"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."
There was a glint of admiration in Mason's eyes. Here was one with Anson's face, wearing Anson's clothes, and addressing him in Anson's voice.
"That's better," he chuckled. "By G——d, you're clever when your head is clear."
"Now be off for Green. You know what to say."