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."