Part 22 (1/2)

They swerved through Tonbridge Junction, glistening sootily under a drizzle of rain, and dived into the yawning tunnel of River Hill as though into refuge from the bleakness of the open country. Two fellow-travellers with Riviere were discussing the gloomy outlook of a threatened railway strike which rumbled through the daily papers like distant thunder. Fragment of talk came to his ears:--

”Minimum wage.... d.a.m.ned insolence.... Tie up the whole country.... Have them all flogged to work.... Not a statesman in the House.... Weak-kneed set of vote-s.n.a.t.c.hers.... If I had my way....”

The train ran them roof-high through endless vistas of the mean grey streets of south-east London, where the street-lamps were beginning to throw out a yellow haze against the murky drizzle of the late afternoon; slowed to a crawl in obedience to the raised arms of imperious signals; stopped over viaducts for long wearisome minutes while flaunting sky-signs drummed into the pa.s.sengers the superabundant merits of Somebody's Whisky or Somebodyelse's Soap.

Half-an-hour late at the terminus, Riviere had his valise sent to the Avon Hotel, hailed a taxi, and told the man to drive as fast as possible to Leadenhall Street. In that narrow canon of commerce was a large, substantial building bearing the simple sign--a sign ostentatious in its simplicity--of ”Lars Larssen--s.h.i.+pping.”

”Tell Mr Larssen that Mr John Riviere wishes to see him,” he said to a clerk at the inquiry desk.

”I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Larssen left the office not ten minutes ago.”

”Can you tell me where he went to?”

”If you'll wait a moment, sir, I'll send up an inquiry to his secretary.

What name did you say?”

”Riviere--John Riviere. The brother of Mr Clifford Matheson.”

Presently the answer came down the house 'phone that Mr Larssen had gone to his home in Hampstead.

Riviere re-entered the taxi and gave an address on the Heath. He wanted to thrash out the matter with Larssen with the least possible delay. He would have preferred to confront the s.h.i.+powner in his office, but since that plan had miscarried, he would seek him out in his private house.

Near King's Cross another taxi coming out from a cross-street skidded as it swerved around the corner, and jolted into his own with a crash of gla.s.s and a crumple of mudguards. Delay followed while the two chauffeurs upbraided one another with crimson epithets, and gave rival versions of the incident to a gravely impartial policeman. When Riviere at length reached Hampstead Heath, it was to find that the s.h.i.+powner had just left the house.

Riviere explained to the butler that it was very important he should reach Larssen without delay, and his personality impressed the servant as that of a visitor of standing. He therefore told Riviere what he knew.

”Mr Larssen changed into evening dress, sir, and went off in his small covered car. I don't know where he's gone, sir, but he told me if anything important arose I was to ring him up at P. O. Richmond, 2882.”

That telephone number happened to be quite familiar to Riviere. It was the number of his own house at Roehampton.

He jumped into the waiting taxi once again, and ordered the chauffeur to drive across London to Barnes Common and Roehampton. If he could not confront Larssen at office or house, he would run him to earth that evening in his own home. No doubt Larssen was going there to talk business with Sir Francis.

Roehampton is a country village held within the octopus arms of Greater London. Round it are a number of large houses with fine, s.p.a.cious grounds--country estates they were when Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England. At Olive's special choice, her husband had purchased one of the mansions and had it re-decorated for her in modern style. She liked its nearness to London proper--it gave her touch with Bond Street and theatreland in half-an-hour by fast car. She liked its s.p.a.cious lawns and its terraced Italian garden--they were so admirable for garden parties and open-air theatricals. She liked the useless size of the house--it ministered to her love of opulence.

Riviere had grown to hate it in the last few years.

The name of the estate was ”Thornton Chase.” The approach lay through a winding drive bordered by giant beeches, and pa.s.sed one of the box-hedged lawns to curl before a front door on the further side of the house.

When at the very gates another delay in that evening of delays occurred.

This time it was a tyre-burst. Riviere, impatient of further waste of time, paid off the chauffeur and started on foot along the entrance drive. The drizzle of the afternoon had ceased, and a few stars shone halfheartedly through rents in the ragged curtain of cloud, as though performing a duty against their will.

When pa.s.sing through the box-hedged lawn as a short cut to the front door, one of the curtains of the lighted drawing-room was suddenly thrown back, and the broad figure of man stood framed in a golden panel of light. It was Lars Larssen.

Riviere stopped involuntarily. It was as though his antagonist had divined his presence and had come boldly forward to meet him. And, indeed, that was not far from the fact. Larssen, waiting alone in the drawing-room, had had one of his strange intuitive impulses to throw wide the curtain and look out into the night. Such an impulse he never opposed. He had learnt by long experience that there were centres of perception within him, uncharted by science, which gathered impressions too vague to put a name to, and yet vitally real. He always gave rein to his intuition and let it lead him where it chose.

Looking out into the night, the s.h.i.+powner could not see Riviere, who had stopped motionless in the shadow of a giant box clipped to the shape of a peac.o.c.k standing on a broad pedestal.

Riviere waited.