Swirling Waters Part 33

Dean stammered some words of thanks. This cordial greeting threw him into confusion--made it so much more difficult to say what he had come to say. For a moment's respite, he asked after Larssen's little boy.

"He'll pull round. The crisis is over. His const.i.tution's weak, but he'll pull round. Money saved him. On the 'Aurelia' I got hold of all the facts of the case by wireless, and took a grip of the situation. I sized up the doctors here as a couple of well-meaning fools. I wired to Chicago for a man who's made a speciality of opsonic treatment for pneumonia. His own invention--something the other doctors sneer at. I had him packed from Chicago to Golden Beach by special train, with full authority to boss the case.... Yes, it's money that saved my boy. Money, Dean, holds the power of life and death. Money is the mightiest thing in this world. I expect you've come to realise that lately, now you've left off being a clerk."

Dean gulped and answered: "That's what I've come to speak to you about, sir."

The s.h.i.+powner shot a swift glance at him. "Come to my office," he said, and led the way.

When he had the young fellow seated with the light full on him, Larssen asked coldly: "What's your song? Looking for a raise already?"

"No, it's not that. I don't feel I can carry out this work."

"What work?"

"Your work."

"Talk it longer."

"It's like this, sir. When I was in Winnipeg, I went one night to a music-hall, and on my way home I went by chance into a chapel meeting."

"Music-hall or chapel--it's all one to me, so long as you're not a drinker. You're free to spend your evenings as you like, provided it doesn't interfere with your work."

"There was a preacher there, a Mr Enoch Way, who impressed me very strongly, sir. So much so that I had to leave the meeting. When I got back to my hotel, I found a wire from you telling me to travel to New York. I caught the morning train, and on the train I met Mr Way again.

We were on the observation platform together when the railway-car went over the bridge. He died not a yard away from me, down in the river! He was a fine man--a great man! and if I could die like he died, with a prayer on his lips for someone who was only a stranger----" Dean choked and stopped.

Presently he resumed: "And when I lay in hospital at Fort William, I thought things over and over. I began to see clearly that I ought never to have taken on the work you asked me to do."

"Why not?"

"It's not right, sir! You know what you asked me to do wasn't right!

It's fraud!" The words came clear and strong now.

If Larssen had been a man of ordinary pa.s.sions, he would have kicked Dean out of the door and told him to go to the devil. But the s.h.i.+powner had not reached his present power by giving way to ordinary feelings.

He answered very quietly: "I should have liked to meet that Mr Way. He must have been a man of personality. What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything. I think he guessed. He was that kind of man--he could read right into you."

"What did he tell you?"

"The story of his life. He had been in prison twice when he was a young man."

"I mean, what did he tell you to do?"

"He told me it was my hour for repentance. That was when we were in the observation platform together. The next moment we were thrown over the bridge."

"And then?"

"He died praying G.o.d to help me to repent and live straight!"

"Repent of what?"

"Of taking part in a fraud. Of pretending a dead man was still alive--going to Canada and sending letters in his name so that his friends would think he was still alive. I don't know how I could have brought myself to do such a thing! I was tempted, I suppose, and I fell.

But temptation is nothing--it's falling to temptation that matters!

That's what he said in his sermon."

"Anything else to repent of?"

"Nothing very much, sir. Of course I've not been all I should have been, but I'd never done anything radically wrong until then."

The s.h.i.+powner rose and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I appreciate your feelings," he said. "They do you credit, Dean. You're sound and straight, and that's what I want in my young men."

Dean looked up in surprise. "I don't think you quite understand, sir.

I've come here to-day--come at my own expense--to hand you in my resignation."

"Well, there's no need for it. You've been worrying yourself over a bogey."

"A bogey!"

"Yes. There's been no 'fraud' at all. Clifford Matheson is as alive as you are. He knows perfectly well that you've been in Canada for him."

"But the overcoat and stick! They were his--I'll swear to it!"

"Yes, they were his right enough. He laid them by the river-bank at Neuilly himself."

"Why?"

"That's complicated to answer. I don't know that I ought to tell you without Mr Matheson's express permission. In fact, I want you to keep what I've just told you entirely to yourself."

Dean felt bewildered. There was suspicion in his eyes.

Larssen saw the suspicion and continued rapidly. "You think I'm trying to bluff you? I never bluff with my staff, whatever I may do outside.

I'll give you proof. Have you got those signatures of Clifford Matheson's?"

Dean produced them from his pocket-book.

The s.h.i.+powner rapidly unlocked his desk and drew out a printed doc.u.ment which he placed in the young man's hands.

"Now see here. This prospectus was printed off a week after you left for Canada. You can know that by the printed date. Now what is the wording written over it in ink?"

"'O.K., Clifford Matheson,'" read out Dean.

"Compare it with your two signatures."

"It's the same."

"Exactly. That prospectus was pa.s.sed by Mr Matheson some time after you imagined him dead and buried."

Dean could answer nothing. The world had turned upside down for him.

Larssen took the prospectus and the two specimen signatures, and locked them away in his desk.