The one man stood, the other sat, gazing at each other in a silence that was thrilling.
Dr. Scarth and the hotel manager entered noiselessly, and closed the door behind them. Grenier, adroit scoundrel that he was, was bereft of speech, of the power to move. He harbored no delusions. This was no ghost coming to trouble his soul in broad daylight. It was Philip Anson himself, alive, and in full possession of his senses, a more terrible apparition than any visitor from beyond the grave. His presence in that room meant penal servitude for life for Victor Grenier, a prison cell instead of palatial chambers, bread and skilly in place of Carlton luncheons.
No wonder the scoundrel was dumb, that his tongue was dry. He went cold all over, and his eyes swam.
Philip advanced toward him. Grenier could not move. He was glued to his chair.
"Who are you?" said Anson, sternly.
No answer. As yet the acute brain refused to work. Lost—ruined—no escape—were the vague ideas that jostled each other in chaos.
"Can you not speak? Who are you that dares to usurp my name, after striving to murder me?"
No answer. The shifty eyes—the eyes of a detected pickpocket—wandered stupidly from Philip's set face to that of the perplexed hotel manager, and the gravely amused doctor.
Philip never used strong language, but he was greatly tempted at that moment.
"Confound you!" he shouted. "Why don't you answer me?"