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Updated: June 29, 2025
But when the telephone connexion had been made, it was Olive who answered from the other end of the wire: "This is Mrs Matheson. Who is speaking?" "Mr Larssen. I want Sir Francis Letchmere." "He's out just now. Shall I take your message?" "Have you heard yet from your husband?" "No. Why?" "He's off to Canada. I thought he would have wired you." "That's just like Clifford!"
I imagined you a hundred per center, and I found you only a ninety per center. You can't climb to the top it isn't in you!" "Climb to where?" Olive looked around at the vast throne-room of the shipowner, and her meaning was conveyed in the glance. "Larssen has that final ten per cent.," admitted Matheson. "But do you know what it means in plain language?" "What?" "Utter unscrupulousness.
He offered her a chair again, and seated himself so as to command them both. Matheson, who remained standing, waved his hand towards the shipowner. "Let him speak first." "I'm not anxious to," countered Larssen. "Fire away with your own version." "I hate all this mystery!" snapped Olive irritably. "Mr Larssen, you tell me what it all means." "Very well. This is Mr John Rivière." "Rivière?"
"And just for that you came back? What a reason!" Scorn lashed from her. "Yes, Mr Larssen is right! I owe it to my self-respect to be magnanimous. You can return to your mistress I'll forego my divorce. Sign the papers he wants you to, and you can live out your life as John Rivière. Your money, of course, comes to me." The shipowner, grimly triumphant, said nothing.
The people he plundered were the outsiders, and a certain share of the spoils went to his men. So Dean knew that if he carried out thoroughly the work entrusted to him, Larssen would stand by his spoken promise. He resolved to obey orders as faithfully and as intelligently as he possibly could. He did not write home what form his new work was taking.
Even the notes of the birds soften when they...." She left the sentence uncompleted. "It was Larssen who brought us together," he meditated. "Larssen! He dominates us both. He seems to hold us in his hands. He's like ... like Fate. Pitiless, relentless." "And, like Fate, to be fought to the end." "I love you for your weakness, and yet I love you as the fighter. How contradictory it sounds!"
It was a definite statement and not a question, and from it Larssen judged that the financier had told her everything from start to finish. "I did, and there's where my mistake lay. One mustn't threaten a man of Matheson's calibre. Please understand this, Miss Verney, all question of divorce is dead." "It would make no difference to me." "It was fine of you to say so to Mrs Matheson.
As regards the expenses you've incurred, I'll go halves." For comment, the shipowner flicked thumb and forefinger together. "No, I'll do more," pursued Matheson. "I'll make you a more than fair offer shoulder the whole expenses myself." Larssen ignored the offer. "I went into the preliminaries of the scheme on the understanding that we were to pull together." "I know."
The financier took up hat and stick, and with a cold "good-bye" passed 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 Rivière. He picked up his valise at the Avon Hotel and caught the first boat train for Germany.
That scrap of paper came as a bracing tonic to Arthur Dean. It was an order, and just now he ached to be ordered. The curt message out-weighed all the burning words of the preacher. Even from three thousand miles away Lars Larssen could grip hold of the mind of the young fellow and bend it to his purpose. The next morning Dean was smiling scornfully at his weakness of the night before.
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