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Updated: June 29, 2025
Larssen had spoken part truth when he told Olive over the tea-table that he had the glimmering of a plan in his mind. But its object was by no means what he had led her to believe. It was a scheme of an audacity in keeping with his previous impersonations of the "dead" Clifford Matheson, and its single objective was the attainment of his personal ambitions.
"You came to me because the English and Canadian public are prejudiced against 'Yankee propositions. You yourself couldn't float it in England. On the other hand, I'm Canadian-born, and my name carries weight both in England and in Canada." "With the public," added Larssen, and there was a subtle emphasis on the word "public," which carried a world of hidden meaning.
It was now the end of April close to the date of May 3rd, when the truce between Larssen and himself would expire. The shipowner would be back in London, and no doubt would have heard from Olive something of the changed situation. Force of circumstance would make him readjust his attitude, and he would probably be ready to offer compromise.
"She tried to make me believe that she wanted a divorce and would let the suit go undefended." "Bluff?" "Yes." "You saw through it at once?" "Yes." "Then what's made you switch?" "Why shouldn't I change my mind?" countered Olive coldly. Larssen summed her up now with pin-point accuracy. Jealousy had worked this transformation. She wanted her husband because the other woman wanted him.
When he caught sight of Dean waiting on the piazza, he came up with a hand outstretched in cordial greeting. "Well, Dean, how are you feeling now? The accident must have given you a terrific shake-up." "Much better, thank you, sir." "Looks to me you could do with a fortnight's complete holiday," said Larssen, surveying critically the gaunt white face of the young man. "Say so, and it's yours."
"Who is the man?" "Lars Larssen," answered Matheson. He lowered his voice slightly, though on the bustling railway platform there was no likelihood of anyone listening to the conversation. Sir Francis nodded his head. He was heavily interested in company-promoting himself, as a means of swelling an inadequate property income, and Lars Larssen was a magic name. "Hudson Bay scheme?" he asked.
He knew that he had had a miraculous escape, and the horror of the peril wove in and out of his thoughts as he lay in hospital at Fort William, haunting dreams and waking thoughts alike. When he left the hospital he was a changed man white and gaunt of face, and resolved in purpose to tell Lars Larssen at once that he would serve him no longer.
Do you dream for one instant that his word would stand against mine in a court of law? See here, Matheson, you'd better go back and read over your brief with the man who's instructing you. He's muddled up the facts." "Then what are the facts?" challenged Matheson. Lars Larssen took a deep breath before he leaned forward across the horseshoe desk to answer.
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.
To have travelled to Wiesbaden to play the outraged wife sitting in judgment on the woman who had sinned, and now ! If only Larssen were here to advise her! She tried another move, altering her voice to as much sweetness as she could command under her white-hot anger. "My dear, I appreciate your feelings," she said. "You want to fight for the man you love.
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