w."

"Then what the hell's the reason for this sudden attack of scruples?"

For a moment Matheson's eyes blazed black anger, but the anger died out
of them and the tired look of the platform of the Gare de Lyon took its
place. "You wouldn't understand," he answered. "The whirlpool."

"What's that?"

"It would be useless to explain. I have private reasons.... I've made
you a thoroughly fair offer, and I don't think there's anything more to
be said." Matheson rose and walked to the window, pulling up the blind
and gazing out on the sombre splendour of the big banking houses of the
Rue Laffitte and the Rue Pillet-Will.

Larssen looked at the silhouette of his antagonist with a tense set of
his jaws. Many plans were revolving in his mind. Moralists might have
labelled them "blackmail," but Lars Larssen was utterly free from
scruples where his own interests were concerned. Honesty with him was a
mere matter of policy. To a man with the average sense of honour, such
an attitude of mind is scarcely realisable, but Lars Larssen was no
normal man. In him the Napoleonic madness--or genius--burned fiercely.
He had ambitions colossal in scale--he regarded his present wealth and
power as a mere stepping-stone to the realisation of his Great Idea.

That great ultimate purpose of his life he had never revealed to man or
woman--save only to his dead wife. He aimed to be controlling owner of
the world's carrying trade; to hold decision on peace and war between
nation and nation because of that control of the vital food supply. To
be Emperor of the Seven Seas.

He had one child only--his boy Olaf, now aged twelve, at school in the
States. Olaf was to hold the seat of power after him and perpetuate his
dynasty.

That was Larssen's life-dream.

Any man or woman who stood between him and his great goal was to be
thrust aside or used as a stepping-stone. Matheson, for instance--he was
to be _used_. There must be something underlying Matheson's sudden
access of scruples--what was it? A case of _cherchez la femme_? Or
political ambitions, perhaps? If he could arrive at the motive, it might
open up a new avenue for persuasion.

He searched the silhouette of the man at the window for an answer to the
riddle. But Matheson's face was set, and the answer to the riddle was
such as Lars Larssen could never have guessed. It lay outside the
shipowner's pale of thought--beyond the limitations of his mind.

For Matheson also had his big life