when Larssen entered the room. The financier was a self-made master, but
the shipowner was a _born_ master of men--perhaps one's instinctive
contrast lay there. The one had the strength of finished steel, but the
other was rugged granite.

Lars Larssen said quietly: "Your letter brought me over to Paris. I
don't usually waste time in railway trains myself when I have men I can
pay to do it for me. So you can judge that I consider your letter
mighty important."

"I'm sorry if you have given yourself an unnecessary journey," returned
Matheson. "I had intended my letter to make my attitude clear to you."

"Then you missed fire."

"My attitude is simply this: I want to call the deal off."

"Not enough in it for you?" cut in Larssen.

"Not enough in it for the public."

The shipowner surveyed the other man through half-closed lids, weighing
up how far this declaration might be a genuine expression of opinion and
how far a mere excuse to cover some hidden motive.

"Talk it longer," he said.

For reply Matheson drew out a large-scale map of Canada from a drawer
and unfolded it with a decisive deliberation. He laid a finger on the
south-western corner of Hudson Bay. "Here is Fanning trading station,