yet from your husband?"

"No. Why?"

"He's off to Canada. I thought he would have wired you."

"That's just like Clifford!" There was an angry sharpness in the voice
over the wire.

"I reckon he was in too much of a hurry. It's in connexion with the
Hudson Bay scheme--you know about that?"

"Yes. Has anything gone wrong with it?" Now there was anxiety in the
voice.

"A new situation has arisen. Your husband suggested to me that he had
better hurry across the pond and straighten up matters." Larssen lowered
his voice. "Somebody in the Canadian Government wants oiling. Of course
he will have to work the affair very quietly."

"It's too annoying! Clifford had promised me faithfully to come on to
Monte by to-night's train. I wanted him here."

"That's rough on you!"

"What message did you wish to give to my father?"

"About the Hudson Bay deal. I want to meet Sir Francis and talk
business."

"You're not going to drag him back to Paris!"

Again there was annoyance in her voice, and Lars Larssen made a quick
resolution. He answered: "Certainly not, if you don't wish it. Rather
than that, I'll come myself to Monte."

"That's charming of you!"

"The least I can do. I'll wire later when to expect me."

"Many thanks."

When the conversation had concluded, the shipowner called the young
secretary and asked him to bring in the new "Thor" travelling typewriter
he had purchased that afternoon. Larssen had proved right in his guess
of the make of machine with which his scrap of typing had been done.

"Take a letter. Envelope first," said Larssen.

"You want me to take it direct on the machine, sir?"

"Yes." The shipowner began to dictate. "Monsieur G. R. Coulter, Rue
Laffitte, 8, Paris.... Now for the letter.... Cherbourg, March 15th."

"Any address above Cherbourg?"

"Not at present. 'Cherbourg, March 15th. Dear Coulter, I am called away
to Canada on business. The matter is very private, and I want my trip
kept very quiet. I leave affairs in your hands until my return. Get my
luggage from my hotel and keep it in the office. If anything urgent
arises, my name and address will be Arthur Dean, Hotel Ritz-Carlton,
Montreal.'"

The young secretary went white, and his fingers dropped from the keys of
the typewriter.

"Sir!"

It was a moment of crisis.

"Well?" asked Lars Larssen sharply.

"A letter like that, sir...!"

"You don't care to go to Canada?"

"It's not that, but----" He stammered, and stopp