II

NOT WANTED!

In the train Calaiswards, Riviere felt as though he had just plunged
into an ice-cold lake fed by torrents from the snow-peaks, and had
emerged tingling in every fibre with the glow of health.

The course before him was straight; the issue clean-cut. He had only to
confront Lars Larssen to bring the latter to his knees. If there were
opposition, the threat of a public prosecution would brush it aside.

He must resume the personality of Clifford Matheson; return to Olive;
settle a generous income on Elaine. He must wind up his financial
affairs and devote himself to the scientific research he had planned.

A straight, clean course.

He looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would walk into
Larssen's private office and smash a fist through his hoped-for control
of Hudson Bay. Until that moment, he would keep outwardly to the
identity of John Riviere. But already he was feeling himself back in the
personality of Clifford Matheson--the hard, firm lines had set again
around his mouth, the look of masterfulness was in his eye.

* * * * *

The Channel was in its sullen mood.

Overhead, skies were grey with ragged, shapeless cloud; below, the
waters were the colour of slag and slapping angrily against the plates
of the starboard bow under the drive of a wind from the north-east. The
ashen cliffs of Dover came to meet the packet reluctant and
inhospitable. By the harbour-entrance, a petulant squall of rain beat
upon them as though to shoo them away. The landing-stage was slippery
and slimy with rain, soot, and petrol drippings from the motor-cars
shipped to and fro. Customs-house officers eyed them with tired
suspicion; porters took their money and hastened away with the curtest
of acknowledgments; an engine panted sullenly as it waited for
never-ending mail-bags to be hauled up from the bowels of the packets
and dumped into the mail-van.

England had no welcome for Riviere at her front door.

Through the Weald of Kent, where spring comes early, this April
afternoon showed the land still naked and cold. On the coppices,
dispirited catkins drooped their tassels from the wet branches of the
undergrowth, but the young leaves lurked within their brown coverings as
though they shivered at the thought of venturing out into the bleak air.
On the oaks, dead leaves from the past autumn clung obstinately to their
mother-branches. The hop-lands were a dreary drab; hop-pol