at the window when Monsieur Riviere arrives _en taxi-auto_. On the _imperiale_ I see a portmanteau. Doubtless Monsieur Riviere journeys away from Paris."

"Did you note the number of the cab?"

The young Frenchman made a gesture of sympathetic negation. There had been no reason to look at the number, even if he could have read it from a window on the second story.

"Thanks," said Larssen, but the information seemed at first sight valueless. A man takes an unknown cab from an unknown house in an unknown suburb to an unknown terminus, when he buys a ticket for an unknown destination. Sheer waste of energy to hunt for a needle in that haystack!

Yet his bulldog mind would not let go of the problem. Presently he had found a new avenue of approach to it. If Riviere had travelled away from Paris on the evening of the 15th, probably he stayed that night or the next day at some hotel. There he would have to fill in his name, etc., in the hotel register according to the strict requirements of the French law.

Advertise in the papers for one John Riviere from Paris, age thirty-seven, staying at a hotel in the provinces on the 15th or 16th.

Offer a reward for information. The average Frenchman is very keen on money; without a doubt he would answer the advertis.e.m.e.nt if he knew anything of John Riviere. Advertise in _Le Pet.i.t Journal_, _Le Pet.i.t Parisien_ and a few other dailies which cover France from end to end, as no English or American journals do in their respective countries.

That was the right solution!

Larssen did not pay the cheque for 20,000 into his bank. He was after big game, and a mere 20,000 was a jack-rabbit. It would be safer, he felt, to let it lie amongst his secret papers.

When Sylvester, his private secretary, arrived by the afternoon train from London, Lars Larssen placed him in touch with only so much of the situation as he considered desirable. This was little. Sylvester was to stay in Paris while the shipowner went on to Monte Carlo. If the various advertis.e.m.e.nts brought a reply, Sylvester was to hunt out John Riviere in whatever part of France he might be, and then communicate with Lars Larssen for further orders.

The secretary was a quiet, self-contained, silent man of thirty or thirty-one. A heavy dark moustache curtained expression from his lips.

Not only could he carry out orders to the letter, but he was to be trusted to keep his head in any unforeseen emergency and act on his own responsibility in a sound, common-sense way. But Lars Larssen trusted no man beyond the essentials of any situation. His was the brain to plan and direct. He preferred obedient tools to brilliant, independent helpers.

At the train-side, Larssen gave a final direction to his subordinate: "Keep me in touch with every move."

Back at his hotel, Sylvester occupied himself with the development of some films he had taken on the Channel pa.s.sage. In his hours of leisure he was a devoted amateur photographer. At the present time there was nothing to be done but wait the possible answer to the advertis.e.m.e.nt.

CHAPTER IX

AT MONTE CARLO

Next day, the wonderful panorama of the Riviera was unfolding itself before the eyes of the shipowner. The red rocks and the dwarf pines of the Esterel coves, against which an azure sea lapped in soft caress....

Cannes with its far-flung draperies of white villas.... The proud solemnity of the Alpes Maritimes thrusting up to the snow-line and glinting white against the sun.... Fairy bungalows nesting in tropic gardens and waving welcome with their palm-fronds to the rushing train.... The Baie des Anges laughing with sky and hills.... The many-tunnelled cliff-route from Villefranche to Cap D'Ail, where moments of darkness tease one to longing for the sight of the azure coves dotted with white-winged yachts and foam-slashed motor-boats.... Europe's silken, jewelled fringe!

But scenery made no appeal to Lars Larssen. Scenery would not help him to the attainment of his great ambitions. Scenery was _no use_ to him.

His delight lay in men and women and the using of them. Business--the turning of other men's energies to his own ends--was the very breath of his being.

He was glad to reach the hectic crowdedness of the tiny princ.i.p.ality of Monaco--that triple essence of civilization and sensuous luxury. He felt at home with the big idea that drew the whole world to the gaming tables to pay homage to the G.o.ddess Fortune. For a moment the suggestion came to him to buy up some beautiful islet and build a pleasure city on it which should be a wonder of the world. He was making a note of it for future consideration, when Olive and her father met him on the platform at Monte Carlo.

"I thought perhaps you would bring John Riviere with you," said Olive after they had exchanged greetings. A strong desire had sprung up to see this mysterious relation of Clifford's, and to be balked of any pa.s.sing whim was keen annoyance to her.

"Bring a will-o'-the-wisp," answered Larssen.