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The liner "Claudia" was ripping her way eastwards through a calm Atlantic, like shears through an endless length of blue muslin. An unclouded morning sun beat full upon the pale cheeks and delicate frame of Larssen's little twelve-year-old son, alone with his father on their private promenade deck.
"That's no defence in a divorce court." "Blind and undergoing an operation this very morning? Do you know that it's doubtful if she will ever recover any of her sight?" Larssen's mouth tightened a shade more. At last he found the heel of Achilles. He could get at Matheson through Elaine. Ruthlessly he answered: "That's no concern of mine. I'm stating facts to you.
"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.
At the further end was Larssen's own work-table a horseshoe-shaped desk. Above and behind it hung a portrait of his little boy by Sargent. "It's almost a throne-room!" was Olive's exclamation of wonder. Larssen smiled his pleasure. It was a throne-room. He had designed it as such. His private house at Hampstead mattered little to him.
Suppose I show you over it?" Larssen's pride in his office was fully justified. There was nothing in London, nothing in England to match it as a perfect business machine. And there was no private office in Europe which could compare in impressiveness with Larssen's own.
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.
He had a half-idea that Lars Larssen's big scheme was in some way connected with the epic of the wheat, and it gave him fresh importance to think that he was serving such a man in so confidential a position. He tried a little gamble in "May wheat" with a Winnipeg bucket-shop, plunging what was to him the important sum of twenty dollars. Luck was with him full-tide.
"The issue is not yet underwritten." It was a sheer guess, but in Larssen's face Matheson could read that his guess was correct. "Well?" snapped Larssen. "Either you or I will tell the underwriters that the scheme goes no further until a month from date until May 3rd. Which is it to be you or I?" Sylvester came in rapidly.
A sensitive would almost have felt the resentment of the trimly correct hedges and shrubs and the classic statues at being thrust out of the picture on Larssen's arrival. For some time the conversation progressed on very ordinary tea-table lines.
"I did, and I do so still." "So, when opportunity came to me on the night of March 14th, I made the sudden decision you know of. I thought I had cut myself loose. If it had not been for that one unthought-of thread Larssen's scheme to use me dead or alive I should never have come back.... My sudden decision was wrong.
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