At that moment Jocky Mason, beetle-browed and resentful, was reading a letter which reached his lodgings two hours before his arrival, in an envelope bearing the ominous initials—O. H. M. S.
It was from the Southwark Police Station.
"Sir: Kindly make it convenient to attend here to-morrow evening at 8 P. M. Yours truly,
"T. Bradley, Inspector."
The following day it was Mason's duty to report himself under his ticket-of-leave, but it was quite unusual for the police to give a preliminary warning in this respect. Failure on his part meant arrest. That was all the officials looked after.
"What's up now?" he muttered. "Anyway, Grenier was right. This gives me a cast-iron alibi. I'll acknowledge it at once."
His accomplice, hoping to obtain sleep from champagne, consumed the contents of a small bottle in his bedroom, while he scanned the columns of the local evening papers for any reference to a "Seaside Mystery" on the Yorkshire coast.
There was none. Anson's body had not been recovered yet.
Before going to bed, he wound Philip's watch. He examined it now with greater interest than he had bestowed on it hitherto.
Although silver, it appeared to be a good one. He opened the case to examine the works. Inside there was an inscription:
"Presented to Philip Anson, aged fifteen years, by the officers and men of the Whitechapel Division of the Metropolitan Police as a token of their admiration for his bravery in assisting to arrest a notorious burglar."