_A Settlement of Old Scores._
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 cause _célèbre_ in 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, the _Sea Maiden_ dropped 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!"
THE END.