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Updated: June 29, 2025
Lars Larssen had made no mention of this name. It was the one facet of the situation of which the shipowner knew nothing the one unknown link in the chain of circumstance. Arthur Dean could only send a frantic wire to Lars Larssen, and the liner had cast off from her moorings before an answer came. This is what the shipowner found awaiting him at his hotel: "Mrs M. wants to know where is Rivière.
You would legally have been a widow, and I as Clifford Matheson should legally have been dead.... But now, both you and Larssen, and his secretary as well, know that Clifford Matheson is alive." "Does anyone else know?" "No one." "Larssen will certainly keep the secret. So will his secretary. So shall I. That's no difficulty."
Advertise in Le Petit Journal, Le Petit Parisien and a few other dailies which cover France from end to end, as no English or American journals do in their respective countries. That was the right solution! Larssen did not pay the cheque for £20,000 into his bank. He was after big game, and a mere £20,000 was a jack-rabbit. It would be safer, he felt, to let it lie amongst his secret papers.
Larssen scribbled an answer and handed it to the steward for despatch. The boy was thinking over the coming cruise of the "Starlight." Suddenly he exclaimed: "I've got an idea! Invite her on board my yacht!" Larssen smiled. "That's a very practical test for her!" he said. The Italian garden at Thornton Chase was perfect in its artificiality.
The power of the human word, of the human voice how limitless it is! Larssen, master of word and voice, had Elaine convinced through and through of his sincerity in the matter of reconciling husband and wife. He had appealed with unerring judgment to her finest feelings, and she read her own altruism into his words.
A fair-haired giant in build, with inscrutable eyes and mouth set grim and straight such was Lars Larssen. Though Matheson was in no way a small man, yet he seemed somehow dwarfed when Larssen entered the room. The financier was a self-made master, but the shipowner was a born master of men perhaps one's instinctive contrast lay there.
It was now clear beyond doubt that Lars Larssen was playing a game of unparalleled audacity. He had somehow arranged to impersonate the "dead" Clifford Matheson, and was using the impersonation to float the Hudson Bay scheme on his own lines. Rivière flushed with anger at the realization of how Lars Larssen was using his name. But that was a trifle compared with the main issue.
If the various advertisements brought a reply, Sylvester was to hunt out John Rivière in whatever part of France he might be, and then communicate with Lars Larssen for further orders. The secretary was a quiet, self-contained, silent man of thirty or thirty-one. A heavy dark moustache curtained expression from his lips.
There was an angry sharpness in the voice over the wire. "I reckon he was in too much of a hurry. It's in connexion with the Hudson Bay scheme you know about that?" "Yes. Has anything gone wrong with it?" Now there was anxiety in the voice. "A new situation has arisen. Your husband suggested to me that he had better hurry across the pond and straighten up matters." Larssen lowered his voice.
"What's the entertainment for to-night?" asked Olive of Larssen. "I propose to take you to the new Cabaret," said he. "First-rate!" "But it doesn't start until ten-thirty. We've plenty of time. First, I want you to play to me." Olive went over to the piano, and Larssen followed to light the candles and turn back the case of polished rosewood inlaid with ivory.
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