There was a glint of admiration in Mason's eyes. Here was one with Anson's face, wearing Anson's clothes, and addressing him in Anson's voice.

"That's better," he chuckled. "By G----d, you're clever when your head is clear."

"Now be off for Green. You know what to say."

"You will be alone. Will you be afraid?"

The sneer was the last stimulant Grenier needed.

"If you were called on to stand in Philip Anson's boots during the next week or ten days, my good friend," he quietly retorted, "you would be afraid sixty times in every hour. Your job has nearly ended; mine has barely commenced. Now, leave me."

Nevertheless, he quitted that chamber of death, carrying with him all that he needed, and hurrying over the task while he could yet hear the dogcart rattling down the hill.

He commenced with an inventory of Philip's pockets.

His eyes sparkled at the sight of a well-filled pocketbook, with a hundred pounds in notes stuffed therein, cards, a small collection of letters, and other odds and ends. Among Philip's books was Evelyn's hurried note of that morning, and on it a penciled memorandum:

"Sharpe left for Devonshire yesterday. Lady M. wrote from Yorkshire."

"That was a neat stroke," thought Grenier, with a smile--when he smiled he least resembled Philip. "Being a man of affairs, Anson promptly went to the Morlands' solicitors. I was sure of it. I wonder how Jimmie arranged matters with Sharpe. I will know to-morrow at York."

A check book in another pocket added to his joy.

"The last rock out of my path," he cried, aloud. "That saves two days.

The bait took. By Jove! I'm in luck's way!"

There was now no need to write to Philip's bank for a fresh book, which was his first daring expedient.

He seated himself at a table and wrote Philip's signature several times to test his hand. At last it was steady. Then he put a match to a fire all ready for lighting, and burned Philip's hat, collar, shirt and underclothing; also the blood-stained towel.

When the ma.s.s of clothing was smoldering black and red he threw a fresh supply of coal on top of it. The loss of the hat did not trouble him; he possessed one of the same shape and color.

He was quietly smoking a cigar, and practicing Philip's voice between the puffs, when Mason returned with the valet.

The scene, carefully rehea.r.s.ed by Grenier in all its details, pa.s.sed off with gratifying success. Purring with satisfaction, the chief scoundrel of the pair left in the Grange House by the astonished servant, began to overhaul the contents of Philip's bag.

It held the ordinary outfit of a gentleman who does not expect to pay a protracted visit--an evening dress suit, a light overcoat, a tweed suit, and a small supply of boots and linen. A tiny dressing case fitted into a special receptacle, and on top of this reposed a folded doc.u.ment.

Grenier opened it. Mason looked over his shoulder. It was headed:

"Annual Report of the Mary Anson Home for Dest.i.tute Boys."

Mason coa.r.s.ely cursed both the home and its patron. But Grenier laughed pleasantly.

"The very thing," he cried. "Look here!"

And he pointed to an indors.e.m.e.nt by the secretary.

"For signature if approved of."

"I will sign and return it, with a nice typewritten letter, to-morrow, from York. Abingdon is one of the governors. Oh, I will bamboozle them rarely."

"This blooming charity will help you a bit, then?"

"Nothing better. Let us go out for a little stroll. Now, don't forget.

Address me as 'Mr. Anson.' Get used to it, even if we are alone. And it will be no harm should we happen to meet somebody."

They went down the hill and entered the rough country road that wound up from Scarsdale to the cliff. Through the faint light of a summer's night they saw a man approaching.

It was a policeman.

"_Absit omen_," said Grenier, softly.

"What's that?"

"Latin for a cop. You complained of my want of nerve. Watch me now."

He halted the policeman, and questioned him about the locality, the direction of the roads, the villages on the coast. He explained pleasantly that he was a Londoner, and an utter stranger in these parts.

"You are staying at the Grange House, sir?" said the man, in his turn.

"Yes. Come here to-day, in fact."

"I saw you, sir. Is the gentleman who drove you from Scarsdale staying there, too? I met you on the road, and he seemed to know me."

Grenier silently anathematized his carelessness. Policemen in rural Yorkshire were not as common as policemen in Oxford Street. It was the same man whom he had encountered hours ago.

"Oh, he is a doctor. Yes, he resides in the Grange House."

"You won't find much room for a party there, sir," persisted the constable. "I don't remember the gentleman at all. What is his name?"

"Dr. Williams. He is a genial sort of fellow--nods to anybody. Take a cigar. Sorry I can't ask you to go up and have a drink, but there is illness in the place."

The policeman pa.s.sed on.

"Illness!" he said, glancing at the gloomy outlines of the farm. "How many of 'em are in t' place. And who's yon dark-lookin' chap, I wonder?

My, but his face would stop a clock!"

CHAPTER XIX.

_Philip Anson Redivivus._

Next morning Mason trudged off to Scarsdale at an early hour. He ascertained that Green had quitted the Fox and Hounds Inn in time to catch the first train.