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!"