n Englishman who sent in word that he was a
local correspondent for the _Europe Chronicle_. Riviere had him shown
into the garden of the villa, to the arbour. The would-be interviewer
was a man of thirty, quiet and secretive looking, with a heavy dark
moustache curtaining the expression of his lips. "Morris Sylvester" was
the name on his card.

He carried a hand-camera, which he placed on a seat beside him and
pointed it towards the path from the house. As Riviere approached,
Sylvester's left hand was fingering the silent release of the
instantaneous shutter. He had made a practice of working his camera
surreptitiously while his eyes held the eyes of his subject.

"Mr Sylvester," began Riviere, "I want to ask you a favour, as one
Englishman to another. Publicity is extremely distasteful to the lady
who has been so terribly injured. To have her story spread broadcast for
the satisfaction of idle curiosity would only add to her sufferings.
Isn't it possible for you to suppress this story?"

Sylvester looked hesitant. "I am sincerely sorry for the lady," he said.
"But of course I have my duty to my journal. I had intended to wire a
full column, and take a picture of the scene of the attack by the
Druids' Tower." He took up his camera from the seat beside him, as
though to show his purpose.

After a moment of reflection he added: "Would it satisfy you if I were
to suppress names?"

"I would much rather you wrote nothing at all," replied Riviere. "I know
that I can't insist. I appeal to your generosity in the matter."

"Very well. Under the circumstances, in deference to the feelings of
your friend, I'll take it on myself to suppress the story."

"That's very kind of you. Is there no form of _quid pro quo_...?"
suggested Riviere tentatively.

"Thanks--nothing."

"You'll take something with me before you go?"

"Thanks--yes."

Over the glasses Sylvester chatted pleasantly about matter of no
import, and then brought the conversation round to the real object of
his visit--to get certain information for Lars Larssen.

"Your name seems familiar to me, somehow," he ventured. "Aren't you a
scientist, Mr Riviere?"

"I do a little private research work," was the guarded admission.

"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."

Riviere kne