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SWIRLING WATERS

CHAPTER I
THE WHIRLPOOL

On the crucial night of his career, 14 March, 191-, Clifford Matheson, financier, was speeding in a taxi-cab to the Gare de Lyon.

He was a clean-limbed man of thirty-seven. There was usually a look of masterfulness in the firm lines of his face, the straight, direct glance, the stiff, close-cut moustache. But to-night his eyes were tired, very tired. He leant back in a corner of the cab with drooping shoulders as though utterly world-weary.

At the station his wife and father-in-law were looking impatiently for his arrival. They stood at the door of their wagon-lit in the Côte d'Azur Rapide, searching the crowded platform for him. It was now ten to eight, and the express was timed to pull out of the Gare de Lyon at eight o'clock sharp.

"Late again!" growled Sir Francis Letchmere. "Clifford makes a