_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.
He returned to Grange House with the dogcart and drove Grenier to
Scarsdale with his luggage, consisting of Philip's portmanteau and his
own, together with a hatbox.
He touched his cap to Grenier, when the latter smiled affably on him
from the luxury of a first-class carriage, and he pocketed a tip with a
grin.
A porter was also feed lavishly, and the station master was urbanity
itself as he explained the junctions and the time London would be
reached.
Left to himself, Mason handed over the dogcart to the hostler at the
inn, paid for its hire, and again walked to the deserted farm. He
surveyed every inch of the ground floor, carefully raked over the ashes
in the grate, scrubbed the passage with a hard broom and water, packed
some few personal belongings in a small bag, and set out again, after
locking the door securely, for a long tramp over the moor. Nine miles of
mountain road would bring him to another line of railway. Thence he
would book to London, and travel straight through, arriving at the
capital late at night, and not making the slightest attempt to
communicate with Grenier en route.
There was little fear of comment or inquiry caused by the disappearance
of the inhabitants of the Grange House.
He and "Dr. Williams" were the only residents even slightly known to the
distant village. Such stores as they needed they had paid for. The house
was hired for a month from an agent in the county town, and the rent
paid in advance. It was not clear who owned the place. The agent kept it
on his books until some one should claim it.
As the murderer walked and smoked his reflections were not quite
cheerful, now that he could cry "quits" with Philip Anson.
His experiences of the previous night were not pleasant. Neither he nor
Grenier went to bed. They dozed uneasily in chairs until daylight, and
then they admitted that they had committed Anson's body to the deep in a
moment of unreasoning panic.
He might be found, and, even if he were not identified, that confounded
policeman might be moved to investigate the proceedings of the curious
visitors to Grange House.
That was the weak part of their armor, but Grenier refused to admit the
flaw.
"A naked man found in the sea--and he may never be found--has not
necessarily been thrown from a balcony three hundred feet above sea
level. The notion is grotesque. No constabulary brain could conceive it.
And who is he? Not Philip Anson; Philip Anson is alive. Not Dr.
Williams; any Scarsdale man will say that. And your best friend, Mason,
would not take him for you."
But Mason was not satisfied. Better have buried the corpse on the lonely
farm--in the garden for choice. Then they would know where he was. The
sea was too vague.
Of pity for his victim he had not a jot. Had Philip Anson pitied him, or
his wife, or his two children? They, too, were dead, in all probability.
While in London he had made every sort of inquiry, but always
encountered a blank wall of negation. John and William Mason, even if
they lived, did not know he was their father. They were lost to him
utterly.
Curse Philip Anson. Let him be forgotten, anyway. Yet he contrived to
think of him during the nine weary miles over the moor, during the long
wait at the railway station, and during the slow hours of the journey to
London.
On arriving at York, Grenier secured a palatial suite at the Station
Hotel, entering his name in the register as "Philip Anson."
He drove to the post office and asked if there was any message for
"Grenier."
Yes. It read:
"Family still at Penzance. Persuaded friend that letter was only
intended to create unpleasantness with uncle. He took same view and
returned to town. Will say nothing."
Unsigned, it came from a town near Beltham. Grenier was satisfied. He
lit a cigarette with the message.
At a branch post office he dispatched two telegrams.
The first to Evelyn:
"Will remain in the North for a few days. Too busy to write to-day.
Full letter to-morrow. Love.
"PHILIP."
The second, to Mr. Abingdon:
"Your message through Miss Atherley noted. Please suspend all
inquiries. Affair quite unforeseen. Will explain by letter. Address
to-day, Station Hotel, York.
"ANSON."
Then he entered a bank and asked for the manager.
"My name may be known to you," he said to the official, at the same time
handing his card.
"Mr. Anson, Park Lane--the Mr. Anson."
"I suppose I can flatter myself with the definite article. I am staying
here some few days, and wish to carry out certain transactions requiring
large sums of money. I will be glad to act through your bank, on special
terms, of course, for opening a short account."
"We will be delighted."
"I will write a check now for five thousand pounds, which kindly place
to my credit as soon as possible. Shall we say--the day after
to-morrow?"
"That is quite possible. We will use all expedition."
"Thank you. You understand, this is merely a preliminary. I will need a
much larger sum, but I will pay in my next check after hearing from
London. I am not quite sure about the amount of my private balance at
the moment."
The bank manager assured him there would be no difficulty whatever under
such conditions.
Grenier obtained his passbook and check book, after writing a check on
London before the other man's eyes.
For a small amount, an introduction would have been necessary. In
the case of Philip Anson, the millionaire, a man who handled thousands
so readily, it was needless. Moreover, his procedure was
unexceptionable--strictly according to banking business.
Grenier rushed off to the station, caught a train for Leeds, went to the
bank of a different company with different London agents, and carried
through the same maneuver.
He returned to York and secured the services of the hotel typist. He
wrote to Philip's bankers:
"I am transacting some very important private business in the North
of England, and have opened temporary accounts with the ---- Bank
in York and the ---- Bank in Leeds, and I shall need a considerable
sum of ready money. Possibly I may also open accounts in Bradford
and Sheffield. To-day I have drawn two checks for five thousand
pounds each. Kindly let me know by return the current balance to my
credit, as I dislike overdrafts and would prefer to realize some
securities."
The next letter ran:
"MY DEAR ABINGDON: Excuse a typewriter, but I am horribly busy. The
Morlands' affair is a purely family and personal one; it brings
into activity circumstances dating far back in my life and in the
lives of my parents. Sir Philip is not dying, nor even dangerously
ill. Lady Louisa is in Yorkshire, and I am making arrangements
which will close a long-standing feud.
"Write me here if necessary, but kindly keep back all business or
other communications, save those of a very urgent character, for at
least a week or perhaps ten days.
"Sorry for this enforced absence from town. It simply cannot be
avoided, and I am sure you will leave a detailed explanation until
we meet. I have signed the inclosed annual report of the home. Will
you kindly forward it to the secretary? Yours sincerely,
"PHILIP ANSON."
Grenier dictated this epistle from a carefully composed copy. He
understood the very friendly relations that existed between Philip and
his chief agent, and he thought that in adopting a semi-apologetic,
frankly reticent tone, he was striking the right key.
The concluding reference to the Mary Anson Home was smart, he imagined,
while the main body of the letter dealt in safe generalities.
Naturally, he knew nothing of the conversation between the two men on
this very topic a couple of months earlier.
But Langdon's ample confessions had clearly revealed Philip's attitude,
and the unscrupulous scoundrel was willing now to dare all in his
attempt to gain a fortune.
While he was dining a telegram was handed to him:
"You forgot to send your address, but Mr. Abingdon gave it to me.
So grieved you are detained. What about blue atom?
"EVELYN."
Did ever woman invent more tantalizing question than that concluding
one? What was a blue atom? No doubt, creation's scheme included blue
atoms, as well as black ones and red ones. But why this reference to any
particular atom? He tried the words in every possible variety of
meaning. He gave them the dignity of capitals. BLUE ATOM. They became
more inexplicable.
In one respect they were effective. They spoiled his dinner. He had
steeled himself against every possible form of surprise, but he was
forced to admit that during the next three days he must succeed in
persuading Evelyn Atherley that Philip Anson was alive, and engaged in
important matters in Yorkshire. That was imperative--was his scheme to
be wrecked by a blue atom?
Moreover, her query must be answered. His promise to write was, of
course, a mere device. It would be manifestly absurd to send her a
typewritten letter, and, excellently as he could copy Philip's
signature, he dared not put his skill as a forger to the test of
inditing a letter to her, no matter how brief. Finally he hit upon a
compromise. He wired:
"Stupid of me to omit address. Your concluding sentence mixed up in
transmission. Meaning not quite clear. Am feeling so lonely.
"PHILIP."
Then he tried to resume his dinner, but his appetite was gone.
In postal facilities, owing to its position on a main line, York is well
served from London. At 9 P. M. two letters, one a bulky package and
registered, reached him.
The letter was from Mr. Abingdon. It briefly acknowledged his telegram,
stated that a man in the Athenæum, who knew Sir Philip Morland, had
informed him, in response to guarded inquiries, that the baronet was
exceedingly well off, and called attention to some important leases
inclosed which required his signature.
The other note was from Evelyn. It was tender and loving, and contained
a reference that added to the mystification of her telegram.
"In the hurry of your departure yesterday," she wrote, "we forgot
to mention Blue Atom. What is your opinion? The price is high,
certainly, but, then, picture the joy of it--the only one in the
world!"
And, again, came another message:
"I referred to Blue Atom, of course. What did the post office make
it into?
"EVELYN."
Blue Atom was assuming spectral dimensions. He cursed the thing
fluently. It was high priced, a joy, alone in solitary glory. What could
it be?
He strolled into the station, and entered into conversation with a
platform inspector.
"By the way," he said, casually, "have you ever heard of anything called
a blue atom?"
The man grinned. "Is that another name for D. T.'s, sir?"
Grenier gave it up, and resolved to postpone a decision until the next
morning.
By a late train Philip's portmanteau arrived. It was locked, and the key
reposed in the safe. Green, it ultimately transpired, solemnly opened
the safe in the presence of the housekeeper and butler, locked it again
without disturbing any of the other contents, and handed the key to the
butler, who placed it in the silver pantry.
In the solitude of his room, Grenier burst the lock. The rascal received
one of the greatest shocks of his life when he examined the contents--a
quantity of old clothing, some worn boots, a ball of twine, a bed
coverlet, a big, iron key, the tattered letters, and a variety of odds
and ends that would have found no corner in a respectable rag shop.
He burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Ye gods and little fishes!" he cried. "What a treasure! The Clerkenwell
suit, I suppose, and a woman's skirt and blouse. Old-timers, too, by
their style. His mother's, I expect. He must have been fond of his
mother."
At that moment Jocky Mason, beetle-browed and resentful, was reading a
letter which reached his lodgings two hours before his arrival, in an
envelope bearing the ominous initials--O. H. M. S.
It was from the Southwark Police Station.
"SIR: Kindly make it convenient to attend here to-morrow evening at
8 P. M. Yours truly,
"T. BRADLEY, Inspector."
The following day it was Mason's duty to report himself under his
ticket-of-leave, but it was quite unusual for the police to give a
preliminary warning in this respect. Failure on his part meant arrest.
That was all the officials looked after.
"What's up now?" he muttered. "Anyway, Grenier was right. This gives me
a cast-iron alibi. I'll acknowledge it at once."
His accomplice, hoping to obtain sleep from champagne, consumed the
contents of a small bottle in his bedroom, while he scanned the columns
of the local evening papers for any reference to a "Seaside Mystery" on
the Yorkshire coast.
There was none. Anson's body had not been recovered yet.
Before going to bed, he wound Philip's watch. He examined it now with
greater interest than he had bestowed on it hitherto.
Although silver, it appeared to be a good one. He opened the case to
examine the works. Inside there was an inscription:
"Presented to Philip Anson, aged fifteen years, by the officers and
men of the Whitechapel Division of the Metropolitan Police as a
token of their admiration for his bravery in assisting to arrest a
notorious burglar."
Beneath was the date of Mason's capture.
"Where was I ten years ago?" he mused.
He looked back through the soiled leaves of a sordid record, and found
that he was then acting in a melodrama entitled "The Wages of Sin."
And the wages of sin is death! The drama insisted on the full measure of
Biblical accuracy. Altogether, Grenier lay down to rest under unenviable
conditions.
He dreamed that he was falling down precipices, and striking sheets of
blue water with appalling splashes. Each time he was awakened by the
shock.
But he was a hardy rogue where conscience was concerned, and he swore
himself to sleep again. Rest he must have. He must arise with steady
head and clear brain.
He was early astir. His first act was to send for the Yorkshire morning
papers. They contained no news of Philip Anson dead, but the local sheet
chronicled his arrival at York.
This was excellent. The banker would see it. A few printed lines carry
great weight in such matters.
Then he signed the leases, dispatched them in a typewritten envelope and
telegraphed:
"Documents forwarded this morning. Please meet wishes expressed in
letter."
"Surely," he reflected, "Abingdon will not give another thought to my
proceedings. Philip Anson is not a boy in leading strings."
He wired to Evelyn:
"Sorry for misunderstanding. Blue Atom must wait until my return."
Here was a way out. Whatever that wretched speck of color meant, it
could be dealt with subsequently.
But Evelyn's prompt reply only made confusion worse confounded:
"Delay is impossible. The man has put off the duchess two days
already."
So a man, and a duchess, and a period of time were mixed up with a blue
atom. He must do something desperate; begin his plan of alienation
sooner than he intended. He answered:
"Too busy to attend to matter further. Going to Leeds to-day.
Letters here as usual."
And to Leeds he went. Residence in York was a fever--a constant fret. In
Leeds he was removed from the arena. He passed the afternoon and evening
in roaming the streets, consumed with a fiery desire to be doing,
daring, braving difficulties.
But he must wait at least another day before he could lay hands on any
portion of Philip Anson's wealth save the money stolen from his pockets.
At the hotel there was only one letter and no telegrams.
The London bankers wrote:
"We beg to acknowledge yours of yesterday. Your cash balance at
date is twelve thousand four hundred and ten pounds nine shillings
one penny. Your securities in our possession amount to a net value
at to-day's prices of about nine hundred and twenty thousand
pounds, including two hundred and fifty thousand pounds Consols at
par. We will forward you a detailed list if desired, and will be
pleased to realize any securities as directed.
"Kindly note that instructions for sale should be given in your
handwriting, and not typed."
There was joy, intoxicating almost to madness, in this communication,
but it was not unleavened by the elements of danger and delay.
His signature had been accepted without demur; he could control an
enormous sum without question; these were the entrancing certainties
which dazzled his eyes for a time.
But it was horribly annoying that a millionaire should keep his current
account so low, and the concluding paragraph held a bogey, not wholly
unforeseen, but looming large when it actually presented itself.
The memorandum in Philip's handwriting on Evelyn's letter was now thrice
precious. He hurriedly scrutinized it, and at once commenced to practice
the words.
"Devonshire" and "Sharpe" gave him the capitals for "Dear Sirs." He was
at a loss for a capital "C," but he saw that Philip used the simplest
and boldest outlines in his caligraphy, and he must risk a "C" without
the upper loop. In "Lady M.," too, he had the foundation of the "£" to
precede the requisite figures. Soon he framed a letter in the fewest
words possible:
"Yours of to-day's date received. Kindly sell Consols value one
hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and place the same to my
credit."
He copied it again and again, until it was written freely and
carelessly, and every letter available compared favorably with the
original in his possession. Then he posted it, thus saving a day,
according to his calculations.
With this missive committed irrecoverably to the care of his majesty's
mails, Victor Grenier's spirits rose. Now, indeed, he was in the
whirlpool. Would he emerge high and dry in the El Dorado of gilded vice
which he longed to enter, or would fortune consign him to Portland
again--perchance to the scaffold? He could not say. He would not feel
safe until Philip Anson was a myth, and Victor Grenier a reality, with
many thousands in the bank.
Already he was planning plausible lies to keep Mason out of his fair
share of the plunder. A few more forged letters would easily establish
the fact that he was unable to obtain a bigger haul than, say, fifty
thousand pounds.
And what did Mason want with twenty-five thousand pounds? He was a
gnarled man, with crude tastes. Twenty, fifteen, ten thousand would be
ample for his wants. The sooner he drank himself to death the better.
With each fresh cigar Mason's moiety shrank in dimensions. The murder
was a mere affair of a vengeful blow, but this steady sucking of the
millionaire's riches required finesse, a dashing adroitness, the superb
impudence of a Cagliostro.
But if his confederate's interests suffered, the total fixed in
Grenier's original scheme in nowise became affected.
He meant to have a hundred thousand pounds, and he firmly decided not to
go beyond that amount. His letter to the bankers named one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds, and he calculated that by stopping short at
two-thirds of the available sum he would not give any grounds for
suspicion or personal inquiry.
Yet he would shirk nothing. Mr. Abingdon and Miss Atherley must be
avoided at all events; others he would face blithely. He took care to
have ever on the table in his sitting room a goodly supply of wines and
spirits.
If anyone sought an interview, it might be helpful to sham a slight
degree of intoxication. The difference between Philip drunk and Philip
sober would then be accounted for readily.
But rest--that was denied him. It was one thing to harden himself
against surprise; quite another to forget that disfigured corpse
swirling about in the North Sea.
He wished now that Philip Anson had not been cast forth naked. It was a
blunder not to dress him, to provide him with means of identification
with some unknown Smith or Jones.
When he closed his eyes he could see a shadowy form wavering helplessly
in green depths. Never before were his hands smeared with blood. He had
touched every crime save murder.
Physically, he was a coward. In plotting the attack on Philip, he had
taxed his ingenuity for weeks to discover some means where he need not
become Mason's actual helper. He rejected project after project. The
thing might be bungled, so he must attend to each part of the
undertaking himself, short of using a bludgeon.
He slept again and dreamed of long flights through space pursued by
demons. How he longed for day. How slowly the hours passed after dawn,
until the newspapers were obtainable, with their columns of emptiness
for him.
A letter came from Evelyn. It was a trifle reserved, with an impulse to
tears concealed in it.
"I asked mother for fifty pounds," she wrote, "so the Blue Atom
incident has ended, but I don't think I will ever understand the
mood in which you wrote your last telegram. Perhaps your letter now
in the post--I half expected it at mid-day--will explain matters
somewhat."
He consigned Blue Atom to a sultry clime, and began to ask himself why
Mr. Abingdon had not written. The ex-magistrate's reticence annoyed him.
A letter, even remonstrating with him, would be grateful. This silence
was irritating; it savored of doubt, and doubt was the one phase of
thought he wished to keep out of Mr. Abingdon's mind at that moment.
As for Evelyn, she mistrusted even his telegrams, while a bank had
accepted his signature without reservation. He would punish her with
zest. Philip Anson's memory would be poisoned in her heart long before
she realized that he was dead.