The mere mention of the police galvanized Grenier into the activity of a wild cat. He had risen to his feet and was standing limply between the doctor and manager when that hated word electrified him.
With one spring he was free of them, rushing frantically to the door. After him went all three, the manager leading.
Grenier tore the door open and got outside. It was a hopeless attempt. He would be stopped by hotel porters at the foot of the stairs by the manager's loud-voiced order. Yet he raced for dear liberty, trusting blindly to fate.
And fate met him more than halfway.
A tall man, coming upstairs with a page boy, encountered Grenier flying downward. He grabbed him in a clutch of iron and cried sardonically:
"No, you don't! A word with me first, if the devil was at your heels!"
Intent on his prize, he paid no heed to others.
"Which is his room?" he said to the boy.
"No. 41, sir!" stammered the youngster, who thought that millionaires should be treated with more ceremony than this wolf-eyed stranger bestowed on the great Mr. Anson.
"Go on, then! I'll bring him."