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Updated: May 24, 2025
If he were three days on the high seas between France and Norway, Larssen would have gained the control of Britain's wheat-supply. And Matheson had no knowledge of the daring game that his adversary was venturing. Not even a suspicion of it. In his pocket was the shipowner's agreement to extend their truce to May 20th. His mind was at rest regarding the Hudson Bay Scheme.
That moment had come to Matheson, when suddenly the half-severed rope that shackled the lifeboat to the doomed yacht gave way, and with a mutinous jerk the boat rushed itself to the surface, bottom upwards, flinging Matheson clear.
He reached for the electric bell to summon Sylvester as a witness to Matheson's signature, but at that very moment the secretary knocked and entered quickly with an open cablegram, which he passed to his chief. Larssen's face grew white as he read it, but he said nothing beyond: "Wait to witness a signature." Matheson took the prospectus and read it through mechanically.
"No date." Matheson wrote across the printed document the formal letters "O.K.," and signed below. Sylvester witnessed the signature, and passed the document to his chief. The moment he had that vital document safe in his breast-pocket, Lars Larssen was a changed man. His mask of cool indifference and his assumption of perfect leisure were thrown aside.
I happened to be attacked by a couple of apaches, and that gave me the opportunity. I contrived evidence of a violent death, and then cut loose entirely from the name of Clifford Matheson. You would be given leave by the courts to presume death, on the evidence of my coat and stick left by the river-bank at Neuilly.
Now, as regard to hours. You ask an eight-hour day and a Saturday half-holiday. That, too, is a matter of adjustment." "What about production, Mr. Matheson?" said Maitland. "And overhead? Production costs are abnormally high to-day and so are carrying charges. I am not saying that a ten-hour day is not too long.
"I seem to associate your name with that of Clifford Matheson, the financier." "My half-brother." "Ah, that's it.... A very remarkable man. I had the pleasure of interviewing him once, at his office in the Rue Lafitte." Rivière knew that for a lie. He had never seen Sylvester before, to his knowledge, and he had a keen memory for faces. What was the man driving at? He must try and discover.
Even his own son was to be used to help in the gaining of that one end. The new scheme, in its essential, held the simplicity of genius. He would, single-handed, float the Hudson Bay company with Matheson's name at the head of the prospectus, whether Matheson assented or not.
Not only had he brought blindness to her, but now he was to bring her to the pillory with the scarlet letter fixed upon her. Yet he could avoid it if he chose. A choice lay open to him. Larssen would be ready to exchange silence for silence. If Matheson would stand aside and let the Hudson Bay scheme go through, no doubt Larssen would play fair in the matter of Elaine.
"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.
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