"No doubt he will!" commented Larssen ironically. He drew up his chair closer to the other man. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye as he said: "Now see here. All the points you've put up were known to you months ago. What's happened to make you switch at the last moment?"

He had put his finger on the very core of the matter, but Matheson met his searching gaze without flinching. "What's happened is an entirely private matter. I've reasons for not wishing to be a.s.sociated with your scheme unless you agree to half the Deferred Shares being held by Lord ---- as trustee. These reasons of mine have only arisen during the last few weeks. Circ.u.mstances are different with me from what they were when you first broached the plan. If you don't care to agree to my suggestion, I call the deal off. As regards the expenses you've incurred, I'll go halves."

For comment, the shipowner flicked thumb and forefinger together.

"No, I'll do more," pursued Matheson. "I'll make you a more than fair offer--shoulder the whole expenses myself."

Larssen ignored the offer. "I went into the preliminaries of the scheme on the understanding that we were to pull together."

"I know."

"It means big money for you--enough to retire on."

"I know."

"Then what the h.e.l.l's the reason for this sudden attack of scruples?"

For a moment Matheson's eyes blazed black anger, but the anger died out of them and the tired look of the platform of the Gare de Lyon took its place. "You wouldn't understand," he answered. "The whirlpool."

"What's that?"

"It would be useless to explain. I have private reasons.... I've made you a thoroughly fair offer, and I don't think there's anything more to be said." Matheson rose and walked to the window, pulling up the blind and gazing out on the sombre splendour of the big banking houses of the Rue Laffitte and the Rue Pillet-Will.

Larssen looked at the silhouette of his antagonist with a tense set of his jaws. Many plans were revolving in his mind. Moralists might have labelled them "blackmail," but Lars Larssen was utterly free from scruples where his own interests were concerned. Honesty with him was a mere matter of policy. To a man with the average sense of honour, such an att.i.tude of mind is scarcely realisable, but Lars Larssen was no normal man. In him the Napoleonic madness--or genius--burned fiercely.

He had ambitions colossal in scale--he regarded his present wealth and power as a mere stepping-stone to the realisation of his Great Idea.

That great ultimate purpose of his life he had never revealed to man or woman--save only to his dead wife. He aimed to be controlling owner of the world's carrying trade; to hold decision on peace and war between nation and nation because of that control of the vital food supply. To be Emperor of the Seven Seas.

He had one child only--his boy Olaf, now aged twelve, at school in the States. Olaf was to hold the seat of power after him and perpetuate his dynasty.

That was Larssen's life-dream.

Any man or woman who stood between him and his great goal was to be thrust aside or used as a stepping-stone. Matheson, for instance--he was to be _used_. There must be something underlying Matheson's sudden access of scruples--what was it? A case of _cherchez la femme_? Or political ambitions, perhaps? If he could arrive at the motive, it might open up a new avenue for persuasion.

He searched the silhouette of the man at the window for an answer to the riddle. But Matheson's face was set, and the answer to the riddle was such as Lars Larssen could never have guessed. It lay outside the shipowner's pale of thought--beyond the limitations of his mind.

For Matheson also had his big life-scheme, and it now filled his mind with a blaze of light as he stood by the window, silent.

Larssen resolved to play for time while he set to work to ferret out his antagonist's motive for the sudden change of plan. He did not dream for a moment of relinquishing control on the Hudson Bay scheme. As he had stated openly, control was _creed_ to him.

He broke the long silence with a conciliatory remark. "Let's think matters over for a day or two. My scheme might be modified on the financial side. I'm prepared to make concessions to what you think is fair to the shareholders. We shall find some common ground of agreement."

The smooth words did not deceive Matheson. So his answer came with deliberate finality: "I've said my last word."

"Well, I'll consider it carefully. Meanwhile, doing anything to-night? I hear that Polaire is on at the Folies Bergeres with her opium-den scene.

A thriller, I'm told."

Theatres and music-halls were nothing to the shipowner; his idea was to keep Matheson under observation if possible, and try to solve the riddle.

"Thanks, but I've got to get away from Paris," answered Matheson with his tired droop of the shoulders. "I have to join my wife and father-in-law at Monte Carlo."

"Very well, then, I'll say good-bye for the present."

When Larssen had left the office, he hurried into a taxi and was whirled to the Grand Hotel near at hand. Here he found his secretary turning over the ill.u.s.trated papers in the hall lounge, and gave a few curt directions. "Drive round to the Rue Laffitte--a hurry case. On the second floor of No. 8 is the office of Clifford Matheson. He may be still there--you'll know by the light in the window. Wait till he comes out, and follow him. Find out where he goes. If it's to a woman's house--good. In any case shadow him to-night wherever he goes."

CHAPTER III

SHADOWED

Matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. To and fro, from door to windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open streets.

At his desk he made out a cheque in favour of Lars Larssen to the amount of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an addressed envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after eleven when he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted stick, clicked out the lights, and made his way down to the Rue Laffitte.

At the corner of the Rue Laffitte he pa.s.sed a young man lounging in the shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance.

Matheson made up towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the white Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold white beauty--serene and pure--above the feverish glitter of Paris. Up there a man might attune himself to the message of the stars--might weigh duty against duty in the balance of the infinite.

He walked deep in thought, with shoulders drooping.

Beyond the clamorous glitter of the Place Pigalle, with its garish entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow, winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on the heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the situation. Out of a _ruelle_ crept two _apaches_ with the stealthy glide of their cla.s.s. One followed close behind Clifford Matheson, while the other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an _agent de police_.

The young man who had followed from the Rue Laffitte paused irresolute.

On the one hand were his orders to shadow Matheson wherever he might go that night; on the other hand was his personal safety. He was keenly alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian _apache_, and he was unarmed. The wicked curved knife doubtless concealed under the belt of the _apache_ turned the scale decisively in the mind of the shadower. He saw no call to risk his own life.

He gave up and retraced his steps, leaving Matheson to his fate.

CHAPTER IV

ON THE SCENT OF A MYSTERY

The name of the young man who had shadowed Matheson was Arthur Dean, and his position in life was that of a clerk in the Leadenhall Street office of Lars Larssen. The latter had brought him over to Paris as temporary secretary because the confidential secretary had happened to be ill and away from business at the moment when Matheson's letter arrived.

Young Dean bitterly repented his cowardice before he was five minutes distant from the narrow lane on the heights of Montmartre.

Not only had he left a fellow-countryman to possible violence and robbery, but his action would inevitably recoil on himself. To be even a temporary secretary to the great shipowner was a chance, an opportunity that most young business men of twenty-four would eagerly grasp at. He was throwing away his chance by this cowardly disobedience to orders--Lars Larssen was not the man to forgive an offence of that kind.

Dean turned on his tracks and again crossed the Place Pigalle. The lane behind was deserted. He mounted it and searched eagerly. His search was fruitless. Matheson was nowhere visible--nor the two _apaches_. To what had happened in that interval of ten minutes there was no clue.

The young fellow did not dare to go back to the Grand Hotel and report his failure. He wandered about aimlessly and miserably, until a flaunting poster outside an all-night _cafe chantant_ caught his eye and decided him to enter and kill time until some plan for retrieving his failure might occur to him.

As he entered the swinging doors a cheery hand was laid on his shoulders. "Hullo, old man! Hail and thrice hail!"