SHADOWED
Matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing
to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. To and fro, from door to
windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of
the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open
streets.
At his desk he made out a cheque in favour of Lars Larssen to the amount
of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an addressed
envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after eleven when
he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted stick, clicked
out the lights, and made his way down to the Rue Laffitte.
At the corner of the Rue Laffitte he passed a young man lounging in the
shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance.
Matheson made up towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the white
Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold white
beauty--serene and pure--above the feverish glitter of Paris. Up there a
man might attune himself to the message of the stars--might weigh duty
against duty in the balance of the infinite.
He walked deep in thought, with shoulders drooping.
Beyond the clamorous glitter of the Place Pigalle, with its garish
entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow,
winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on the
heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his
shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the
situation. Out of a _ruelle_ crept two _apaches_ with the stealthy glide
of their class. One followed close behind Clifford Matheson, while the
other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an
_agent de police_.
The young man who had followed from the Rue Laffitte paused irresolute.
On the one hand were his orders to shadow Matheson wherever he might go
that night; on the other hand was his personal safety. He was keenly
alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian _apache_, and he was
unarmed. The wicked curved knife doubtless concealed under the belt of
the _apache_ turned the scale decisively in the mind of the shadower. He
saw no call to risk his own life.
He gave up and retraced his steps, leaving Matheson to his fate.