"_Revenge is Mine; I Will Repay._"
"Can't I have a light?" said Philip, with head screwed round to
ascertain if the doctor were following him.
Some sense, whether of sight or hearing he knew not, warned him of
movement near at hand, an impalpable effort, a physical tension as of a
man laboring under extreme but repressed excitement.
He paid little heed to it. All the surroundings in this weird dwelling
were so greatly at variance with his anticipations that he partly
expected to find further surprises.
Dr. Williams did not answer. Philip advanced a halting foot, a
hesitating hand groping for a door.
Instantly a stout rope fell over his shoulders, a noose was tightly
drawn, and he was jerked violently to the stone floor of the passage. He
fell prone on his face, hurting his nose and mouth. The shock jarred him
greatly, but his hands, if not his arms, were free, and, with the
instinct of self-preservation that replaces all other sensations in
moments of extreme peril, he strove valiantly to rise.
But he was grasped by the neck with brutal force, and some one knelt on
his back.
"Philip Anson," hissed a man's voice, "do you remember Jocky Mason?"
So he had fallen into a trap, cunningly prepared by what fiendish
combination of fact and artifice he had yet to learn. Jocky Mason, the
skulking criminal of Johnson's Mews. Was he in that man's power?
Under such conditions a man thinks quickly. Philip's first ordered
thought was one of relief. He had fallen into the clutches of an English
brigand. Money would settle this difficulty, if all other means failed.
"Yes, yes," he gurgled, half-strangled by the fierce pressure on his
throat.
"You hit me once from behind. You can't complain if I do the same. You
sent me to a living hell for ten years--not your fault that it wasn't
forever. Lie still! Not all your money can save you now. I am judge and
jury, and hell itself. You are dying--dying--dead!"
And with the final words drawled into his ears with bitter intensity,
Philip felt a terrible blow descend on his head. There was no pain, no
fear, no poignant emotion at leaving all the world held so dear to him.
There was an awful shock. A thundercloud seemed to burst in his brain,
and he sank into the void without a groan.
Now, in falling, the hard, felt hat he wore dropped in front of his
face. The first wild movement of his head tilted it outward, but the
savage jerk given by his assailant brought the rim slightly over his
skull again.
In the almost complete darkness of the passage, Mason could not see the
slight protection this afforded to his victim, and the sledge-hammer
blow he delivered with a life-preserver--that murderous implement named
so utterly at variance with its purpose--did not reveal the presence of
an obstacle.
He struck with a force that would have stunned an ox; it must have
killed any man, be he the hardest-skulled aborigine that ever breathed.
But the stout rim of the hat, though crushed like an eggshell, took off
some of the leaden instrument's tremendous impact. Philip, though quite
insensible, was not dead. His sentient faculties were annihilated for
the time, but his heart continued its life-giving functions, and he
breathed with imperceptible flutterings.
Mason rose, panting with excitement, glutted with satisfied hate. He
lifted his victim's inert form with the ease of his great strength.
"Come on!" he shouted, and strode toward a door which he kicked open.
A step sounded haltingly in the passage. Grenier, the _soi-disant_
doctor, livid now and shaking with the ague of irretrievable crime,
stumbled after his more callous associate. Unconsciously he kicked
Philip's hat to one side. He entered the room, an apartment with a
boundless view of the sea.
Here there was more light than in the kitchen. The windows faced toward
the northwest, and the last radiance of a setting sun illumined a wall
on the right.
"Not there!" he gasped. "In this chair; his face--I must see his face!"
Mason, still clasping his inanimate burden, laughed with a snarl.
"Stop that," he roared. "Pull yourself together. Get some brandy. I've
done my work. If you can't do yours, let me finish it."
"Oh, just a moment! Give me time! I hate the sight of blood. Get a
towel. Bind it round his neck. His clothes! They will be saturated. And
wipe his face. I must see his face."
Grenier was hysterical; he had the highly strung nervous system of a
girl where deeds of bloodshed were concerned. While Mason obeyed his
instructions he pressed his hands over his eyes.
"Bring some brandy, white-liver. Do you want me to do everything?"
This gruff order awoke Grenier to trembling action. He went to a
cupboard and procured a bottle. Mason, having placed Anson in a chair
and steadied his head against the wall, seized half a tumblerful of the
neat spirit and drank it with gusto. The other, gradually recovering his
self-control, was satisfied with a less potential draught.
"It will be dark soon," growled Mason. "We must undress him first, you
said."
"Yes. If his clothes are not blood-stained."
"Rot! He must go into the water naked in any case. The idea is your
own."
"Ah! I forgot. It will soon be all right. Besides, I knew I should be
upset, so I have everything written down here--all fully thought out.
There can be no mistake made then."
He produced a little notebook and opened it with uncertain fingers. He
glanced at a closely written page. The words danced before his vision,
but he persevered.
"Yes. His coat first. Then his boots. Clothes or linen stained with
blood to be burned, after cutting off all buttons. Now, I'm ready. I
will not funk any more."
His temperament linked the artistic and criminal faculties in sinister
combination, and he soon recovered his domination in a guilty
partnership. It must have been the instinct of the pickpocket that led
him to appropriate Philip's silver watch, with its quaint shoelace
attachment, before he touched any other article.
"Queer thing," he commented. "A rich man might afford a better
timekeeper. But there's no accounting for tastes."
Mason, satiated and stupefied, obeyed his instructions like a
ministering ghoul. They undressed Philip wholly, and Grenier, rapidly
denuding himself of his boots and outer clothing, donned these portions
of the victim's attire.
Then the paint tubes and the other accessories of an actor's make-up
were produced. Grenier, facing a mirror placed on a table close to
Philip, began to remodel his own plastic features in close similitude to
those of the unconscious man. He was greatly assisted by the fact that
in general contour they were not strikingly different.
Philip's face was of a fine, classical type; Grenier, whose nose, mouth
and chin were regular and pleasing, found the greatest difficulty in
controlling the shifty, ferret-like expression of his eyes. Again,
Philip had no mustache. The only costume he really liked to wear was his
yachting uniform, and here he conformed to the standard of the navy. The
shaven lip, of course, was helpful to his imitator. All that was needed
was an artistic eye for the chief effect, combined with a skilled use of
his materials. And herein Grenier was an adept.
But the light was growing very uncertain.
"A lamp," he said, querulously, for time sped and he had much to do;
"bring a lamp quickly."
Mason went toward the front kitchen. Grenier did not care about being
left alone, face to face with the pallid and naked form in the chair,
but he set his teeth and repressed the tendency to rush after his
confederate.
The latter, in returning, halted an instant.
"Hello!" he cried. "Here's his hat."
After placing the lamp on the table beside the mirror, he went back to
the passage.
Grenier was so busy with the making-up process that he did not notice
what his companion was doing. His bent form shrouded the light, and
Mason placed the hat carelessly on a chair. He chanced to hold it by an
uninjured part of the rim, and never thought of examining it.
At last Grenier declared himself satisfied.
"What do you think of the result?" he demanded, facing about so that the
other could see both Anson and himself.
"First-rate. It would deceive his own mother."
A terrific rat-tat sounded on the outer door.
A direct summons to the infernal regions could not have startled both
men more thoroughly. Grenier, with the protecting make-up on forehead
and cheeks, only showed his terror in his glistening eyes and palsied
frame. Mason, whom nothing could daunt, was, nevertheless, spellbound
with surprise.
What intruder was this who knocked so imperatively? They were a mile and
a half from the nearest habitation, four miles from a village. What
fearful chance had brought to their door one who thus boldly demanded
admission? Had their scheme miscarried at this vital moment? Had Anson
suspected something and arranged that he should be followed by
rescuers--avengers?
The sheer agony of fear restored Grenier's wits. He was not Grenier now,
but Philip Anson, a very shaky and unnerved Philip Anson, it was true,
but sufficiently likelife to choke off doubting inquiries.
He clutched Mason's arm and pointed a quivering finger toward Philip.
"Out with him! This instant! The tide is high!"
"But his face! If he is found----"
Mason reached for the life-preserver with horrible purpose.
"No, no. No more noise. Quick, man. You must go to the door. Only summon
me if necessary. Oh, quick!"
He rushed to another door and opened it. There was a balcony beyond. It
overhung the very lip of the rock. Far beneath, the deep blue of the sea
shone, and naught else.
Mason caught up Anson's limp form and ran with him to the balcony. With
a mighty swing he threw him outward, clear of the cliff's edge. For a
few tremulous seconds they listened. They thought they heard a splash;
then Mason turned coolly to Grenier:
"Is there any blood on my coat?"
"I can see none. Now, the door! Keep inside!"
With quaking heart he listened to Mason's heavy tread along the passage
and across the kitchen. He clinched the back of a chair in the effort to
calm himself by forcible means. Then he heard the unbolting of the door
and the telegraph messenger's prompt announcement:
"Philip Anson, Esquire."
Mason came to him carrying the telegram.
Grenier subsided into the chair he held. This time he was prostrated.
He could scarce open the flimsy envelope.
"Abingdon counsels caution. Says there is some mistake. Much love.
"EVELYN."
That was all, but it was a good deal. Grenier looked up with lack-luster
eyes. He was almost fainting.
"Send him away," he murmured. "There is nothing to be done. In the
morning----"
Mason saw that his ally was nearly exhausted by the reaction. He grinned
and cursed.
"Of all the chicken-hearted----"
But he went and dismissed the boy. Grenier threw himself at full length
on a sofa.
"What's up now?" demanded Mason, finding him prone.
"Wait--just a little while--until my heart stops galloping. That
confounded knock! It jarred my spine."
"Take some more brandy."
"How can I? It is impossible. I haven't got an ox-head, like you."
Mason placed the lamp on a central table. Its rays fell on Philip's hat.
Something in its appearance caught the man's eye. He picked up the hat
and examined it critically.
"Do you know," he said, after a silence broken only by Grenier's deep
breathing, "I fancy I didn't kill him, after all."
"Not--kill him? Why--he was dead--in that chair--for an hour."
"Perhaps. I hit hard enough, but this hat must have taken some of it.
When you were busy, I thought his chest heaved slightly. And just now,
when I carried him outside, he seemed to move."
"Rot!"
"It may be. I struck very hard."
Grenier sat up.
"Even if you are right," he muttered, "it does not matter. He fell three
hundred feet. The fall alone would kill him. And, if he is drowned, and
the body is picked up, it is better so. Don't you see! Even if he were
recognized he would be drowned, not--not----Well, his death would be due
to natural causes."
He could not bring himself to say "murdered"--an ugly word.
"If you were not such a milksop, there would be no fear of his being
recognized."
But Grenier laughed a hollow and unconvincing laugh; nevertheless, it
was a sign of recovery.
"What nonsense we are talking. A naked man, floating, dead, in the North
Sea. Who is he? Not Philip Anson, surely! Philip Anson is gayly gadding
about England on his private affairs. Where is Green? Hunter, go and
tell Green to bring my traps here instantly. I wish him to return to
town on an urgent errand."
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 mass 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 rehearsed by Grenier in all its details, passed 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 document.
Grenier opened it. Mason looked over his shoulder. It was headed:
"Annual Report of the Mary Anson Home for Destitute Boys."
Mason coarsely cursed both the home and its patron. But Grenier laughed
pleasantly.
"The very thing," he cried. "Look here!"
And he pointed to an indorsement 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 passed 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!"