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Updated: June 29, 2025
Larssen had a strong intuitive feeling that he would not live to old age, and he wanted to know that the boy would have someone to care for him and to stand behind him while he was seating himself firmly on his father's throne. Specifically, the shipowner was reviewing Olive as a possible stepmother. There was no scrap of passion in his thoughts.
"Clifford is a very shrewd man of business," remarked Larssen, drinking his third cognac at Ciro's at the end of a dinner which was a masterpiece even for Monte Carlo, where dining is taken au grand sérieux. He did not sip cognac, but took it neat in liqueur glassfuls at a time. There was a clean-cut forcefulness even in his drinking, typical of the human dynamo of will-power within.
"Right I'll remember.... By the way, about the Hudson Bay company, did I tell you that the underwriting negotiations are going through fine? Inside a week we ought to be ready for flotation." Larssen proceeded to enlarge on the subject, and the broken thread of Olive's avowal was not taken up again. They left the offices, and drove back to the Cabaret to rejoin Sir Francis.
Lars Larssen smiled as he said: "Well, postpone lunch till to-night, or eat while you're hustling around in cabs. This is a hurry case. Here's an advance fifty pounds to keep you in expense money." As the crisp notes were put into his hand, Arthur Dean felt that he was indeed on the ladder which led to business status and wealth.
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.
Neither physically nor mentally could Olaf ever be more than the palest shadow of his father, and yet Larssen was the only person who could not see this. He was trying to train his boy to hold an empire as though he were born to rule. "How clever Mr Dean is!" Olaf was saying. "Why?" "Look at the set of wheels he's rigged up for me so as I can sail my boat on deck."
This telegram just arrived seems important. I thought you would like to see it." "Thanks." Larssen glanced over it. "No answer necessary." Sylvester withdrew. "It's a wire from your gay brother-in-law," said Larssen to Olive. "From John Rivière! Where is he?" "In London. He proposes to call on me to-morrow morning at eleven." "I wonder what he has to say." "I'm completely in the dark."
The shaven lip, the scar across the forehead, the differences of hair and collar and tie and dress had combined to make a thorough disguise. Yet when the visitor entered by the farther door of the throne-room and came striding resolutely down the thirty yards of carpet, Lars Larssen knew him. The carriage and walk were Matheson's. For a moment hot rage possessed him.
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.
"Leave him to me," whispered Olive to Larssen. "I'll see that my father gets busy on the Hudson Bay Scheme. But on one condition." "What's that?" "That you stay on at Monte for a few days. I don't want to be left here alone. I hate being alone." "I'm due back in London. Urgent business matters." "Leave them for a few days. Leave them to your managers. Stay here and amuse me."
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