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.