Part 23 (1/2)

”The Carleton-Wingates are a useful crowd,” said Larssen. ”There's an M.P., a major-general and a minister plenipotentiary amongst them.”

”Give me those to deal with, and you entertain the twin frumps,”

answered Olive. ”Twins are always hateful in a room, because they sit together and chorus their comments together, just as if they were one mind with two bodies. You feel as if you ought to split yourself in two and devote half to each, so as not to cause jealousy. But twin old maids are especially hateful.”

”A very old family,” was Letchmere's comment. ”They go back to Henry VII.”

”What's the entertainment for to-night?” asked Olive of Larssen.

”I propose to take you to the new Cabaret,” said he.

”First-rate!”

”But it doesn't start until ten-thirty. We've plenty of time. First, I want you to play to me.”

Olive went over to the piano, and Larssen followed to light the candles and turn back the case of polished rosewood inlaid with ivory.

She laid her fingers on the keys and looked up at him expectantly.

”Something lively,” he ordered, and she rattled into the latest success of the musical comedy stage. Such as it was, she played it brilliantly.

To-night she was in that morphia mood of the terrace of Monte Carlo when she had first told him of her contempt for her husband.

Under cover of the playing, while Sir Francis was reading a novel of turf life, Olive whispered: ”Can't we have a few moments together by ourselves?”

”I'll arrange it,” answered Larssen.

”How?”

”Suppose we drop your father at the Cabaret while we go on to see my offices?”

”Offices--at night-time!” she exclaimed.

”My staff work all night there--I have a night-s.h.i.+ft as well as a day-s.h.i.+ft. In fact, the offices are busier at night-time than in the day-time.”

”Isn't that a very unusual arrangement?”

”Yes. It enables me to deal with routine-work while the other fellow's asleep. That's always been one of my business principles: get to-morrow's work done to-day; get a twelve hours' start of the other man.”

”How typical of you!”

”My place is thoroughly worth seeing. Suppose I show you over it?”

Larssen's pride in his office was fully justified. There was nothing in London, nothing in England to match it as a perfect business machine.

And there was no private office in Europe which could compare in impressiveness with Larssen's own.

Things went as he arranged, and from the busy hive of industry on the ground and first floors he took Olive to his private room on the second.

It was a room some thirty yards long and broad in proportion, with a central dome reaching above the roof. A few broad tables were almost lost in its immensity. Round the walls were maps dotted with flag-pins telling of the position of s.h.i.+ps. At the further end was Larssen's own work-table--a horseshoe-shaped desk. Above and behind it hung a portrait of his little boy by Sargent.

”It's almost a throne-room!” was Olive's exclamation of wonder.