He had come to loathe the sensuous artificiality of his life. He had
come to loathe the ruthless selfishness of finance. He was sick with the
callousness of that stratum of the world in which he moved.
In the last couple of years he had found himself drawn powerfully
towards the calm, passionless atmosphere of science in which his elder
brother, John Riviere, had found his life-work. Riviere had made no
worldly success for himself. The scientific researches he had undertaken
made no stir when they found light in the pages of obscure quarterlies
circulating amongst a few dozen other men engaged in similar research.
Riviere had not the temperament to push himself or the children of his
brain. He had settled into a solitary bachelor life in a small Canadian
college--an unknown, unrecognized man--and yet the calm, steady purpose
and the calm, passionless happiness of the life had made a deep
impression on Clifford Matheson.
Riviere had come to an accidental death on a holiday with his brother in
the wilds of northern Canada. Few knew of it beyond Matheson.
The financier had been drawn towards one special problem of science, and
on this he had studied deeply the last few years. From his studies, an
idea had developed which could only be worked out by experiments. Many
years of patient research would be needed, for this thought-child of
Matheson's was a master-idea, an idea which meant the exploring of a
practically uncharted sea of knowledge.
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