"But he is in love with her. At first, both Mrs. Atherley and the girl kept him at arm"s length. She was too poor, he too rich. That difficulty was smoothed over quite recently, and they meet now nearly every day.
Langdon hasn"t a dog"s chance, and if all goes well, the happy pair will soon be off to Norway or Switzerland for their honeymoon."
"Oh, indeed. Then where does all your clever scheming come in? Why have you held me back? He went to Suss.e.x. You wouldn"t let me follow him. He was out late several nights on his motor car along the North Road. I would have met him and smashed his face in with a life-preserver, but you held me back. What are you driving at? What"s the game?"
"You shall see."
Grenier went to a cupboard and took out a small box. From this he produced a single check, and several slips of paper on which were written names and signatures.
"That is an old check signed by Philip Anson," he said, coolly. "Here is his signature repeated several times for amus.e.m.e.nt. It only needs a man of action like you, an accomplished actor like myself, to possess the necessary nerve--the nerve that risks all on a supreme coup--and we will be not only rolling in money, but able to enjoy life pleasantly in any part of the world we select--even in London when the wind changes a little."
"You must talk plainly if you want me to understand you," said Mason, doggedly.
"Very well. You think I am somewhat like Philip Anson at this moment?"
"His image, confound him!"
"No, not his image. I would not humbug his friends. I might puzzle them for a moment, at a distance, but let them speak with me and I am done.
It is sufficient that I resemble him. But the handwriting, that is good?"
"First-cla.s.s."
"There I agree with you. My skill in that direction has been admitted by three bank clerks and an Old Bailey judge. And now for the coup. If you intend to kill this young gentleman you may as well kill him to our mutual advantage. There is no gain in being hanged for him unnecessarily, eh?"
Mason glared at him in silence.
"I see I must keep to the point. We must, by some means, inveigle him to a place where you can work your sweet pleasure on him. Ah, that interests you. It must be known that he is going to that place. It must be quite certain that he leaves it."
"Leaves it!"
"Yes, I, Philip Anson the second, will leave it. I will lay my plans quite surely. I will even telegraph my movements to his fiancee and to his agent, Abingdon, who used to be stipendiary magistrate at Clerkenwell. Now, don"t interrupt. You spoil my train of thought. Philip Anson will live again for days after you have--er--disposed of him. By that time you will have established such an alibi that an archangel"s testimony would not shake it. Then Philip Anson will disappear, vanish into thin air, and with him a hundred thousand or more of his own money, some in gold, but mostly in notes, which will have been changed so often as to defy anyone to trace them. As a precautionary measure, he will go out of his way to annoy or insult the young lady whom he intends to make his wife, and that alone will supply an explanation, of a sort, for his wish to conceal his movements. With proper management, Philip Anson should leave the map without exciting comment for weeks after he is dead, and when the weeks grow into months, people will cla.s.s his disappearance with the other queer mysteries familiar to everyone who reads the newspapers. Neat, isn"t it?"
"Too neat. You can"t do it."
"Have you or I evolved the idea? Who runs the greatest risk, the man who strikes one blow, and hides a disfigured corpse, or he who calmly faces hundreds of men, and says he is Philip Anson?"
"I don"t care about risk, but if it comes to that, I suppose you are the more likely to be found out."
"Thank you. You see my way at last. In any event, you are safe. Even suppose I am discovered, will I split on you? Will I add a charge of murder to one of forgery? Not much! I tell you the scheme is workable, not by timid bunglers, but by clever men. I admit I haven"t the nerve to kill anybody, nor would I care to suggest this present arrangement to an accomplice merely to make money. But if you are resolved to end Philip Anson"s earthly pilgrimage, I can"t prevent you, and I fail to see any reason why I shouldn"t profit by the transaction."
"What about me when the thing is done?"
"Oh, you are beginning to appreciate the other side of events. Now, we will a.s.sume that Philip Anson has been dead a couple of months, and Victor Grenier has ama.s.sed a fortune by a sheer run of luck on the turf, it is fairly evident that Victor Grenier must divvy with Jocky Mason, or the latter can make the world too hot to hold him, even if an old friend were unkind enough to refuse to disgorge unless under pressure."
Mason"s brows wrinkled in thought. The project sounded plausible enough. Determined as he was to wreak his vengeance on Philip, Grenier"s ingenious idea not only offered him a reliable means of escape, but promised a rich harvest of wealth. Certainly it was worth trying. Not once but many times during the preceding month, Grenier had withheld the murderer"s willing hand. When it did fall, what keener satisfaction could he have than the knowledge that he would be enriched by the deed?
"I can"t see ahead like you," said Mason, at last. "But I will obey orders. You tell me where and when; I will be there."
Grenier shifted his feet uneasily.
"I don"t quite mean that," he said. "I will acquaint you with certain facts on which you may rely absolutely. I will forthwith act myself on the a.s.sumption that the real Philip Anson won"t interfere with me. That is all."
The other man guffawed most unpleasantly. This sophistry did not appeal to him.
"Put it any way you like," he said. "You can depend on me for my part of the bargain."
"And you can be quite certain that in a very little while we need not trouble our active wits any further as to the wherewithal to enjoy life.
I have thought this idea out in all its bearings. It simply can"t fail.
Come, let us drink to a glorious future."
He reached for a decanter, but a sudden knock at the door jarred the nerves of both men considerably.
"See who is there," whispered Grenier, whose face showed white through the paint and grease it bore.
"What about you in that rigout?" growled the stronger ruffian.
"I will slip into my bedroom. Quick! See who it is."
Langdon entered.
"Where"s Victor?" he said, eagerly.
"In his room; he will be here in a moment. What"s the matter? You look pretty glum."
"I"ve had a piece of wretched luck. I was at Mrs. Atherley"s "At Home"
to-day, when Anson turned up. I met him without winking, but he knew me at once. He called me outside and treated me like a dog."
"He did, eh?"
"Yes. It was no good trying to bluff him. Only on the guarantee that I would never meet Miss Atherley again would he consent not to expose me.
I"m done. My last chance is gone. I have wasted my money on Grenier"s mad notions, and was fool enough to think you meant what you said when you swore to have Anson"s life."
Grenier, who had heard every word, reappeared.
"Does Philip Anson know that Mr. James Crichton Langdon is Sir Philip Morland"s stepson?" he asked.
"I can"t tell. What does it matter, anyhow?"
"Think, man, think! Does he even know your name?"
"He can easily find it out."
"Not he. This young spark has a fine sense of honor. You promised to keep away from the lady in future. He will never even mention you. And your money is not lost. It has been well spent, every farthing. Take care Miss Evelyn does not see you until she is heartbroken about Philip Anson. She will be; you can be quite sure of it. Then your opportunity will come."
CHAPTER XVII.
_The Inmates of the Grange House._