Some months before, the financier had bought, in the name of John
Rivière, a tumbledown villa on the outskirts of Neuilly. In it he had
fitted up a research laboratory in which to pursue the experimental end
of the problem which had such vital interest for him.

A high wall surrounded a garden overgrown with weeds and a villa falling
to decay. At one time, no doubt, the house had formed a nest for the
_petite amie_ of some rich Parisian, but now the owner of the property
was only too glad to sell it at any price, and without asking any but
the most perfunctory questions of the man who had offered to buy. In the
solitude of the ruined villa, Matheson had been pursuing his scientific
research at such times as he could snatch from his financial business.
He had been leading a "double life"--from a motive far different to the
double life of other married men. There was no woman in the case. There
was no secret scheme of money-making. There was no solitary pandering to
the senses with drink or drugs.

But the financier had been finding that the leading of a double life
bristled with practical difficulties. Apart from the calls of his
business, there were the insistent demands of his wife. The position
was becoming an intolerable one. He had to choose between the life of
the money-maker or that of the creator of a new field of knowledge.

On the night of 14th March the conversation on the platform of the Gare
de Lyon and the fight with Lars Larssen had brought the question of
decision to a head. He had grappled with it in his office, pacing to and
fro long after the shipowner had left. He had turned his steps towards
the heights of Montmartre so that he might carry his problem up to the
solitude of a high place, in the peace of the eternal stars.