"You will be alone. Will you be afraid?"
The sneer was the last stimulant Grenier needed.
"If you were called on to stand in Philip Anson's boots during the next week or ten days, my good friend," he quietly retorted, "you would be afraid sixty times in every hour. Your job has nearly ended; mine has barely commenced. Now, leave me."
Nevertheless, he quitted that chamber of death, carrying with him all that he needed, and hurrying over the task while he could yet hear the dogcart rattling down the hill.
He commenced with an inventory of Philip's pockets.
His eyes sparkled at the sight of a well-filled pocketbook, with a hundred pounds in notes stuffed therein, cards, a small collection of letters, and other odds and ends. Among Philip's books was Evelyn's hurried note of that morning, and on it a penciled memorandum:
"Sharpe left for Devonshire yesterday. Lady M. wrote from Yorkshire."
"That was a neat stroke," thought Grenier, with a smile—when he smiled he least resembled Philip. "Being a man of affairs, Anson promptly went to the Morlands' solicitors. I was sure of it. I wonder how Jimmie arranged matters with Sharpe. I will know to-morrow at York."
A check book in another pocket added to his joy.
"The last rock out of my path," he cried, aloud. "That saves two days. The bait took. By Jove! I'm in luck's way!"