CHAPTER XXI.
_The Rescue._
When Philip's almost lifeless body was flung over the cliff it rusheddown through the summer air feet foremost. Then, in obedience to the lawof gravity, it spun round until, at the moment of impact with the water,the head and shoulders plunged first into the waves.
At that point the depth of the sea was sixty feet at the very base ofthe rock. At each half-tide, and especially in stormy weather, anirresistible current swept away all sand deposit, and sheered offprojecting masses of stone so effectually, that, in the course of time,the overhanging cliff must be undermined and fall into the sea.
High tide or low, there was always sufficient water to float abattleship, and the place was noted as a favorite nook for salmon, atthat season preparing for their annual visit to the sylvan streams ofthe moorland valleys.
The lordly salmon is peculiar in his habits. Delighting, at one periodof the year, to roam through the ocean wilds, at another he seeksshallow rivers, in whose murmuring fords he scarce finds room to turnhis portly frame.
And the law protects him most jealously.
In the river he is guarded like a king, and when he clusters at itsmouth, lazily making up his mind to try a change of water, as a monarchmight visit Homburg for a change of air, he can only be caught undercertain severe restrictions.
He must not be netted within so many yards of the seaward limit of theestuary; he may not be caught wholesale; the nets must have a maximumlength of four hundred feet; they must not be set between 7 P. M. on aFriday and 7 A. M. on a Monday.
Viewed in every aspect, the salmon is given exceptional chances oflongevity. His price is high as his culinary reputation, and the obvioussequel to all these precautions is that certain nefarious persons knownas poachers try every artifice to defeat the law and capture him.
A favorite dodge is to run out a large quantity of nets in just such atideway as the foot of the cliff crowned by Grange House. None can spythe operations from the land, while a close watch seaward gives manychances of escape from enterprising water bailiffs, who, moreover, cansometimes be made conveniently drunk.
When Philip hurtled into the placid sea his naked body shone white, likethe plumage of some gigantic bird.
Indeed, a man who was leisurely pulling a coble in a zigzagcourse--while two others paid out a net so that its sweeping curvesmight embarrass any wandering salmon who found himself within itsmeshes--marked the falling body in its instantaneous passage, andthought at first that some huge sea fowl had dived after its prey.
But the loud splash startled the three men. Not so did a cormorant or awhite-winged solan plunge to secure an unwary haddock.
The net attendants straightened their backs; the oarsman stood up. Thedisturbance was so near, so unexpected, that it alarmed them. Theylooked aloft, thinking that a rock had fallen; they looked to the smalleddy caused by Philip's disappearance to see if any sign would be givenexplanatory of an unusual occurrence.
Were Philip thrown from such a height when in full possession of hissenses, in all likelihood such breath as was in his lungs at the momentof his fall would have been expelled by the time he reached the water.
He must have resisted the rush of air, uttered involuntary cries,struggled wildly with his limbs.
But, as it chanced, Mason's rough handling in carrying him to thebalcony made active the vital forces that were restoring him toconsciousness.
He was on the very threshold of renewed life when he fell, and thedownward flight helped rather than retarded the process. Indeed, therush of air was grateful. He drank in the vigorous draught, and inflatedhis lungs readily. His sensations were those of a man immersed in a warmbath, and the shock of his concussion with the surface of the sea innowise retarded the recuperative effect of the dive.
Of course he was fortunate, after falling from such a height, instriking the water with his right shoulder. No portion of the human bodyis so fitted to bear a heavy blow as the shoulders and upper part of theback. Had he dropped vertically on his head or his feet he might havesustained serious injury. As it was, after a tremendous dive, and acurve of many yards beneath the sea, he bobbed up inside the salmon netwithin a few feet of the boat.
Instantly the fishermen saw that it was a man, an absolutely naked man,who had thus dropped from the sky.
They were amazed, very frightened indeed, but they readily hauled at thedragging net and brought Philip nearer the boat. Even at this finalstage of his adventure he incurred a terrible risk.
Unable to help himself in the least degree, and swallowing salt waterrapidly now, he rolled away inertly as the net rose under the energeticefforts of his rescuers. There was grave danger that he should drop backinto the depths, and then he must sink like a stone.
Wearing their heavy sea boots, none of the fishermen, though each was anexpert swimmer, dared to jump into the water. But the oarsman, being aperson of resource, and reasoning rapidly that not the most enthusiasticsalmon bailiff in England would pursue him in such manner, grabbed aboathook and caught Philip with it beneath the arm.
He only used the slight force needful to support him until another couldgrasp him.
Then they lifted the half-drowned man on board, turned him on his faceto permit the water to flow out of his lungs, and, instantly reversinghim, began to raise his elbows and press them against his sidesalternately.
Soon he breathed again, but he remained unconscious, and a restoredcirculation caused blood to flow freely from the back of his head.
Of course the men were voicing their surprise throughout thisunparalleled experience.
"Whea is he?"
"Where did he coom frae?"
"Nobbut a loony wad hae jumped off yon crag."
"He's neaked as when he was born."
At last one of them noticed his broken scalp. He pointed out the woundto his companions.
"That was never dean by fallin' i' t' watter," he said.
They agreed. The thing was mysteriously serious. Philip's youth, hisstature, his delicate skin, the texture of his hands, the cleanliness ofhis teeth and nails, were quick tokens to the fisherman that somethingquite beyond the common run of seaside accidents had taken place. Theoarsman, a man of much intelligence, hit on an explanation.
"He was swarmin' doon t' cliff after t' birds," he cried. "Mebbefotygraffin' 'em. I've heerd o' sike doin's."
"Man alive," cried one of his mates, "he wouldn't strip te t' skin forthat job."
This was unanswerable. Not one gave a thought to the invisible GrangeHouse.
They held a hasty consultation. One man doffed his jersey for Philip'sbenefit, and then they hastily covered him with oilskin coat andoveralls.
It was now nearly dark, so they ran out a marking buoy for their net,shipped oars, and pulled lustily to their remote fishing hamlet, threemiles away from the outlet of the river which flowed through Scarsdale.
Arrived there, they carried Philip to the house of one who was the proudowner of a "spare" bed.
And now a fresh difficulty arose. A doctor, and eke a policeman, shouldbe summoned. A messenger was dispatched at once for the nearest medicalman--who lived a mile and a half away, but the policeman, who dwelt inthe village, was a bird of another color.
These men were poachers, lawbreakers. At various times they had all beenfined for illegal fishing. The policeman was of an inquiring turn ofmind. He might fail to understand the mystery of the cliff, but he wouldmost certainly appreciate every detail of their presence in thatparticular part of the sea which lapped its base.
So they smoked, and talked, and tried rough remedies until the doctorarrived.
To him they told the exact truth; he passed no comment, examined hispatient, cut away the hair from the scalp wound, shook his head over it,bound it up, administered some stimulant, and sat down to await thereturn of consciousness.
But this was long delayed, and when, at last, Philip opened his eyes, heonly rallied sufficiently to sleep.
The doctor promised to
come early next day, and left.
Throughout Wednesday and Thursday Philip was partly delirious, waking attimes to a vague consciousness of his surroundings, but mostly askingvacantly for "Evelyn."
Often he fought with a person named "Jocky Mason," and explained that"Sir Philip" was not in Yorkshire at all.
The wife of one of his rescuers was assiduous in her attentions. Mostfortunately, for these fisherfolk were very poor, that lure spreadbeneath the cliff inveigled an unprecedented number of salmon, so shecould afford to buy eggs and milk in abundance, and the doctor broughtsuch medicines as were needed.
Gradually Philip recovered, until, at nine o'clock, on Thursday night,he came into sudden and full use of his senses.
Then the doctor was sent for urgently; Philip insisted on getting up atonce. He was kept in bed almost by main force.
With the doctor's arrival there was a further change. Here was aneducated man, who listened attentively to his patient's story, and didnot instantly conclude that he was raving.
He helped, too, by his advice. It was utterly impossible to send atelegram to London that night. No matter what the sufferings of anxiousfriends concerning him, they could not be assuaged until the morning.
Yes, he would find money and clothes, accompany him, if need be, on thejourney if he were able to travel to-morrow--attend to all things, infact, in his behalf--for millionaires are scarce birds in secludedmoorland districts. But, meanwhile, he must take a drink of milk andbeef essence, rest a little while, take this draught, in a small bottleindicated, and sleep.
Sleep was quite essential. He would awake in the morning very muchbetter. The knock on the head was not so serious as it looked at firstsight. Probably he would not even feel it again if he wore a soft capfor some days. The broken skin was healing nicely, and concussion of thebrain had as many gradations as fever, which ranges from a slight coldto Yellow Jack.
In his case he was suffering from two severe shocks, but the crisis waspassed, and he was able, even now, to get up if it could serve anypossible purpose.
All this, save the promise of help, the doctor said with his tongue inhis cheek. He had not the slightest intention of permitting Philip totravel next day. It was out of the question. Better reason with him inthe morning, and, if needful, bring his friends to Yorkshire rather thansend him to London.
But--the police must be informed at once. It was more than likely thecriminals had left the Grange House soon after the attempted murder.Yet, if Philip did not object, a policeman should be summoned, and thetale told to him. The man should be warned to keep the story out of thepapers.
The arrival of the constable at a late hour created consternation in thehousehold. But the doctor knew his people.
"Have no fear, Mrs. Verril," he whispered to the fisherman's wife, "yourhusband caught a fine fish when he drew Mr. Anson into his net. He willnot need to poach salmon any more."
The doctor sat by Philip's bed while the policeman made clumsy notes ofthat eventful Tuesday night's occurrences.
Then, in his turn, he amazed his hearers.
He described his encounter with another Philip Anson in the highroad, atan hour when the real personage of that name was unquestionably beingattended to by the doctor himself in the fisherman's cottage.
"Ay," he said, in his broad Yorkshire dialect, "he was as like you, sir,as twea peas, on'y, now that I see ye, he wasn't sike a--sike agentleman as you, an' he talked wi' a queer catch in his voice. T'utherchap 'ud be Jocky Mason, 'cordin' te your discription; soa it seems tome 'at this 'ere Dr. Williams, 'oo druv' you frae t' station, must ha'took yer clothes, an' twisted his feace te luke as mich like you as hecould."
The doctor cut short further conversation. He insisted on his patientseeking rest, but in response to Philip's urgent request, he wrote along telegram, which he promised would be handed in when the Scarsdaletelegraph office opened next morning.
And this was Philip's message to Evelyn:
"I have suffered detention since Tuesday night at the hands of Jocky Mason, whose name you will recollect, and another man, unknown. I am now cared for by friends, and recovering rapidly from injuries received in a struggle. I return to London to-day." The doctor smiled, but said nothing. "My only fear is that you must have endured terrible uncertainty, if by any chance you imagined I was missing. Tell Abingdon.
"PHILIP ANSON."
And then followed his address, care of the doctor.
"Is that all?" said Anson's new-found friend.
Philip smiled feebly, for he was very weak.
"There is one matter, small in many ways, but important, too. You mightadd: 'I hope you have not lost Blue Atom by this mischance.'"
He sank back exhausted.
It was on the tip of the doctor's tongue to ask:
"What in the world is a Blue Atom?"
But he forbore. The sleeping potion was taking effect, and he would notretard it. He subsequently wrote a telegram on his own account:
"Mr. Anson is convalescing, but a journey to-day is impossible. A reassuring message from you will save him from impatience, and help his recovery. He has been delirious until last night. Now all he needs is rest and freedom from worry."
His man waited at Scarsdale post office until a reply came next day.Then he rode with it to the village where Philip was yet sleepingpeacefully. Indeed, the clatter of hoofs without aroused him, and heopened his eyes to find the doctor sitting as though he had neverquitted his side.
Evelyn's message must have caused much speculation as to its truesignificance in the minds of those telegraphic officials through whosehands it passed.
It read:
"Am absolutely bewildered. Cannot help feeling sure that news received to-day really comes from you. In that case, who is it who has been wiring repeatedly, in your name, from Station Hotel, York? Do not know what to think. Am going immediately to Abingdon. Please send more information. Suspense unbearable.
"EVELYN."
If ever there was need for action it was needed now. Anson's strenuousenergy brought forth the full strength of his indomitable will. Thepallor fled from his cheeks, the dullness from his eyes.
"Dr. Scarth," he cried, "you must not keep me here in view of thattelegram from the woman I love. Believe me, I will be worse, not better,if you force me to remain inactive, chained almost helpless in thisvillage, and miles away from even a telegraph office. Help me now, andyou will never regret it. I ask you----"
The doctor cut short his excited outburst.
"Very well," he said. "Whatever you do, try and cease from troublingyourself about circumstances which a few hours will put right. I mustreturn to my dispensary for one hour. Then I will come for you, bringsome clothes and the necessary money, and we will leave Scarsdale forYork at 2.30 P. M. That is the best I can promise. It must satisfyyou."
He gave hasty directions as to his patient's food, and left him.
Another telegram arrived, with it the policeman, in the dogcart of theFox and Hounds Inn.
"Abingdon went to Devonshire yesterday. His wife says he suspected that something had gone wrong. Unhappily we do not know his address, but he wires that he is not to be expected home to-day. Do ask Dr. Scarth to send further news if unable yourself.
"EVELYN."
Philip hesitated to be explicit as to the real nature of the outrageinflicted on him by Jocky Mason and his unknown accomplice. He hastilydetermined that the best assurance he could give to the distracted girlwas one of his immediate departure from the village.
The policeman helped him as to local information, and he wrote thefollowing:
"Leaving Scarsdale at 2.30 P. M. Passing through Malton at four o'clock, and reach York five-ten. Dr. Scarth permits journey, and accompanies me. Send any further messages care of respective station masters prior to hours named. Accept statement implicitly that I will reach London to-night. Will wire you from Yo
rk certain; earlier if necessary. As for identity, you will recall May 15th, Hyde Park, near Stanhope Gate, four o'clock."
Evelyn and he alone knew that at that spot on the day and hour named,they became engaged.
The policeman valiantly lent the few shillings necessary, and the sturdyhorse from the Fox and Hounds tore back to Scarsdale.
But the constable was of additional value. His researches in Scarsdaleprovided a fairly accurate history and description of the two denizensof the Grange House.
Philip himself had, of course, seen "Dr. Williams" in broad daylight andundisguised--not yet could he remember where he heard thatsmooth-tongued voice. Jocky Mason he only pictured hazily after thelapse of years, but the policeman's details of his personal appearancecoincided exactly with Philip's recollection, allowing for age and thehardships of convict life.
At last came the doctor, with a valise.
"I am sorry," he laughed, "but all the money I can muster at such shortnotice is twelve pounds."
"I began life once before with three halfpence," was the cheery reply.
The few inhabitants of the hamlet gathered to see them off, and thefisherman's wife was moved to screw her apron into her eyes when Philipshook hands with her, saying that she would see him again in a few days.
"Eh, but he's a bonny lad," was her verdict. "'Twas a fair sham' tetreat him soa."
At Scarsdale and at Malton again came loving words from Evelyn. Now sheknew who it was who telegraphed to her.
And the mysterious Philip Anson at York remained dumb.
"The wretch!" she said to her mother. "To dare to open my letter andsend me impudent replies."
More than once she thought of going to York to meet her lover, but shewisely decided against this course. Mr. Abingdon was out of town, andPhilip might need some one he could trust to obey his instructions inLondon.
At ten minutes past five Anson and Dr. Scarth arrived in York.
A long discourse in the train gave them a plan. They would not appeal atonce to the police. Better clear the mist that hid events before the aidof the law was invoked. There were two of them, and the assistance ofthe hotel people could be obtained if necessary.
They hurried first to the station master's office. Anything for Anson?Yes. Only a few words of entreaty from Evelyn to avoid further risk.
Then to the hotel. They sought the manager.
"Is there a man staying here who represents that his name is PhilipAnson?"
The question was unusual in its form, disturbing in its innuendo. Theman who asked it was pale, with unnaturally brilliant brown eyes, agentleman in manner, but attired in ill-fitting garments, and beneathhis tweed cap he wore a surgical bandage.
And Philip Anson, the millionaire, of whom he spoke thus contemptuously,was staying in the hotel, and paying for its best rooms.
But the manager was perfectly civil. The presence of Dr. Scarth, areputable-looking stranger, gave evidence that something important wasafoot. Mr. Anson was in his rooms at the moment. Their names would besent up.
Dr. Scarth, quick to appreciate the difficulties of the situation,intervened quietly.
"Is he alone?"
"Yes."
"Then it will be better if you accompany us in person. An unpleasantmatter can be arranged without undue publicity."
This was alarming. The manager went with them instantly. They paused atthe door indicated.
"Come with me," said Philip, turning the handle without knocking.
Grenier, intent on the perusal of a letter he had just written, lookedup quickly.
He was face to face with Philip Anson.
CHAPTER XXII.
_A Settlement of Old Scores._
The one man stood, the other sat, gazing at each other in a silence thatwas thrilling.
Dr. Scarth and the hotel manager entered noiselessly, and closed thedoor behind them. Grenier, adroit scoundrel that he was, was bereft ofspeech, of the power to move. He harbored no delusions. This was noghost coming to trouble his soul in broad daylight. It was Philip Ansonhimself, alive, and in full possession of his senses, a more terribleapparition than any visitor from beyond the grave. His presence in thatroom meant penal servitude for life for Victor Grenier, a prison cellinstead of palatial chambers, bread and skilly in place of Carltonluncheons.
No wonder the scoundrel was dumb, that his tongue was dry. He went coldall over, and his eyes swam.
Philip advanced toward him. Grenier could not move. He was glued to hischair.
"Who are you?" said Anson, sternly.
No answer. As yet the acute brain refused to work. Lost--ruined--noescape--were the vague ideas that jostled each other in chaos.
"Can you not speak? Who are you that dares to usurp my name, afterstriving to murder me?"
No answer. The shifty eyes--the eyes of a detected pickpocket--wanderedstupidly 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 thatmoment.
"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 atree in full sight of the hounds, so did Victor Grenier evolve thedesperate scheme that perhaps--perhaps--he might carry out a feeblepretense 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 endeavorto escape.
"You Philip Anson! You vile impostor! I am sorely inclined to wring yourneck!"
Philip came nearer. In sheer fright lest the other might give effect tohis words Grenier again backed his chair violently. It caught against athick rug and he fell headlong. For an instant they all thought he hadhurt himself seriously.
The doctor and manager ran to pick him up, but he rose to his knees andwhined:
"I will tell everything. I mean, there is some mistake. Look at myletters, my bank books. They are Philip Anson's. Indeed, there is amistake."
On the table were many documents and a pile of bank notes. Everythingwas in order, neatly pinned and docketed. A number of telegrams, ofwhich the topmost was signed "Evelyn," caught Philip's eye. He took themup. Not only were his betrothed's messages preserved, but copies ofGrenier's replies were inserted in their proper sequence.
And Evelyn's letters, too, lay before him. He flushed with anger as heread.
"Oh," he cried, in a sudden blaze, "if I talk with this scoundrel Ishall do him an injury. Send for the police. They will know how to dealwith him."
The mere mention of the police galvanized Grenier into the activity of awild cat. He had risen to his feet and was standing limply between thedoctor 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 themanager's loud-voiced order. Yet he raced for dear liberty, trustingblindly to fate.
And fate met him more than halfway.
A tall man, coming upstairs with a page boy, encountered Grenier flyingdownward. 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 millionairesshould be treated with more ceremony than this wolf-eyed strangerbestowed on the great Mr. Anson.
"Go on, then! I'll bring him."
"It is Jocky Mason," murmured Philip to Dr. Scarth. With the managerthey had halted in the corridor. Mason strode past them, with eyes onlyfor the cowering Grenier, who was making piteous appeals to be setfree.
The stronger ruffian thre
w his confederate into Room 41, and was aboutto close the door when he saw Philip, close behind him.
He stepped back a pace, mute, rigid, seeking with glaring eyes to learnwhether or not he was the victim of hallucination.
Philip knew him instantly. The voice he heard on the stairs, thepoliceman's rough but accurate picture, the recollection of the captiveof Johnson's Mews, all combined to tell him that in truth Jocky Masonstood before him.
More than that, the would-be murderer handled his accomplice in a waythat promised interesting developments. Now, perchance, the truth mightbe ascertained. Escape was out of the question for either of them. Themanager'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 dreadfullytangled."
Mason, spellbound, but fearless as ever, heard the dead man speak, sawhim move. He could not refuse the evidence of eyes and ears. As Philipadvanced into the room, the giant put his hands wildly to his head, andsobbed brokenly:
"Thank God! Thank God! For my boys' sake, not for mine!"
His extraordinary attitude, his no less extraordinary words, amazed atleast two of his hearers. Grenier, rendered callous now by sheerhopelessness, was pouring out some brandy and lighting a cigarette. Therevulsion of feeling at the sight of Mason had calmed him. He would makethe most of the few minutes that were left before he was handcuffed.
Dr. Scarth took the precaution of locking the door, and putting the keyinto his pocket. It is doubtful if he would have done this had he knownMason's violent character. But, unknown to Philip, he carried arevolver, which he whipped forth when Grenier bolted, and as rapidlyconcealed when it was not needed.
"You did not kill me, you see," said Philip, sinking into a chair, forthe excitement was beginning to tell on him.
The big man slowly dropped his hands. His prominent eyes seemed to befascinated by the sight of one whom he threw apparently lifeless intothe sea.
"I could lick your boots," he said, thickly.
The queer idea sounded ludicrous. Yet it conveyed a good deal. Itsmacked 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 thatPhilip hailed joyfully.
Mr. Abingdon was admitted. His astonishment was extreme at the nature ofthe gathering, but he instantly noticed Philip's wan appearance, and thebandage on his head.
"My dear, dear boy," he cried, "what has happened?"
Philip told him briefly. As the ex-magistrate's glance rested on Masonand Grenier it became very chilly. It brought Portland Prison near tothe soul of one of them. He poured out more spirit.
The respite given by Mr. Abingdon's arrival gave Mason time to focus histhoughts. The man had lived in an inferno since he slipped away from hissons that morning on a plea of urgent business in order to catch a fasttrain for York in the afternoon.
He knew that Grenier would make the Station Hotel his headquarters, andhis sole desire was to stop that enterprising rogue from committingfurther crimes which might be damaging to Anson's estate, and disastrousto the peace of mind of the girl he loved.
In no way did he hold Grenier responsible for urging him to commitmurder. The journey to York was undertaken in the first place to savePhilip's memory from the slur which was intended to be cast upon it,and, secondly, to afford a plausible pretext for a platform accidentwhereby his own life should be dashed out of him by an engine.
He would stumble over a barrow, fall helplessly in front of an incomingtrain, and end his career far from London, far from inquiry andpublished reports which might be injurious to his sons.
It might, perhaps, be necessary to use forcible means to persuadeGrenier to abandon his tactics. They would be forthcoming; he gaveearnest of that on the stairs.
Of course, the discovery that Philip lived gave a fresh direction to hispurpose. A great load of guilt was lifted off his conscience, but theposition remained little less serious personally.
So when, at last, he began to tell his story, there was a brutaldirectness, a rough eloquence, that silenced all questioning.
At first his hearers thought he was rambling and incoherent as hedescribed his release from jail, his visit to the Mary Anson Home, hislong and fruitless search for the lost boys.
He told of his meeting with Grenier, the espionage they both practicedon Anson's movements, and the plot hatched with Langdon, whoserelationship with Sir Philip and Lady Morland now first became known toPhilip.
He was quite fair to Grenier, giving him full credit for having stoppedhim more than once from murdering Philip when opportunities presentedthemselves. He dealt ruthlessly with the scene in the Grange House, evensmiling dreadfully as he described Grenier's squeamishness over thesuggestion that Philip's face should be battered into a shapeless mass.
Then followed his journey to London, the meeting with his two sons atSouthwark 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 tohim. He gave a lurid picture of his feelings during the previous nightas he listened to their praises of Philip Anson, and their pleasantplans for their father's future. He only winced once, and that was atthe remembrance of the parting a few hours ago.
And he finished by a pitiful appeal for mercy, not for himself, but forGrenier!
"I put the whole thing into his mind, Mr. Anson," he said. "He wouldnever have thought of robbing you but for me. Let him go, make him leavethe country. He will never trouble you again. As for me, when I go fromthis room, I walk to my death. You can't stop me. I will not lay handson you, I promise, but not all the men in waiting there outside can holdme back. In five minutes, or less, I will be dead. It will be anaccident. No one will be the wiser, and my boys will be spared theknowledge that their father tried to kill the man to whom they oweeverything."
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 hisrevolver.
But Philip cried imperiously:
"Sit still, Mason. I have heard all that you have to say. Be quiet, Itell you. Wait until I refuse your request."
"My dear boy," interrupted Mr. Abingdon, who knew Philip's generousimpulses, "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 aclean breast of everything. You didn't die, and so spoiled the finestcoup that ever man dreamed of. I had no difficulty in concocting therequisite epistles from Sir Philip and Lady Morland. Your London bankaccepted my signatures with touching confidence. I have opened twoaccounts in your name, one in York and one in Leeds, five thousandpounds each. This morning I heard from London that one hundred and fiftythousand pounds of your Consols had been realized, and placed to yourcurrent 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 thetable. You will also find the check books and passbooks in perfectorder. Oh, by the way, I told your man Green to open your safe and sendme your mysterious portmanteau. It is in my bedroom. That is all, Ithink. 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. Isuppose my messages hadn't the proper ring in them. And--what the deuceis 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 isa 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 outof mischief?"
Jocky gave his associate a glance which caused that worthy to sit downsuddenly.
"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 theassistance he had given, and told him the affair might be arrangedwithout police interference.
Long and earnestly did he confer with Mr. Abingdon. It was a seriousthing to let these men off scot-free. Grenier's case was worse, in asense, than that of Mason.
There were three banks involved, and, forgery, to a bank, is a crime notto be forgiven. There was a dubious way out. Philip might acceptresponsibility for Grenier's transactions. If the London bank acceptedGrenier's signature for his, surely the local institutions would accepthis 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 thetrial of Grenier would be a cause _celebre_ in which his, Anson's, namewould be unpleasantly prominent. Evelyn would be drawn into it, andAbingdon himself. There would be columns of sensation in the newspapers.
Moreover, it was quite certain that Jocky Mason would commit suicideunless they captured him by a subterfuge, and then the whole story wouldleak 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 hewas.
They re-entered No. 41. The pair were sitting as they were left; Grenierwas not even smoking. The affair of the Blue Atom had deeply wounded hisvanity.
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 youhave 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 makegood 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. "Willyou leave England and make a fresh start in a new land? You are youngenough, 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 ofPortland were yawning open for him, and the goodness of the man he hadwronged had closed them in his face. Never again would he see their grimfront if he could help it.
He readily gave every assistance in the brief investigation thatfollowed. Mr. Abingdon looked on askance as he wrote checks for threethousand pounds and five thousand pounds on the York and Leeds banksrespectively, but even Philip himself gave an astonished laugh when hesaw his own signature written with quiet certainty and accuracy.
"Oh, that's nothing," cried Grenier, in momentary elation. "I took inMr. Abingdon, and sent a complete letter to the London bank."
"You did not take me in," growled Abingdon. "You made one fatalmistake."
"And what was that, sir?"
"You alluded to the annual report of the 'Home.' Everyone connected withthat establishment, from the founder down to the latest office boy,invariably calls it the 'Mary Anson Home.' Mr. Anson would never writeof it in other terms."
Grenier was again abashed.
"Have you any money in your pocket?" said Philip, when the forger hadaccounted for every farthing.
For one appreciable instant Grenier hesitated. Then he flushed. He hadresisted 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 nextMonday, and you will be given sufficient to keep you from poverty andcrime until you find your feet in Canada. Remember, you sail onWednesday."
"No fear of any failure on my part, sir. I can hardly credit mygood--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 agood 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 divesthimself of the garments he wore, but he was glad to see his old watchagain.
Dr. Scarth bade them farewell and returned to Scarsdale by the lasttrain.
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 accommodatedfor the night. She cried again when she saw his poor, wounded head; butshe laughed through her tears when she ran off to fetch a very small andvery sleepy dog, with long blue hair falling in shaggy masses over hiseyes and curling wonderfully over his tiny body.
* * * * *
Mr. James Crichton Langdon was imperatively summoned to London, andgiven such a lecture by Mr. Abingdon that he so far abandoned the errorof his ways as to strive to forget that such a person as Evelyn Atherleyexisted.
The ex-magistrate had seen him in Devonshire, and was so skeptical ofhis statements concerning the whereabouts of Sir Philip and Lady Morlandthat he traveled direct to York, via Gloucester and Birmingham, to clearup with Philip in person a mystery rendered more dense by the curiousletter and telegram he received in London.
One day, in August, the _Sea Maiden_ dropped anchor off the Yorkshirecoast 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 metwith a mishap on the big point to s'uth'ard, was rescued by threefishermen, and had bought for each man the freehold of the house inwhich he lived, besides presenting them jointly with a fine smack.
"He's a rare good sort, there's no doubt about that," said the chiefnarrator, "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," observeda gigantic, broken-nosed stoker, who listened to the yarn, not being oneof the shore-going men.
"You've known him this long time, haven't you, Mason?" said the firstspeaker.
"Yes--ever since he was a bit of a boy. Ten years it must be. But welost sight of each other--until I met him the other day. Then he gave mea job--for the sake of old times!"
THE END.
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