Green was staring perplexedly at the house, the kitchen, his ill-favored companion carrying Philip's portmanteau within, when he heard his master's voice again, and saw him standing between the partly drawn curtains, with his face quite visible in the dim rays of the lamp. "Green?" "Yes, sir." "Here are my keys. Unlock the bag and take the keys with you. You remember the small portmanteau in my safe at Park Lane?" "Yes, sir." "Open the safe, get that bag, and send it to me to-morrow night by train to the Station Hotel, York." "To-morrow night, sir?" "Yes." The keys were thrown with a rattle onto a broad kitchen table. Evidently Mr. Anson would not brook questions as to his movements, though his few words sounded contradictory. Green got down, unfastened the portmanteau and went back to the dogcart. "They're queer folk i' t' grange," said the stable boy, as they drove away. "There's a barrow-night and a lady as nobody ever sees, an' a dochtor, an' a man--him as kem for ye." "Surely they are well known here?" "Not a bit of it. On'y bin here about a week. T' doctor chap's very chirpy, but yon uther is a rum 'un." Green was certainly puzzled very greatly by the unexpected developments of the last few minutes, but he was discreet and well trained. He liked his young master, and would do anything to serve his interests. Moreover, the ways of millionaires were not the ways of other men. All he could do was to hear and obey. He slept none the less soundly because his master chose voluntarily to bury himself, even for a little while, in such a weirdly tumbledown, old mansion as the Grange House. CHAPTER XVIII. "_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?"