ingers
reached for the electric bell and pressed it imperatively.

When Sylvester appeared, she said decisively: "Have a cab called for Mr
Riviere."

"Certainly," he answered.

The financier took up hat and stick, and with a cold "good-bye" passed
out of the open door, Sylvester following him.

Presently the secretary returned to confer with Olive. Larssen had told
him to keep in touch with her.

* * * * *

Clifford Matheson was once more John Riviere. He picked up his valise at
the Avon Hotel and caught the first boat train for Germany. It took him
to the Continent via Queenboro'--Flushing.

His thoughts on the railway journey to Queenboro' were very different to
those which had filled his mind when he sped Calaiswards on his way to
England. Then, he had felt as if he had just plunged into an ice-cold
lake, and emerged tingling in every limb with the vigour of health
renewed. The course before him had seemed straight; the issue clean-cut.

Now, he felt as if he had been tripped up and pushed bodily into a pool
of mire.

Circumstances seemed more tangled than ever. Finality had not been
reached either in regard to his relations towards his wife, towards
Elaine, or towards Larssen; in regard to the Hudson Bay scheme, or in
his regard to his future freedom for work on the lines he so earnestly
desired. The whirlpool had sucked him back, and he was once more
battling with swirling waters.

Out of all the welter of his thoughts one course became clearer and
clearer. He must tell Elaine. He must put her in possession of the main
facts of the situation which had developed in Larssen's office. That he
could tell her without violating the spirit of his bargain with Olive
was certain. He knew he could trust absolutely in Elaine's silence.

Till then--till he had told her--there was no definite line of action he
could see as the one inevitable solution.

If the elements had seemed to bar his passage to London the day before,
to-day they seemed to be calling welcome to him as train and boat sped
him eastwards. The marshes of the Swale were almost a joyous emerald
green under the sparkle of the sun in the early afternoon; the estuary
of the Thames was alive with white and brown sail swelling
full-bloodedly to the drive of a care-free, joyful breeze; torpedo-boats
and destroyers sped in and out from Sheerness with the supple strength
of greyhounds unleashed, tossing the blue waters in cu