Lord St Aubyn, Sir Francis
Letchmere, Bart., and G. Lowndes Hawley Carleton-Wingate, M.P. Lars
Larssen sits below the salt--to wit, joins the Board after allotment.
The capital is to be a cool five million, and if I were a prophet I'd
tell you whether they'll get it or not."
"Thanks--that's just what I wanted to know."
"You withdraw the bricks?"
"Unreservedly.... By the way, do you know where my brother is at the
moment?"
"Vague idea he's in Canada. Don't know where I get it from. Those sort
of things are floating in the air."
"Where is Larssen?"
"He was going on to London--dear old foggy, fried-fishy London! Ever
notice that London is ringed around with the smell of fried fish and
naphtha of an evening? The City smells of caretakers; and Piccadilly of
patchouli; and the West End of petrol; but the smell of fish fried in
tenth-rate oil in little side-streets rings them around and bottles them
up. In Paris it's wood-smoke and roast coffee, and I daresay heaps
healthier, but I sigh me for the downright odours of old England!
Imitaciong poetry--excuse this display of emotion."
When Riviere left the office of the journal on the Boulevard des
Italiens, he made his way rapidly to No. 8 Rue Laffitte, second floor.
There he inquired for Clifford Matheson, and was informed that the
financier was in Winnipeg.
"You're certain of that?" asked Riviere.
"Quite, sir!" answered the clerk in surprise. "We get cables from him
giving addresses to send letters to.
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