Waterbury evening Democrat., 1907-06-22
hIs hands wildly to his head and sob

I1lS cAtIuoIuiuaTy dttituue, us uC less extraordinary words, amazed al least two of his hearers. Grenier, ren. dered callous now by sheer hopeless. ness, was pouring out some brandy and lighting cigarette. The revul sion of feeling at the sight of Mason had calmed him. He would make the most of the few minutes that were left before he was handcuffed,
 Dr. Scarth took the precaution of locking the door and putting the key into his pocket. It is doubtful If he would have done this had he known Mason's violent character. But, un- known to Philip, he carried a revolver. which he whipped forth when Grenier bolted and as rapidly concealed when 1t was not needed.
 "You did not kill me, you see," said Philip, sinking into chair, for the ex- citement was beginning to tell on him.
 The big man slowly dropped his hands. His prominent eyes seemed to be fascinated by the sight of one whom he threw apparently lifeless in- to the sea.
 q could lick your boots," he said thickly.
 The queer idea sounded ludicrous. Yet it conveyed good deal. It smack ed of remorse, repentance.
 "Tell me-" began Philip, but loud knocking without interrupted him.
 "Who is there?'' said Dr. Scarth.
 Abingdon. I want to see Mir. An son." was the reply in voice that Philip hailed joyfully.
 MT. Abingdon was admitted. His astonishment was extreme at the na- ture of the gathering, but he instantly noticed Philips wan appearance and the bandage on his head.
 "My dear, dear boy" he cried, "what has happened?"
 Philip told him briefly. As the ex- magistrates glance rested on Mason and Grenier 1t became very chilly. It brought Portland prison near to the soul of one of them. He poured out more spirit.
 The respite given by MT. Abingdon's arrival gave Mason time to focus hls thoughts. The man had lived in an in- ferno since he slipped away from his sons that morning on plea of urgent business in order to catch a fast train for York in the afternoon.
 He knew that Grenier would make the Station hotel his headquarters, and his sole desire was to stop that enter prising rogue from committing further crimes which might be damaging to Anson's esfate and disastrous to the peace of mind of the girl he loved.
 In no way did he hold Grenier re- sponsible for urging him to commit murder. The journey to York was un- dertaken in the first place to save Phil ip's memory from the slur which was intended to be cast upon 1t and second ly to afford plausible pretext for platform accident whereby his own life should be dashed out of him by an engine.
 He would stumble over barrow, fall helplessly in front of an incoming train and end his career far from Lon- don, far from inquiry and published reports which might be Injurious to his sons.
 It might perhaps be necessary to use forcible means to persuade Grenier to abandon his tactics. They would be forthcoming. He gave earnest of that on the stairs.
 Of course the discovery that Philip lived gave fresh direction to his pur- pose. A great load of guilt was lifted off his conscience, but the position re- mained little less serious personally.
 So when at last he began to tell his story there was a brutal directness, a rough eloquence, that silenced all ques- tioning.
 At first his hearers thought he was and incoherent as he describ- ed his release from jail, his visit to the Mary Anson home, his long and fruitless search for the lost boys.
 He told of his meeting with Grenier, the espionage they both practiced on Anson's movements and the plot hatch ed with Langdon. whose relationship with Sir Philip and Lady Morland now first became known to Philip.
 He was quite fair to Grenier, giving him full credit for having stopped him more than once from numbering Philip when opportunities presented them, selves. He dealt ruthlessly with the scene in the Grange House, even smil- Ing dreadfully as he described Gre nier's squeamishness over the sugges- ton that Philips face should be bat tered into a shapeless mass.
 Then followed his Journey to Lon don, the meeting with his two sons at police station and the tor turing knowledge. coming too late, that be had slain the benefactor of his wife and children.
 There was an overwhelming pathos n his recital of the boys kindness to lim. He gave lurid picture of his feelings during the previous night as he listened to their praises of Philip Anson and their pleasant plans for heir fathers future. He only winced once. and that was at the remem- orance of the parting few hours ago.
 And he finished by pitiful appeal for mercy. not for himself. but for Grenier.
 q put the whole thing Into his mind. Mr. Anson." he said. "IIe would never have thought of robbinz you but for me. Let him go; make him leave the sountry. He will never trouble you again. As for me. when go from this rcom I walk to my death. You can't stop me. I will not lay hands on you.