"The Garden of England" had no welcome for Rivière.
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 Rivière 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, Rivière 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 Rivière 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?"
"Rivière—John Rivière. The brother of Mr Clifford Matheson."