"It is Jocky Mason," murmured Philip to Dr. Scarth. With the manager they had halted in the corridor. Mason strode past them, with eyes only for the cowering Grenier, who was making piteous appeals to be set free.
The stronger ruffian threw his confederate into Room 41, and was about to close the door when he saw Philip, close behind him.
He stepped back a pace, mute, rigid, seeking with glaring eyes to learn whether or not he was the victim of hallucination.
Philip knew him instantly. The voice he heard on the stairs, the policeman's rough but accurate picture, the recollection of the captive of Johnson's Mews, all combined to tell him that in truth Jocky Mason stood before him.
More than that, the would-be murderer handled his accomplice in a way that promised interesting developments. Now, perchance, the truth might be ascertained. Escape was out of the question for either of them. The manager's cry had brought four strong porters pellmell to the spot.
"You and I will enter," said Anson to Dr. Scarth. "You," to the manager, "might kindly remain here with your men for a few minutes."
"Shall I summon the police?"
"Not yet. I want to clear matters somewhat. They are dreadfully tangled."
Mason, spellbound, but fearless as ever, heard the dead man speak, saw him move. He could not refuse the evidence of eyes and ears. As Philip advanced into the room, the giant put his hands wildly to his head, and sobbed brokenly:
"Thank God! Thank God! For my boys' sake, not for mine!"