you the
reporter who brought us the information. Ask him any questions you like.
I've perfect confidence in him, and I stand by any statement of his we
print. I don't think people realize how careful we are on financial
matters--they seem to think that a popular paper will print any sort of
_canard_ offhand."

There followed Riviere into the next room a tubby rosy-faced little man,
brisk and smiling. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" he rattled off
cheerfully. "The financial editor tells me that I'm to preach to you the
gospel of the infallibility of the _Chronicle_. What's the particular
text you're heaving bricks at?"

Jimmy Martin's infectious good-humour brought an answering smile from
Riviere. "I'm not casting doubts on the modern-day Bible," he replied.
"I'm seeking information. I want to know who told you that Clifford
Matheson, my half-brother, is to head the Board of Hudson Bay Transport,
Ltd."

"I have it straight from the stable--from Lars Larssen."

Riviere's face did not move a muscle--he was still smiling pleasantly.

"Larssen and I are old pals," continued Martin briskly. "So when he was
passing through Paris the other day he 'phoned me to the effect of come
and crack a bottle with me, come and let's reminisce together over the
good old days. I went; and he gave me the juicy little piece of news you
saw in yesterday's rag. We saved up some of it for to-day--have you
seen? Clifford Matheson heads the festal board, and the other revellers
at the guinea-feast are the Right Hon. Lord St Aubyn, Sir Francis
Letchmere, Bart., and G. Lowndes Hawley Carleton-Wingate, M.P. Lars
Larssen sits below the salt--to wit, joins the Board after allotment.
The capital is to be a cool five million, and if I were a prophet I'd
tell you whether they'll get it or not."

"Thanks--that's just what I wanted to know."

"You withdraw the bricks?"

"Unreservedly.... By the way, do you know where my brother is at the
moment?"

"Vague idea he's in Canada. Don't know where I get it from. Those sort
of things are floating in the air."

"Where is Larssen?"

"He was going on to London--dear old foggy, fried-fishy London! Ever
notice that London is ringed around with the smell of fried fish and
naphtha of an evening? The City smells of caretakers; and Piccadilly of
patchouli; and the West End of petrol; but the smell of fish fried in
tenth-rate oil in little side-streets rings them around and bottles them
up. In Paris it's w