As soon as he had settled the underwriting affair with Sir Francis and his two co-Directors, Larssen went straight to Wiesbaden to the surgical home, and had his card sent in to Elaine.
Elaine received him in the garden of the home, under the soft shade of a spreading linden, where she had been chatting with another patient. Near by, a laburnum drooped in shower of gold over a bush of delicate white guelder-rose as Zeus over Danæ. Upon the wall of the home wistaria hung her pastel-shaded pendants of flower, like the notes of some beautiful melody, sweet and sad, along the giant staves of her stem. A Chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds.
The bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light.
After a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, Larssen drew up a chair beside hers. "You're wondering why I've called on you," he began. "You're thinking that a stranger—and a busy man at that—wouldn't have travelled to Wiesbaden merely to inquire after you. You're thinking that I want something."
"What is it you want from me?" asked Elaine with frank directness.
"I want your help," returned Larssen with an assumption of equal frankness.
"My help! For what?"
"For Matheson."
"And what is this help you want from me?"
"It's simple enough, but first let me spread out the situation as I see it. If I'm wrong, you'll correct me.... To begin with, Matheson is a man of complex character and high ideals. The latter have been snowed under in his business career. He's like an Alpine peak. From the distance, it looks cold and aloof, but underneath there's a carpet of blue gentian waiting to spring out into blossom when the sun melts off the snow-layer. I don't pay idle compliments when I say that I haven't far to look for the sun that's melting off the snow."