The one man stood, the other sat, gazing at each other in a silence that was thrilling.
Dr. Scarth and the hotel manager entered noiselessly, and closed the door behind them. Grenier, adroit scoundrel that he was, was bereft of speech, of the power to move. He harbored no delusions. This was no ghost coming to trouble his soul in broad daylight. It was Philip Anson himself, alive, and in full possession of his senses, a more terrible apparition than any visitor from beyond the grave. His presence in that room meant penal servitude for life for Victor Grenier, a prison cell instead of palatial chambers, bread and skilly in place of Carlton luncheons.
No wonder the scoundrel was dumb, that his tongue was dry. He went cold all over, and his eyes swam.
Philip advanced toward him. Grenier could not move. He was glued to his chair.
"Who are you?" said Anson, sternly.
No answer. As yet the acute brain refused to work. Lost—ruined—no escape—were the vague ideas that jostled each other in chaos.
"Can you not speak? Who are you that dares to usurp my name, after striving to murder me?"
No answer. The shifty eyes—the eyes of a detected pickpocket—wandered stupidly from Philip's set face to that of the perplexed hotel manager, and the gravely amused doctor.
Philip never used strong language, but he was greatly tempted at that moment.
"Confound you!" he shouted. "Why don't you answer me?"
"I—I—my name is Philip Anson. The manager—the—bank."
As a spent fox will vainly try the last despairing device of climbing a tree in full sight of the hounds, so did Victor Grenier evolve the desperate scheme that perhaps—perhaps—he might carry out a feeble pretense of self-assertion.
If only he could get away, into the crowded station, into the streets, slink into obscurity while the chase swept past, he might yet endeavor to escape.
"You Philip Anson! You vile impostor! I am sorely inclined to wring your neck!"
Philip came nearer. In sheer fright lest the other might give effect to his words Grenier again backed his chair violently. It caught against a thick rug and he fell headlong. For an instant they all thought he had hurt himself seriously.
The doctor and manager ran to pick him up, but he rose to his knees and whined:
"I will tell everything. I mean, there is some mistake. Look at my letters, my bank books. They are Philip Anson's. Indeed, there is a mistake."
On the table were many documents and a pile of bank notes. Everything was in order, neatly pinned and docketed. A number of telegrams, of which the topmost was signed "Evelyn," caught Philip's eye. He took them up. Not only were his betrothed's messages preserved, but copies of Grenier's replies were inserted in their proper sequence.
And Evelyn's letters, too, lay before him. He flushed with anger as he read.
"Oh," he cried, in a sudden blaze, "if I talk with this scoundrel I shall do him an injury. Send for the police. They will know how to deal with him."
The mere mention of the police galvanized Grenier into the activity of a wild cat. He had risen to his feet and was standing limply between the doctor and manager when that hated word electrified him.
With one spring he was free of them, rushing frantically to the door. After him went all three, the manager leading.
Grenier tore the door open and got outside. It was a hopeless attempt. He would be stopped by hotel porters at the foot of the stairs by the manager's loud-voiced order. Yet he raced for dear liberty, trusting blindly to fate.
And fate met him more than halfway.
A tall man, coming upstairs with a page boy, encountered Grenier flying downward. He grabbed him in a clutch of iron and cried sardonically:
"No, you don't! A word with me first, if the devil was at your heels!"
Intent on his prize, he paid no heed to others.
"Which is his room?" he said to the boy.
"No. 41, sir!" stammered the youngster, who thought that millionaires should be treated with more ceremony than this wolf-eyed stranger bestowed on the great Mr. Anson.
"Go on, then! I'll bring him."
"It is Jocky Mason," murmured Philip to Dr. Scarth. With the manager they had halted in the corridor. Mason strode past them, with eyes only for the cowering Grenier, who was making piteous appeals to be set free.
The stronger ruffian threw his confederate into Room 41, and was about to close the door when he saw Philip, close behind him.
He stepped back a pace, mute, rigid, seeking with glaring eyes to learn whether or not he was the victim of hallucination.
Philip knew him instantly. The voice he heard on the stairs, the policeman's rough but accurate picture, the recollection of the captive of Johnson's Mews, all combined to tell him that in truth Jocky Mason stood before him.
More than that, the would-be murderer handled his accomplice in a way that promised interesting developments. Now, perchance, the truth might be ascertained. Escape was out of the question for either of them. The manager's cry had brought four strong porters pellmell to the spot.
"You and I will enter," said Anson to Dr. Scarth. "You," to the manager, "might kindly remain here with your men for a few minutes."
"Shall I summon the police?"
"Not yet. I want to clear matters somewhat. They are dreadfully tangled."
Mason, spellbound, but fearless as ever, heard the dead man speak, saw him move. He could not refuse the evidence of eyes and ears. As Philip advanced into the room, the giant put his hands wildly to his head, and sobbed brokenly:
"Thank God! Thank God! For my boys' sake, not for mine!"
His extraordinary attitude, his no less extraordinary words, amazed at least two of his hearers. Grenier, rendered callous now by sheer hopelessness, was pouring out some brandy and lighting a cigarette. The revulsion of feeling at the sight of Mason had calmed him. He would make the most of the few minutes that were left before he was handcuffed.
Dr. Scarth took the precaution of locking the door, and putting the key into his pocket. It is doubtful if he would have done this had he known Mason's violent character. But, unknown to Philip, he carried a revolver, which he whipped forth when Grenier bolted, and as rapidly concealed when it was not needed.
"You did not kill me, you see," said Philip, sinking into a chair, for the excitement was beginning to tell on him.
The big man slowly dropped his hands. His prominent eyes seemed to be fascinated by the sight of one whom he threw apparently lifeless into the sea.
"I could lick your boots," he said, thickly.
The queer idea sounded ludicrous. Yet it conveyed a good deal. It smacked of remorse, repentance.
"Tell me," began Philip, but a loud knocking without interrupted him.
"Who is there?" said Dr. Scarth.
"Abingdon. I want to see Mr. Anson," was the reply, in a voice that Philip hailed joyfully.
Mr. Abingdon was admitted. His astonishment was extreme at the nature of the gathering, but he instantly noticed Philip's wan appearance, and the bandage on his head.
"My dear, dear boy," he cried, "what has happened?"
Philip told him briefly. As the ex-magistrate's glance rested on Mason and Grenier it became very chilly. It brought Portland Prison near to the soul of one of them. He poured out more spirit.
The respite given by Mr. Abingdon's arrival gave Mason time to focus his thoughts. The man had lived in an inferno since he slipped away from his sons that morning on a plea of urgent business in order to catch a fast train for York in the afternoon.
He knew that Grenier would make the Station Hotel his headquarters, and his sole desire was to stop that enterprising rogue from committing further crimes which might be damaging to Anson's estate, and disastrous to the peace of mind of the girl he loved.
In no way did he hold Grenier responsible for urging him to commit murder. The journey to York was undertaken in the first place to save Philip's memory from the slur which was intended to be cast upon it, and, secondly, to afford a plausible pretext for a platform accident whereby his own life should be dashed out of him by an engine.
He would stumble over a barrow, fall helplessly in front of an incoming train, and end his career far from London, far from inquiry and published reports which might be injurious to his sons.
It might, perhaps, be necessary to use forcible means to persuade Grenier to abandon his tactics. They would be forthcoming; he gave earnest of that on the stairs.
Of course, the discovery that Philip lived gave a fresh direction to his purpose. A great load of guilt was lifted off his conscience, but the position remained little less serious personally.
So when, at last, he began to tell his story, there was a brutal directness, a rough eloquence, that silenced all questioning.
At first his hearers thought he was rambling and incoherent as he described his release from jail, his visit to the Mary Anson Home, his long and fruitless search for the lost boys.
He told of his meeting with Grenier, the espionage they both practiced on Anson's movements, and the plot hatched with Langdon, whose relationship with Sir Philip and Lady Morland now first became known to Philip.
He was quite fair to Grenier, giving him full credit for having stopped him more than once from murdering Philip when opportunities presented themselves. He dealt ruthlessly with the scene in the Grange House, even smiling dreadfully as he described Grenier's squeamishness over the suggestion that Philip's face should be battered into a shapeless mass.
Then followed his journey to London, the meeting with his two sons at Southwark Police Station, and the torturing knowledge, coming too late, that he had slain the benefactor of his wife and children.
There was an overwhelming pathos in his recital of the boys' kindness to him. He gave a lurid picture of his feelings during the previous night as he listened to their praises of Philip Anson, and their pleasant plans for their father's future. He only winced once, and that was at the remembrance of the parting a few hours ago.
And he finished by a pitiful appeal for mercy, not for himself, but for Grenier!
"I put the whole thing into his mind, Mr. Anson," he said. "He would never have thought of robbing you but for me. Let him go, make him leave the country. He will never trouble you again. As for me, when I go from this room, I walk to my death. You can't stop me. I will not lay hands on you, I promise, but not all the men in waiting there outside can hold me back. In five minutes, or less, I will be dead. It will be an accident. No one will be the wiser, and my boys will be spared the knowledge that their father tried to kill the man to whom they owe everything."
This amazing stipulation, backed up by a fearless threat, be it noticed, drew an indignant protest from Mr. Abingdon. Philip said nothing.
"Oh, very well," growled Mason. "There is another way."
His right hand dived into a pocket, and Dr. Scarth again fingered his revolver.
But Philip cried imperiously:
"Sit still, Mason. I have heard all that you have to say. Be quiet, I tell you. Wait until I refuse your request."
"My dear boy," interrupted Mr. Abingdon, who knew Philip's generous impulses, "you will never think of condoning——"
"Forgive me! Let me carry matters a stage further. Now you, Grenier. What have you to say?"
"Very little!" was the cool response. "My excellent friend has made a clean breast of everything. You didn't die, and so spoiled the finest coup that ever man dreamed of. I had no difficulty in concocting the requisite epistles from Sir Philip and Lady Morland. Your London bank accepted my signatures with touching confidence. I have opened two accounts in your name, one in York and one in Leeds, five thousand pounds each. This morning I heard from London that one hundred and fifty thousand pounds of your Consols had been realized, and placed to your current account. Just to be feeling the pulse of the local money market, I drew out two thousand pounds to-day. It is there, in notes, on the table. You will also find the check books and passbooks in perfect order. Oh, by the way, I told your man Green to open your safe and send me your mysterious portmanteau. It is in my bedroom. That is all, I think. I am sorry if I worried the young lady——"
"You unutterable scamp," cried Philip.
"Well, I had to keep her quiet, you know. As it was, she suspected me. I suppose my messages hadn't the proper ring in them. And—what the deuce is a Blue Atom?"
Dr. Scarth was even more interested than ever, if possible.
"Blue Atom! Blue Atom is a nobler specimen of a dog than yourself. He is a prize toy Pomeranian; you are a mongrel."
Grenier, for an instant, grew confused again. He sighed deeply.
"A dog!" he murmured. "A blue Pomeranian! Who would have guessed it?"
Philip turned to Mason.
"If I leave you here alone with this man, Grenier, will you keep him out of mischief?"
Jocky gave his associate a glance which caused that worthy to sit down suddenly.
"And yourself? Promise that you will remain as you are until I return?"
"I promise."
Anson led his friends from the room. He thanked the manager for the assistance he had given, and told him the affair might be arranged without police interference.
Long and earnestly did he confer with Mr. Abingdon. It was a serious thing to let these men off scot-free. Grenier's case was worse, in a sense, than that of Mason.
There were three banks involved, and, forgery, to a bank, is a crime not to be forgiven. There was a dubious way out. Philip might accept responsibility for Grenier's transactions. If the London bank accepted Grenier's signature for his, surely the local institutions would accept his for Grenier's.
Mr. Abingdon was wroth at the bare suggestion.
"You will be forging your own name," he protested, vehemently.
"Very well, then. He shall write checks payable to self or order, indorse them, and I will pay them into my account."
"I dare not approve of any such procedure."
So Philip, though sorely tried, again labored his arguments that the trial of Grenier would be a causecélèbrein which his, Anson's, name would be unpleasantly prominent. Evelyn would be drawn into it, and Abingdon himself. There would be columns of sensation in the newspapers.
Moreover, it was quite certain that Jocky Mason would commit suicide unless they captured him by a subterfuge, and then the whole story would leak out.
It ended by Philip gaining the day, for, at the bottom of his heart, Abingdon was touched by Mason's story—thoroughpaced ruffian though he was.
They re-entered No. 41. The pair were sitting as they were left; Grenier was not even smoking. The affair of the Blue Atom had deeply wounded his vanity.
Philip walked straight to Mason, and took him by the shoulder.
"Now, listen to me," he said. "I gave you one crack on the head, and you have given me one. Shall we say that accounts are squared?"
"Do you mean it, sir?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"Then, all I can say is this, sir. During the rest of my life I'll make good use of the chance you have given me. God bless you, for my boys' sake, more than my own."
"And you," went on Philip, turning to the disconsolate Grenier. "Will you leave England and make a fresh start in a new land? You are young enough, and clever enough, in some respects, to earn an honest living."
"I will, sir. I swear it."
The utter collapse of his castle in Spain had sobered him. The gates of Portland were yawning open for him, and the goodness of the man he had wronged had closed them in his face. Never again would he see their grim front if he could help it.
He readily gave every assistance in the brief investigation that followed. Mr. Abingdon looked on askance as he wrote checks for three thousand pounds and five thousand pounds on the York and Leeds banks respectively, but even Philip himself gave an astonished laugh when he saw his own signature written with quiet certainty and accuracy.
"Oh, that's nothing," cried Grenier, in momentary elation. "I took in Mr. Abingdon, and sent a complete letter to the London bank."
"You did not take me in," growled Abingdon. "You made one fatal mistake."
"And what was that, sir?"
"You alluded to the annual report of the 'Home.' Everyone connected with that establishment, from the founder down to the latest office boy, invariably calls it the 'Mary Anson Home.' Mr. Anson would never write of it in other terms."
Grenier was again abashed.
"Have you any money in your pocket?" said Philip, when the forger had accounted for every farthing.
For one appreciable instant Grenier hesitated. Then he flushed. He had resisted temptation.
"Yes," he said, "plenty. Langdon supplied me with funds."
"How much?"
"Two hundred and fifty pounds. I have over seventy left."
"I will arrange matters with him. Come to my West End office next Monday, and you will be given sufficient to keep you from poverty and crime until you find your feet in Canada. Remember, you sail on Wednesday."
"No fear of any failure on my part, sir. I can hardly credit my good—or, what I want to say is, I can never thank you sufficiently."
"Pay Mason's fare to London. Better stay with him. His sons may have a good influence on you, too."
Mason rose heavily.
"I'll find him a job, sir. He can pack your bag."
The words recalled to Philip the knowledge of his incongruous attire. Soon he wore his own clothes. He refused to allow Grenier to divest himself of the garments he wore, but he was glad to see his old watch again.
Dr. Scarth bade them farewell and returned to Scarsdale by the last train.
Philip and Abingdon arrived in London at 2.15 A.M. On the platform, accompanied by her mother, was Evelyn.
She wept all the way to Mount Street, where Philip would be accommodated for the night. She cried again when she saw his poor, wounded head; but she laughed through her tears when she ran off to fetch a very small and very sleepy dog, with long blue hair falling in shaggy masses over his eyes and curling wonderfully over his tiny body.
Mr. James Crichton Langdon was imperatively summoned to London, and given such a lecture by Mr. Abingdon that he so far abandoned the error of his ways as to strive to forget that such a person as Evelyn Atherley existed.
The ex-magistrate had seen him in Devonshire, and was so skeptical of his statements concerning the whereabouts of Sir Philip and Lady Morland that he traveled direct to York, via Gloucester and Birmingham, to clear up with Philip in person a mystery rendered more dense by the curious letter and telegram he received in London.
One day, in August, theSea Maidendropped anchor off the Yorkshire coast not far from the gaunt cliff on which stood Grange House.
Dr. Scarth entertained Mr. and Mrs. Anson in his house for the night, and some of the men were allowed ashore.
They came back full of a story they had heard, how the "skipper" had met with a mishap on the big point to s'uth'ard, was rescued by three fishermen, and had bought for each man the freehold of the house in which he lived, besides presenting them jointly with a fine smack.
"He's a rare good sort, there's no doubt about that," said the chief narrator, "an', of course, 'e can afford to do that sort of thing, bein' the King o' Diamonds."
"He's more than the King of Diamonds; he's the King of Trumps," observed a gigantic, broken-nosed stoker, who listened to the yarn, not being one of the shore-going men.
"You've known him this long time, haven't you, Mason?" said the first speaker.
"Yes—ever since he was a bit of a boy. Ten years it must be. But we lost sight of each other—until I met him the other day. Then he gave me a job—for the sake of old times!"