"Excuse me, sir, but I thought for the moment you were a friend of mine, a Mr Clifford Matheson. I see now that I was mistaken by a very striking resemblance."
"My half-brother."
"Ah, that's it!" said the man, visibly relieved. "Well, remember me to him when you see him. Warren is my name—Major Warren."
"I'll certainly do so."
It was not the first proof Rivière had had of the safety of his new identity. Though Larssen and Olive had penetrated the disguise, others who knew him well, even his own clerks, had been perfectly satisfied with the explanation of the "half-brother."
When he was ushered into the darkened room at the surgical home, Elaine smiled greeting to him, and the smile stabbed him with self-reproach. He had come to wound her. There must be no further delay. He must act the surgeon now.
Elaine half-sat, half-lay in a chaise longue. His white lilac and fuchsia—those were her favourite flowers he had discovered—were on a small table by her side, scenting the room faintly but definitely. She had a letter in her hands, which she asked him to open and read to her.
"The nurse doesn't read English well," she explained.
Rivière looked first at the signature. "It's from your friend Madge in Paris."