Part 14 (1/2)

When he came face to face with her, perhaps it would be best to give a cold bow of formal recognition--the kind of bow that says ”Good morning.

I'm busy. You're not wanted.”

And yet, there was news for him in her possession of which he ought to be informed. It was only fair to the man who had defended her at considerable personal risk that she should do him this small service in return. In her pocket was a cutting of an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a Parisian paper, several days old, asking for the whereabouts of John Riviere.

Very possibly he had not seen it himself. It was only fair to let him know of it. The st.i.tches in his forehead, which she had noted as she hurried past--these called mutely for the small service in return.

Elaine decided to wait until he recognized her, to give him the advertis.e.m.e.nt, and then to conclude their acquaintances.h.i.+p with a few formal words of which the meaning would be unmistakable. Accordingly she set her campstool not far away from him, and began her sketching in a vigorous, characteristic fas.h.i.+on.

It was an hour or more before her intuition warned her that Riviere was approaching from behind. As he pa.s.sed, she raised her eyes quite naturally as though to look at the subject she was finis.h.i.+ng. Their eyes met. Riviere raised his hat politely but without any special significance. His att.i.tude conveyed no desire to renew their acquaintance. He did not stop to exchange a few words, as she expected.

Elaine was hurt. She felt that he should at least have given her the opportunity to refuse acquaintances.h.i.+p. And a sudden resolve fired up within her to humble this man of ice--to melt him, and bring him to her feet, and then to dismiss him.

”Mr Riviere,” she called.

He stopped, and answered with a formal ”Good morning.”

”I have something for you--some news.”

”Yes?”

”Do you know that your friends are getting anxious about you?”

Riviere's attention concentrated. ”Which friends?” he asked.

”I don't know which friends. But there's an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a Paris paper asking for your whereabouts.”

”Thank you for letting me know. What does it say?”

She produced the cutting and handed it to him. He studied it in silence.

There was no hint in its wording as to who was making inquiry--the advertis.e.m.e.nt merely asked for replies to be sent to a box number care of the journal. It struck Riviere that it must have been inserted by Olive.

”Thank you,” he said. ”I hadn't seen it before.”

”I'm going to ask something in return,” said Elaine, and smiled at him frankly. ”I want to know why you're running away from your Monte Carlo friends.”

Most women of Riviere's world would have cloaked their curiosity under some conventional, indirect form of question. Her frank directness struck him as refres.h.i.+ng, and he answered readily: ”The lady you saw in the Cote d'Azur Rapide was my sister-in-law, Mrs Matheson. Mrs Clifford Matheson.”

”The wife of that man!” she interrupted. There was anger and contempt in her voice.

”You know him?”

”My father lost the last remains of his money in one of that man's companies. It hastened his death.”

”Which company?”

”The Saskatchewan Land Development Co. My father bought during the early boom in the shares.”

Riviere remembered that he himself had cleared 50,000 over the flotation, and the remembrance jarred on him. The company was a moderately successful one, but in its early days the shares had been ”rigged” to an unreal figure. Still, he felt compelled, almost against his will, to defend his past action.

”Did he buy for investment or merely for speculation?” asked Riviere.