-scheme, and it now filled his mind
with a blaze of light as he stood by the window, silent.

Larssen resolved to play for time while he set to work to ferret out his
antagonist's motive for the sudden change of plan. He did not dream for
a moment of relinquishing control on the Hudson Bay scheme. As he had
stated openly, control was _creed_ to him.

He broke the long silence with a conciliatory remark. "Let's think
matters over for a day or two. My scheme might be modified on the
financial side. I'm prepared to make concessions to what you think is
fair to the shareholders. We shall find some common ground of
agreement."

The smooth words did not deceive Matheson. So his answer came with
deliberate finality: "I've said my last word."

"Well, I'll consider it carefully. Meanwhile, doing anything to-night? I
hear that Polaire is on at the Folies Bergeres with her opium-den scene.
A thriller, I'm told."

Theatres and music-halls were nothing to the shipowner; his idea was to
keep Matheson under observation if possible, and try to solve the
riddle.

"Thanks, but I've got to get away from Paris," answered Matheson with
his tired droop of the shoulders. "I have to join my wife and
father-in-law at Monte Carlo."

"Very well, then, I'll say good-bye for the present."

When Larssen had left the office, he hurried into a taxi and was whirled
to the Grand Hotel near at hand. Here he found his secretary turning
over the illustrated papers in the hall lounge, and gave a few curt
directions. "Drive round to the Rue Laffitte--a hurry case. On the
second floor of No. 8 is the office of Clifford Matheson. He may be
still there--you'll know by the light in the window. Wait till he comes
out, and follow him. Find out where he goes. If it's to a woman's
house--good. In any case shadow him to-night wherever he goes."

CHAPTER III

SHADOWED

Matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing
to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. To and fro, from door to
windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of
the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open
streets.

At his desk he made out a cheque in favour of Lars Larssen to the amount
of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an addressed
envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after eleven when
he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted stick, clicked
out the