Then, not a soul outside myself knew of my intention. You'd have claimed leave from the Courts to presume death, and it would certainly have been granted you. You would legally have been a widow, and I--as Clifford Matheson--should legally have been dead.... But now, both you and Larssen, and his secretary as well, know that Clifford Matheson is alive."

"Does anyone else know?"

"No one."

"Larssen will certainly keep the secret. So will his secretary. So shall I. That's no difficulty."

"You mean to apply to the courts for a certificate of my death, knowing that it will be fraudulent."

"That, or divorce against you and Miss Verney." The lines of obstinacy were hard-set around her mouth.

"Why are you so bitter against her?"

Olive remained contemptuously silent. Her reason, as she saw it, should be obvious enough. If Clifford was so dense as not to see it, she was certainly not going to enlighten him.

Even in face of what had gone before, Matheson was still hoping to soften his wife towards Elaine. He tried again. "Her life is ruined. Her work was her happiness as well as her livelihood. Now, both are s.n.a.t.c.hed away from her. She is an orphan; she has no relatives in sympathy with her; her means are very limited; she has heavy expenses to face over the operation and the convalescence. She is under Hegelmann's care at Wiesbaden. This very morning he is operating on her. I must go back to Wiesbaden at once to hear how things are going."

"You can wire and find out."

"I prefer to go personally."

"Is she so very attractive to you?"

Matheson, sick at heart, reached for his hat and stick preparatory to taking his leave.

A sudden thought struck Olive. "You swear to me that you've told no one you're Clifford Matheson?"

"No one knows beyond yourself, Larssen, and Sylvester."

"And you'll tell no one else?"

"I must reserve that right."

"It's not in our bargain!" protested Olive. "You were to disappear completely."

"It won't affect our bargain," he retorted.

"That's for me to say."

"Heaven knows that I've given up to you enough already!"

"I ask you to swear to me you'll never tell anyone else! Not even hint at it!"

"I can't promise it."

"That's your last word?"

"Yes."

Olive flashed hate at him. Her hands were quivering when she answered, as though she could have torn him in pieces.

"Very well, then! I'll reserve my right of action too!" Her fingers reached for the electric bell and pressed it imperatively.

When Sylvester appeared, she said decisively: "Have a cab called for Mr Riviere."

"Certainly," he answered.

The financier took up hat and stick, and with a cold "good-bye" pa.s.sed out of the open door, Sylvester following him.

Presently the secretary returned to confer with Olive. Larssen had told him to keep in touch with her.

Clifford Matheson was once more John Riviere. He picked up his valise at the Avon Hotel and caught the first boat train for Germany. It took him to the Continent via Queenboro'--Flushing.

His thoughts on the railway journey to Queenboro' were very different to those which had filled his mind when he sped Calaiswards on his way to England. Then, he had felt as if he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake, and emerged tingling in every limb with the vigour of health renewed. The course before him had seemed straight; the issue clean-cut.

Now, he felt as if he had been tripped up and pushed bodily into a pool of mire.

Circ.u.mstances seemed more tangled than ever. Finality had not been reached either in regard to his relations towards his wife, towards Elaine, or towards Larssen; in regard to the Hudson Bay scheme, or in his regard to his future freedom for work on the lines he so earnestly desired. The whirlpool had sucked him back, and he was once more battling with swirling waters.

Out of all the welter of his thoughts one course became clearer and clearer. He must tell Elaine. He must put her in possession of the main facts of the situation which had developed in Larssen's office. That he could tell her without violating the spirit of his bargain with Olive was certain. He knew he could trust absolutely in Elaine's silence.

Till then--till he had told her--there was no definite line of action he could see as the one inevitable solution.

If the elements had seemed to bar his pa.s.sage to London the day before, to-day they seemed to be calling welcome to him as train and boat sped him eastwards. The marshes of the Swale were almost a joyous emerald green under the sparkle of the sun in the early afternoon; the estuary of the Thames was alive with white and brown sail swelling full-bloodedly to the drive of a care-free, joyful breeze; torpedo-boats and destroyers sped in and out from Sheerness with the supple strength of greyhounds unleashed, tossing the blue waters in curling locks of foam from their bows; the open sea sparkled and glinted and danced with the joy of life in its veins.

At sundown, the sky behind the foaming wake of the packet was a blaze of glory. The sinking sun wove a cloth of gold on the halo of cloud about it, and circled the horizon with a belt of rose and opal. Gradually the gold faded into fiery purple, with arms of unbelievable green stretching out to clasp the round cup of ocean; the purple died away reluctantly like the drums of a triumphant march receding to a distance; night took sea and sky into her arms, and crooned to them a mother-song of rest.

On the railway station at Flushing a telegram was handed to Riviere--the reply to a telegram of inquiry sent by him from London. It was from Elaine herself:

"Operation well over. Doctor hopeful. Little pain. Glad when you are back," it ran, and he had almost worn through its creases, by reason of folding and unfolding, before he fell asleep that night in the train for Wiesbaden.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CHAMELEON MIND

Many men are chameleons. They take their mental colour from the surroundings of the moment. They are swayed by every fresh change of circ.u.mstance, influenced by every strong mind with whom they come in contact. If such a man goes on from year to year in the same even groove of work, the chameleon mind may not be apparent on the surface; but if by any chance he is suddenly jolted from his accustomed groove, the mental instability becomes plain to read.

Arthur Dean was of this cla.s.s.

When a clerk at 2 per week he had looked forward to promotion to 3 a week as something dazzling in its opulence, while 4 a week represented the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow. Now a sudden turn of Fortune's wheel had lifted him to a salary of 6 a week and all expenses paid, and the work he was required to do for his money was so trifling in amount as to be almost ludicrous. He had merely to read over a few letters and send off a few brief cablegrams saying nothing in particular.

As Lars Larssen had tersely phrased it, he was no longer a "clerk"--he was a "business man."