The question was unusual in its form, disturbing in its innuendo. The man who asked it was pale, with unnaturally brilliant brown eyes, a gentleman in manner, but attired in ill-fitting garments, and beneath his tweed cap he wore a surgical bandage. And Philip Anson, the millionaire, of whom he spoke thus contemptuously, was staying in the hotel, and paying for its best rooms. But the manager was perfectly civil. The presence of Dr. Scarth, a reputable-looking stranger, gave evidence that something important was afoot. Mr. Anson was in his rooms at the moment. Their names would be sent up. Dr. Scarth, quick to appreciate the difficulties of the situation, intervened quietly. "Is he alone?" "Yes." "Then it will be better if you accompany us in person. An unpleasant matter can be arranged without undue publicity." This was alarming. The manager went with them instantly. They paused at the door indicated. "Come with me," said Philip, turning the handle without knocking. Grenier, intent on the perusal of a letter he had just written, looked up quickly. He was face to face with Philip Anson. CHAPTER XXII. _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.