As the murderer walked and smoked his reflections were not quite cheerful, now that he could cry "quits" with Philip Anson.
His experiences of the previous night were not pleasant. Neither he nor Grenier went to bed. They dozed uneasily in chairs until daylight, and then they admitted that they had committed Anson's body to the deep in a moment of unreasoning panic.
He might be found, and, even if he were not identified, that confounded policeman might be moved to investigate the proceedings of the curious visitors to Grange House.
That was the weak part of their armor, but Grenier refused to admit the flaw.
"A naked man found in the sea—and he may never be found—has not necessarily been thrown from a balcony three hundred feet above sea level. The notion is grotesque. No constabulary brain could conceive it. And who is he? Not Philip Anson; Philip Anson is alive. Not Dr. Williams; any Scarsdale man will say that. And your best friend, Mason, would not take him for you."
But Mason was not satisfied. Better have buried the corpse on the lonely farm—in the garden for choice. Then they would know where he was. The sea was too vague.
Of pity for his victim he had not a jot. Had Philip Anson pitied him, or his wife, or his two children? They, too, were dead, in all probability. While in London he had made every sort of inquiry, but always encountered a blank wall of negation. John and William Mason, even if they lived, did not know he was their father. They were lost to him utterly.
Curse Philip Anson. Let him be forgotten, anyway. Yet he contrived to think of him during the nine weary miles over the moor, during the long wait at the railway station, and during the slow hours of the journey to London.
On arriving at York, Grenier secured a palatial suite at the Station Hotel, entering his name in the register as "Philip Anson."
He drove to the post office and asked if there was any message for "Grenier."