of his doubts appeared. He was perfectly
cool, entirely master of himself. As he waited for Sylvester to fetch
Mrs Matheson, he took out a pocket-knife and began to trim his nails
lightly.

Olive's appearance as she entered the throne-room was greatly changed
from that of the evening before. The transient effect of the drug had
worn off. Her features were now heavy and listless, and there were dark
shadows under the eyes.

Both men rose to offer a seat.

"I came along to catch Mr Riviere before he left you," she explained to
Larssen, and turned with a set smile towards the visitor.

For a moment or two she stared at Matheson in amazement. Then:

"Why, it's Clifford! What have you been doing to yourself? Why have you
changed your appearance? Why are you here? What's the meaning of all
this?"

"It's a long story," cut in Larssen, and "there are two versions to it.
Which will you hear first, your husband's or mine?"

She hesitated to answer, her mind buzzing with surprise, resentment, and
anger. She hated to be caught at a disadvantage, as in this case. She
was uncertain as to what her attitude ought to be.

Had Clifford, suspecting her feelings towards Larssen, returned
hurriedly in order to trap her? What did he know? What did he guess?

Evidently she ought to be on her guard.

"Of course I will hear my husband first," she answered coldly, and
Larssen took it as an ill omen. He offered her a chair again, and seated
himself so as to command them both.

Matheson, who remained standing, waved his hand towards the shipowner.
"Let him speak first."

"I'm not anxious to," countered Larssen. "Fire away with your own
version."

"I hate all this mystery!" snapped Olive irritably. "Mr Larssen, you
tell me what it all means."

"Very well. _This_ is Mr John Riviere."

"Riviere?"

"Yes; that's your husband's _nom de discretion_."

"I thought it was Dean."

"No--Riviere."

"Why is he back from Canada so soon?"

"He never went to Canada."

"You don't mean to say that the letter I received from Arles was written
by Clifford himself?"

"At his dictation."

"Who wrote it?"

Larssen turned to Matheson. "Do you wish me to explain who wrote it, or
will you do it yourself?"

"It was written at my dictation by a Miss Verney--a lady whom I met for
the first time on my visit to Arles. Her relation to myself is that of a
mere tourist acquaintanceship."

"Why were you at Arles? Why was she at Arles?"

"Miss V