es huddled
against one another for warmth; streams ran swollen and muddy and
rebellious.

"The Garden of England" had no welcome for Riviere.

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.... Damned insolence.... Tie up the whole country.... Have
them all flogged to work.... Not a statesman in the House.... Weak-kneed
set of vote-snatchers.... 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 passengers 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--Shipping."

"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 shipowner 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
glass and a crumple of mudguards