"Well, I'll consider it carefully. Meanwhile, doing anything to-night? I hear that Polaire is on at the Folies Bergères with her opium-den scene. A thriller, I'm told."
Theatres and music-halls were nothing to the shipowner; his idea was to keep Matheson under observation if possible, and try to solve the riddle.
"Thanks, but I've got to get away from Paris," answered Matheson with his tired droop of the shoulders. "I have to join my wife and father-in-law at Monte Carlo."
"Very well, then, I'll say good-bye for the present."
When Larssen had left the office, he hurried into a taxi and was whirled to the Grand Hotel near at hand. Here he found his secretary turning over the illustrated papers in the hall lounge, and gave a few curt directions. "Drive round to the Rue Laffitte—a hurry case. On the second floor of No. 8 is the office of Clifford Matheson. He may be still there—you'll know by the light in the window. Wait till he comes out, and follow him. Find out where he goes. If it's to a woman's house—good. In any case shadow him to-night wherever he goes."
CHAPTER III
SHADOWED
Matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. To and fro, from door to windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open streets.
At his desk he made out a cheque in favour of Lars Larssen to the amount of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an addressed envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after eleven when he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted stick, clicked out the lights, and made his way down to the Rue Laffitte.
At the corner of the Rue Laffitte he passed a young man lounging in the shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance. Matheson made up towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the white Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold white beauty—serene and pure—above the feverish glitter of Paris. Up there a man might attune himself to the message of the stars—might weigh duty against duty in the balance of the infinite.