angement to come two or three afternoons a week.

"Are you going away from Paris?" shouted old Mme Dromet to her employer,
seeing the portmanteau and the other signs of departure. She was
stone-deaf, and in the manner of deaf people always shouted what she had
to say.

Riviere nodded assent, and produced a paper of written instructions.
These he read through with her, so as to make sure that she thoroughly
understood. Then he gave her a generous allowance to cover the next few
months.

Later in the afternoon, he was seated with his modest travelling
equipment in a cab, driving to No. 8, Rue Laffitte. He mounted to the
offices of the financier and, in order to test the efficacy of his
changed appearance, asked to see Mr Clifford Matheson.

For a moment the clerk stared at the visitor. The resemblance to his
employer was certainly very striking. Yet there were differences. Mr
Matheson wore a close-cut moustache, while this man was clean-shaven.
The commanding look, the hard-set mask of the financier were softened
away; there was joy of life, there was freedom of soul in the features
and in the attitude of this visitor.

"I am Mr John Riviere, his half-brother. Will you tell him that I am
here?"

The clerk felt somehow relieved. That of course explained the striking
resemblance. He replied: "Mr Matheson has not been at the office to-day,
sir. I fancy he has left for Monte Carlo. I am not sure, but I believe
that was his intention."

"Has he left no message for me?"

"I will see, sir. Please take a seat."

Presently the clerk returned. "I am sorry, sir, but there doesn't seem
to be any message left for you."

"Tell him I called," said Riviere, and went back to his cab. In it he
was driven to the Gare de Lyon. At the booking-office he asked for a
ticket for Arles. His intention was to travel amongst the old cities of
Provence, and then make his way to the Pyrenees and into Spain. There
was no definite plan of journey; he wanted only some atmosphere which
would help him to clear his mind for the work to come. In the Midi the
early Spring would be breathing new life over the earth.

About midnight the southern express stopped at some big station. The
rhythmic sway and clatter of a moving train had given place to a
comparative stillness that awoke John Riviere from sleep. He murmured
"Dijon," and composed himself to a fresh position for rest. Some hours
later there was again a stoppage, and instinctively he murmur