Later in the afternoon, Jimmy Martin of the Europe Chronicle sent in his card at the Grand Hotel, and Lars Larssen did not keep him waiting beyond a few moments.
The tubby little journalist was no hero-worshipper. Few journalists can be—they see too intimately the strings which work the affairs of the world for the edification of a trustful public. Consequently, Martin's attitude in the presence of the millionaire shipowner was as free from constraint or subservience as it would be in the dressing-room of La Belle Ariola, who danced the bolero at a café chantant, or in the ward of the Malesherbes Hôpital, interviewing an apache with a cracked skull.
Lars Larssen summed him up with lightning rapidity of thought, and adjusted his own attitude to a friendly, confidential basis.
Said Martin: "You want to talk about contraband of war? I'd better tell you the Chronicle's red-hot against the olive-branch merchants, so I hope you're not one of them. Say you agree with us, and I can spread you over half a column."
The shipowner smiled. "That's the talk I like. Make a policy and set the buzzer going. Now see here...."
At the end of half an hour he had established a link of easy friendship, and had brought the conversation round without difficulty to the matter which was the real object of the interview.
"Dean was telling me about the help you gave him on his wild-goose chase to-day. Many thanks. He's a steady young fellow and will get on—but a little too ready to jump at conclusions. Of course you found nothing at the hospital?"
On the answer much depended, but no one could have guessed it from the shipowner's face, which was smilingly confident.
"Nothing doing!" answered Martin. "Our young friend with the cracked skull met the holy Tartar last night. He's raving sore—wants to prosecute him for assault, if he can find out who he is."
"Exactly. But there's a disappointment in store for him. I met my friend to-day going off to Canada. What are you going to do about the coat and stick at Neuilly?"