"Written?"
"No; your word."
"When?"
"At our last interview at your Paris office. You passed your word—an Englishman's word—and I took it."
Matheson ignored the cool lie. "Let's get down to business," he said.
"With pleasure. What do you want?"
"When we last met," continued Matheson slowly, "I wanted you to assign half of your four million Deferred Shares to Lord ——, to be held in trust for the general body of shareholders. Well, now—now—I want the whole four million assigned."
"And you propose that I should give them up for nothing?" queried Larssen ironically.
"For £200,000 in ordinary shares. The monetary value is the same. The difference would be that you'll have two hundred thousand with your own money, not the British public's."
There was silence while the two men eyed one another relentlessly. At the side of Larssen's forehead, under the temple, a tiny vein throbbed and jerked. That was the only outward sign of the feelings of murder which lay in his heart.