Swirling Waters. Max Rittenberg

house in an unknown suburb to an unknown terminus, when he buys a ticket for an unknown destination. Sheer waste of energy to hunt for a needle in that haystack!

      Yet his bulldog mind would not let go of the problem. Presently he had found a new avenue of approach to it. If Rivière had travelled away from Paris on the evening of the 15th, probably he stayed that night or the next day at some hotel. There he would have to fill in his name, etc., in the hotel register according to the strict requirements of the French law.

      Advertise in the papers for one John Rivière from Paris, age thirty-seven, staying at a hotel in the provinces on the 15th or 16th. Offer a reward for information. The average Frenchman is very keen on money; without a doubt he would answer the advertisement if he knew anything of John Rivière. Advertise in Le Petit Journal, Le Petit Parisien and a few other dailies which cover France from end to end, as no English or American journals do in their respective countries.

      That was the right solution!

      Larssen did not pay the cheque for £20,000 into his bank. He was after big game, and a mere £20,000 was a jack-rabbit. It would be safer, he felt, to let it lie amongst his secret papers.

      When Sylvester, his private secretary, arrived by the afternoon train from London, Lars Larssen placed him in touch with only so much of the situation as he considered desirable. This was little. Sylvester was to stay in Paris while the shipowner went on to Monte Carlo. If the various advertisements brought a reply, Sylvester was to hunt out John Rivière in whatever part of France he might be, and then communicate with Lars Larssen for further orders.

      The secretary was a quiet, self-contained, silent man of thirty or thirty-one. A heavy dark moustache curtained expression from his lips. Not only could he carry out orders to the letter, but he was to be trusted to keep his head in any unforeseen emergency and act on his own responsibility in a sound, common-sense way. But Lars Larssen trusted no man beyond the essentials of any situation. His was the brain to plan and direct. He preferred obedient tools to brilliant, independent helpers.

      At the train-side, Larssen gave a final direction to his subordinate: "Keep me in touch with every move."

      Back at his hotel, Sylvester occupied himself with the development of some films he had taken on the Channel passage. In his hours of leisure he was a devoted amateur photographer. At the present time there was nothing to be done but wait the possible answer to the advertisement.

CHAPTER IX

       AT MONTE CARLO

       Table of Contents

      Next day, the wonderful panorama of the Riviera was unfolding itself before the eyes of the shipowner. The red rocks and the dwarf pines of the Esterel coves, against which an azure sea lapped in soft caress. … Cannes with its far-flung draperies of white villas. … The proud solemnity of the Alpes Maritimes thrusting up to the snow-line and glinting white against the sun. … Fairy bungalows nesting in tropic gardens and waving welcome with their palm-fronds to the rushing train. … The Baie des Anges laughing with sky and hills. … The many-tunnelled cliff-route from Villefranche to Cap D'Ail, where moments of darkness tease one to longing for the sight of the azure coves dotted with white-winged yachts and foam-slashed motor-boats. … Europe's silken, jewelled fringe!

      But scenery made no appeal to Lars Larssen. Scenery would not help him to the attainment of his great ambitions. Scenery was no use to him. His delight lay in men and women and the using of them. Business—the turning of other men's energies to his own ends—was the very breath of his being.

      He was glad to reach the hectic crowdedness of the tiny principality of Monaco—that triple essence of civilization and sensuous luxury. He felt at home with the big idea that drew the whole world to the gaming tables to pay homage to the goddess Fortune. For a moment the suggestion came to him to buy up some beautiful islet and build a pleasure city on it which should be a wonder of the world. He was making a note of it for future consideration, when Olive and her father met him on the platform at Monte Carlo.

      "I thought perhaps you would bring John Rivière with you," said Olive after they had exchanged greetings. A strong desire had sprung up to see this mysterious relation of Clifford's, and to be balked of any passing whim was keen annoyance to her.

      "Bring a will-o'-the-wisp," answered Larssen.

      "Can't you find him?" asked Sir Francis. Larssen shook his head. "Gad, that's curious. Why doesn't he write? Bad form, you know. But when a man's lived all his life in the backwoods of Canada, I suppose one can't expect him to know what's what."

      Olive studied the shipowner keenly as they drove to their hotel. His massive strength of body and masterful purpose of mind, showing in every line of his face, attracted her strongly. Olive worshipped power, money, and all that breathed of them. Here was the living embodiment of money and power.

      After dinner that evening all three went to the Casino. The order had been given to Sir Francis Letchmere's valet that he was to bring over to the Salle de Jeux any telegram or 'phone message that might arrive.

      Larssen was keenly interested in the throng of smart men and women clustered around the tables. Here was the raw material of his craft—human nature. Moths around a candle—well, he himself had lit many candles. The process of singeing their wings intrigued him vastly.

      Olive explained the game to him with a flush of excitement on her cheeks. He noted that flush and made a mental note to use it for his own ends. She took a seat at a roulette table and asked him to advise her where to stake her money. Sir Francis preferred trente-et-quarante, and went off to another table.

      "I can see you've been born lucky," she whispered to Larssen.

      "I'll try to share it with you," he answered, and suggested some numbers with firm, decisive confidence. Though he had keen pride in his intellect and his will, he had also firm reliance on his intuitive sense. With Lars Larssen, all three worked hand in hand.

      Olive began to win. Her eyes sparkled, and she exchanged little gay pleasantries and compliments with the shipowner.

      "We've made all the loose hay out of this sunshine," said Larssen after an hour or so, when a spell of losing set in. "Now we'll move to another table."

      Olive obeyed him with alacrity. She liked his masterful orders. Here was a man to whom one could give confidence.

      "Five louis on carré 16–20," he advised suddenly when they had found place at another table.

      Without hesitation she placed a gold hundred-franc piece on the intersecting point of the four squares 16, 17, 19, 20. The croupier flicked the white marble between thumb and second finger, and it whizzed round the roulette board like an echo round the whispering gallery of St. Paul's. At length it slowed down, hit against a metal deflector, and dropped sharply into one of the thirty-seven compartments of the roulette board. A croupier silently touched the square of 16 with his rake to indicate that this number had won, and the other croupier proceeded to gather in the stakes.

      Forty louis in notes were pushed over to Olive.

      At this moment Sir Francis' valet came up to Larssen with a telegram in his hand. The latter opened and scanned it quickly.

      "What is it?" asked Olive.

      "A tip to gamble the limit on number 14," replied Larssen smilingly.

      Olive placed nine louis, the limit stake, on number 14, and two minutes later a pile of bank-notes aggregating 6300 francs came to her from the croupier's metal box.

      "You're Midas!" she whispered exultantly.

      "Midas has a hurry call to the 'phone," he answered.

      For the telegram was from Sylvester, and it read:—

      "Fourteen replies to hand. Fourteen J. Rivière's scattered about France."