II

Granice told his story simply, connectedly.

He began by a quick survey of his early years—the years of drudgery and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say no, had so signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he died he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at eighteen in a brokers office. He loathed his work, and he was always poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother died, but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his hands. His own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, and work harder than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to travel and write—those were his inmost longings. And as the years dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only brush up for dinner, and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned through the evening paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what is known as pleasure. And in summer, when he and Kate went to the sea-side for a month, he dozed through the days in utter weariness. Once he fell in love with a charming girl—but what had he to offer her, in Gods name? She seemed to like him, and in common decency he had to drop out of the running. Apparently no one replaced him, for she never married, but grew stoutish, grayish, philanthropic—yet how sweet she had been when he had first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected...

But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was in him—he could not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession—yet with every year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process in his sisters wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant—she had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It exasperated him to think of it—and to reflect that even now a little travel, a little health, a little money, might transform her, make her young and desirable... The chief fruit of his experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth—there is only health as against sickness, wealth as against poverty; and age or youth as the outcome of the lot one draws.

At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean against the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from his seat, or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention.

Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old Lenman—my mothers cousin, as you know. Some of the family always mounted guard over him—generally a niece or so. But that year they were all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if wed relieve her of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family observances, had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we should be called on—and there was the saving of rent and the good air for Kate. So we went.

You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or some primitive organism of that sort, under a Titans microscope. He was large, undifferentiated, inert—since I could remember him he had done nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, and cultivate melons—that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons—his were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield—his big kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And in nearly all of them melons were grown—early melons and late, French, English, domestic—dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children—a staff of trained attendants waited on them. Im not sure they didnt have a doctor to take their temperature—at any rate the place was full of thermometers. And they didnt sprawl on the ground like ordinary melons; they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each melon hung in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the sun and air...

It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his own melons—the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of his existence was not to let himself be worried.... I remember his advising me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kates bad health, and her need of a change. I never let myself worry, he said complacently. Its the worst thing for the liver—and you look to me as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. Youll make yourself happier and others too. And all he had to do was to write a cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday!

The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kates—and one could picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us waiting. I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to him.

Well, I tried to see if I couldnt reach him through his vanity. I flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldnt eat as much as a mouthful of his melons—had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. But, after all, its my only hobby—why shouldnt I indulge it? he said sentimentally. As if Id ever been able to indulge any of mine! On the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods...

One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon—a day to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with ones eyes on the sky, and let the cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the fact that, as I entered cousin Josephs hideous black walnut library, I passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me.

Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon—the fattest melon Id ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering—and without stopping to greet me he pointed passionately to the melon.

Look at it, look at it—did you ever see such a beauty? Such firmness—roundness—such delicious smoothness to the touch? It was as if he had said she instead of it, and when he put out his senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way.

Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had been specially recommended for the melon-houses—though it was against my cousins principles to employ a Papist—had been assigned to the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its existence, as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done well—seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it—drop it crash on the sharp spout of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon?

The old mans rage was fearful in its impotence—he shook, spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had sacked him on the spot, without wages or character—had threatened to have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. By God, and Ill do it—Ill write to Washington—Ill have the pauper scoundrel deported! Ill show him what money can do! As likely as not there was some murderous Black-hand business under it—it would be found that the fellow was a member of a gang. Those Italians would murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And then he grew frightened at his own excitement. But I must calm myself, he said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the Churchman. He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon was brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the fallen melon.

All the while one phrase of the old mans buzzed in my brain like the fly about the melon. Ill show him what money can do! Good heaven! If I could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him something about my situation and Kates—spoke of my ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself a name—I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. I can guarantee to repay you, sir—Ive a half-written play as security...

I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as an egg-shell again—his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels over a slippery rampart.

A half-written play—a play of yours as security? He looked at me almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. Do you understand anything of business? he enquired mildly. I laughed and answered: No, not much.

He leaned back with closed lids. All this excitement has been too much for me, he said. If youll excuse me, Ill prepare for my nap. And I stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.

Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Aschams dead cigar.

Better light another, he suggested.

The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told of his mounting obsession—how the murderous impulse had waked in him on the instant of his cousins refusal, and he had muttered to himself: By God, if you wont, Ill make you. He spoke more tranquilly as the narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how the old man was to be disposed of. Suddenly he remembered the outcry: Those Italians will murder you for a quarter! But no definite project presented itself: he simply waited for an inspiration.

Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of the old mans condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, on getting home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had been there again—had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up to the library, and used threatening language. The house-keeper found cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing something awful. The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the police had ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood.

But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had nerves, and lost his taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and the consultation amused and excited the old man—he became once more an important figure. The medical men reassured the family—too completely!—and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: advised him to take whatever tempted him. And so one day, tremulously, prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead...

But you remember the circumstances, Granice went on; how suspicion turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given him he had been seen hanging about the house since the scene. It was said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the explanation he was gone—gone clean out of sight. He had been warned to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that no one ever laid eyes on him again.

Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyers, and he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange insistent object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him.

It was I who put the stuff in the melon, he said. And I dont want you to think Im sorry for it. This isnt remorse, understand. Im glad the old skin-flint is dead—Im glad the others have their money. But mines no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. And Ive never had what I wanted.

Ascham continued to stare; then he said: What on earth was your object, then?

Why, to get what I wanted—what I fancied was in reach! I wanted change, rest, life, for both of us—wanted, above all, for myself, the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to tie myself up to my work. And Ive slaved at it steadily for ten years without reward—without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will look at my stuff. And now Im fifty, and Im beaten, and I know it. His chin dropped forward on his breast. I want to chuck the whole business, he ended.

III

It was after midnight when Ascham left.

His hand on Granices shoulder, as he turned to go—District Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor! he had cried; and so, with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed.

Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail—but without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyers eye.

At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced—but that, as Granice now perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: By Jove, Granice youll write a successful play yet. The way youve worked this all out is a marvel.

Granice swung about furiously—that last sneer about the play inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure?

I did it, I did it, he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself against the impenetrable surface of the others mockery; and Ascham answered with a smile: Ever read any of those books on hallucination? Ive got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two if you like...

Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He understood that Ascham thought him off his head.

Good God—what if they all think me crazy?

The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat—he sat there and shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would believe him.

Thats the trouble—Aschams not a criminal lawyer. And then hes a friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, hed never let me see it—his instinct would be to cover the whole thing up... But in that case—if he did believe me—he might think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum... Granice began to tremble again. Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert—one of those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything—their word always goes. If Ascham drops a hint that Id better be shut up, Ill be in a strait-jacket by to-morrow! And hed do it from the kindest motives—be quite right to do it if he thinks Im a murderer!

The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had not believed his story.

But he did—he did! I can see it now—I noticed what a queer eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do—what shall I do?

He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and the movement started a new train of association.

He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his chair.

Give me three-o-ten... yes.

The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would act—act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through the meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like coming out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced by these momentary lulls.

That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? Its rather urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate copy.... All right! He hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call up the editor of the Investigator—Robert Denver was the very man he needed...

Granice put out the lights in the library—it was odd how the automatic gestures persisted!—went into the hall, put on his hat and overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. But from Denvers house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as Granice sprang from his cab the editors electric turned the corner.

The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall.

Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old.

Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—watched his rise through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the Investigators editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling hair there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his way home in the small hours, used to bob in on Granice, while the latter sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granices flat on the way to his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and Granices shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss the universe.

Well—this is like old times—a good old habit reversed. The editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. Reminds me of the nights when I used to rout you out... Hows the play, by the way? There is a play, I suppose? Its as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: Hows the baby?

Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he had grown. It was evident, even to Granices tortured nerves, that the words had not been uttered in malice—and the fact gave him a new measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been a failure! The fact hurt more than Aschams irony.

Come in—come in. The editor led the way into a small cheerful room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan.

Now, then—help yourself. And lets hear all about it.

He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his cigar, said to himself: Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them stupid.

Then he turned, and began: Denver, I want to tell you—

The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the editors face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once the hour struck—then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from Granices forehead.

Do you mind if I open the window?

No. It is stuffy in here. Wait—Ill do it myself. Denver pushed down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. Well—go on, he said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice.

Theres no use in my going on if you dont believe me.

The editor remained unmoved. Who says I dont believe you? And how can I tell till youve finished?

Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. It was simple enough, as youll see. From the day the old man said to me, Those Italians would murder you for a quarter, I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for Id done it often with the same lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning...

Well, then came the report about the Italians threats, and I saw I must act at once... I meant to break into the old mans room, shoot him, and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then we heard that he was ill—that thered been a consultation. Perhaps the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only be!...

Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to have cooled the room.

Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her—all Wrenfield was in a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of the little French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato—and the patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning.

In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew the ways of the house—I was sure the melon would be brought in over night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons didnt lie around loose in that house—every one was known, numbered, catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would eat them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It would have been the devil and all to get into the old mans bedroom without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break into the pantry without much trouble.

It was a cloudy night, too—everything served me. I dined quietly, and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a sort of disguise—red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a half-drunken machinist whom Id never seen before. That served me, too. They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didnt even bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going place...

Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard and ulster. Then away again—it was just eleven-thirty when I got to Wrenfield.

I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By the stable a dog came out growling—but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed by ten. But there might be a prowling servant—the kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—and there was the little French melon... only one.

I stopped to listen—I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. It was all done inside of three minutes—at ten minutes to twelve I was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with and they went down plump, like a dead body—and at two oclock I was back at my desk.

Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his listener; but Denvers face remained inscrutable.

At length he said: Why did you want to tell me this?

The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason.

Why, I—the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose youd call it...

Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe.

Remorse? Bosh! he said energetically.

Granices heart sank. You dont believe in—remorse?

Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of remorse proves to me that youre not the man to have planned and put through such a job.

Granice groaned. Well—I lied to you about remorse. Ive never felt any.

Denvers lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. What was your motive, then? You must have had one.

Ill tell you— And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his failure, of his loathing for life. Dont say you dont believe me this time... that this isnt a real reason! he stammered out piteously as he ended.

Denver meditated. No, I wont say that. Ive seen too many queer things. Theres always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is that we find so many for staying in! Granices heart grew light. Then you do believe me? he faltered.

Believe that youre sick of the job? Yes. And that you havent the nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—thats easy enough, too. But all that doesnt make you a murderer—though I dont say it proves you could never have been one.

I have been one, Denver—I swear to you.

Perhaps. He meditated. Just tell me one or two things.

Oh, go ahead. You wont stump me! Granice heard himself say with a laugh.

Well—how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your sisters curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, remember. You were very seldom out late. Didnt the change in your ways surprise her?

No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town for a night or two before—before I did the job.

And that night she went to bed early with a headache?

Yes—blinding. She didnt know anything when she had that kind. And her room was at the back of the flat.

Denver again meditated. And when you got back—she didnt hear you? You got in without her knowing it?

Yes. I went straight to my work—took it up at the word where Id left off—Why, denver, dont you remember? Granice suddenly, passionately interjected.

Remember—?

Yes; how you found me—when you looked in that morning, between two and three... your usual hour...?

Yes, the editor nodded.

Granice gave a short laugh. In my old coat—with my pipe: looked as if Id been working all night, didnt I? Well, I hadnt been in my chair ten minutes!

Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. I didnt know whether you remembered that.

What?

My coming in that particular night—or morning.

Granice swung round in his chair. Why, man alive! Thats why Im here now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked round to see what all the old mans heirs had been doing that night—you who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual.... I thought that would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else would!

Denver smiled. Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough—and the ideas picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi to establish your guilt.

Thats it—thats it! Granices laugh had a ring of triumph.

Well, but how about the other chaps testimony—I mean that young doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Dont you remember my testifying that Id met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: All right; youll find him in. I passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as usual. And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she corroborated his statement, you remember.

Yes; I remember.

Well, then?

Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I counted on that, and knew youd take any vague outline as mine.

Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if youd fallen asleep.

Yes; and she was right. It did move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray must have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something gave my mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the table.

There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow for the incalculableness of human impulses.

Well? Granice faltered out.

Denver stood up with a shrug. Look here, man—whats wrong with you? Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? Id like to take you to see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—whos a wonder at pulling fellows in your state out of their hole—

Oh, oh— Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed each other. You dont believe me, then?

This yarn—how can I? There wasnt a flaw in your alibi.

But havent I filled it full of them now?

Denver shook his head. I might think so if I hadnt happened to know that you wanted to. Theres the hitch, dont you see?

Granice groaned. No, I didnt. You mean my wanting to be found guilty—?

Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesnt do much credit to your ingenuity.

Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? But on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. Look here, Denver—I daresay youre right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my statement in the Investigator, just as Ive made it. Ridicule it as much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it—men who dont know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I dont care a damn whether you believe me—what I want is to convince the Grand Jury! I oughtnt to have come to a man who knows me—your cursed incredulity is infectious. I dont put my case well, because I know in advance its discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. Thats why I cant convince you. Its a vicious circle. He laid a hand on Denvers arm. Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the paper.

But Denver did not warm to the idea. My dear fellow, you seem to forget that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to believe that you murdered old Lenman—you or anybody else. All they wanted was a murderer—the most improbable would have served. But your alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing youve told me has shaken it. Denver laid his cool hand over the others burning fingers. Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case—then come in and submit it to the Investigator.

IV

The perspiration was rolling off Granices forehead. Every few minutes he had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his haggard face.

For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case to the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience on the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval between he had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him that the only way of averting that hideous peril was by establishing, in some sane impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even if he had not been so incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed now the only alternative to the strait-jacket.

As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing hand. I dont expect you to believe me now—but cant you put me under arrest, and have the thing looked into?

Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to keep watch over impulses not strictly professional.

Well, I dont know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course Im bound to look into your statement—

Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldnt have said that if he hadnt believed him!

Thats all right. Then I neednt detain you. I can be found at any time at my apartment. He gave the address.

The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. What do you say to leaving it for an hour or two this evening? Im giving a little supper at Rectors—quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose—I think you know her—and a friend or two; and if youll join us...

Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made.

He waited for four days—four days of concentrated horror. During the first twenty-four hours the fear of Aschams alienist dogged him; and as that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how little the story had impressed him!

Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate himself. He was chained to life—a prisoner of consciousness. Where was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In the glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable selfness, keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark windings. Often he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—and as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance.

Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window at the awakening activities of the street—at the street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of them—any of them—to take his chance in any of their skins! They were the toilers—the men whose lot was pitied—the victims wept over and ranted about by altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no—the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that morning?

On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: a policeman, a secret agent, or some other mysterious emissary of the law?

On the third morning Flint, stepping softly—as if, confound it! his master were ill—entered the library where Granice sat behind an unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray.

Granice read the name—J. B. Hewson—and underneath, in pencil, From the District Attorneys office. He started up with a thumping heart, and signed an assent to the servant.

Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty—the kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. Just the type of the successful detective, Granice reflected as he shook hands with his visitor.

And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. He had been sent by the District Attorney to have a quiet talk with Mr. Granice—to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the Lenman murder.

His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granices self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man—a man who knew his business—it would be easy enough to make him see through that ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one himself—to prove his coolness—began again to tell his story.

He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listeners detached, impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time his words would certainly carry conviction...

V

Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young mans nimble glance followed Granices.

Sure of the number, are you? he asked briskly.

Oh, yes—it was 104.

Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up—thats certain.

He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of tottering tenements and stables.

Dead sure? he repeated.

Yes, said Granice, discouraged. And even if I hadnt been, I know the garage was just opposite Lefflers over there. He pointed across the street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words Livery and Boarding were still faintly discernible.

The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. Well, thats something—may get a clue there. Lefflers—same name there, anyhow. You remember that name?

Yes—distinctly.

Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the interest of the Explorers smartest reporter. If there were moments when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, like a leech, as he phrased it—jumped at it, thrilled to it, and settled down to draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go till he had. No one else had treated Granice in that way—even Allonbys detective had not taken a single note. And though a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been heard from the District Attorneys office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasnt going to drop it—not he! He positively hung on Granices footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off again, running down clues.

But at Lefflers they got none, after all. Lefflers was no longer a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Floods garage across the way—did not even remember what had stood there before the new flat-house began to rise.

Well—we may run Leffler down somewhere; Ive seen harder jobs done, said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name.

As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine tone: Id undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put me on the track of that cyanide.

Granices heart sank. Yes—there was the weak spot; he had felt it from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his rooms and sum up the facts with him again.

Sorry, Mr. Granice, but Im due at the office now. Besides, itd be no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up tomorrow or next day?

He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him.

Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in demeanor.

Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the bard says. Cant get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?

Yes, said Granice wearily.

Who bought it, do you know?

Granice wrinkled his brows. Why, Flood—yes, Flood himself. I sold it back to him three months later.

Flood? The devil! And Ive ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.

Granice, discouraged, kept silence.

That brings us back to the poison, McCarren continued, his note-book out. Just go over that again, will you?

And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the time—and he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he decided on poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured chemicals; and there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing business—just the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that suspicion might turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his profession, amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the exercise of which he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat in Venns work-shop, at the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a cheerful crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, experimenters in divers forms of expression. Coming and going among so many, it was easy enough to pass unperceived; and one afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned home, found himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket.

But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long since dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction.

And theres the third door slammed in our faces. He shut his note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on Granices furrowed face.

Look here, Mr. Granice—you see the weak spot, dont you?

The other made a despairing motion. I see so many!

Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?

Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life would believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and Granice racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw the reporters face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism.

Mr. Granice—has the memory of it always haunted you?

Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. Thats it—the memory of it... always...

McCarren nodded vehemently. Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldnt let you sleep? The time came when you had to make a clean breast of it?

I had to. Cant you understand?

The reporter struck his fist on the table. God, sir! I dont suppose theres a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that cant picture the deadly horrors of remorse—

The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable motive the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he said, once one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the case became so many incentives to effort.

Remorse—remorse, he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and Granice, perversely, said to himself: If I could only have struck that note I should have been running in six theatres at once.

He saw that from that moment McCarrens professional zeal would be fanned by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose that they should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall or theatre. It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an object of pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a kind of gray penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarrens attention on his case; and to feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the meaningless performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense of the reporters observation.

Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarrens attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on his own problem.

See that fellow over there—the little dried-up man in the third row, pulling his moustache? His memoirs would be worth publishing, McCarren said suddenly in the last entracte.

Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonbys office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being shadowed.

Caesar, if he could talk—! McCarren continued. Know who he is, of course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country—

Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. That man—the fourth from the aisle? Youre mistaken. Thats not Dr. Stell.

McCarren laughed. Well, I guess Ive been in court enough to know Stell when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead insanity.

A cold shiver ran down Granices spine, but he repeated obstinately: Thats not Dr. Stell.

Not Stell? Why, man, I know him. Look—here he comes. If it isnt Stell, he wont speak to me.

The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition.

Howdo, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, aint it? the reporter cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of amicable assent, passed on.

Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken—the man who had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: a physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him insane, like the others—had regarded his confession as the maundering of a maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror—he seemed to see the mad-house gaping for him.

Isnt there a man a good deal like him—a detective named J. B. Hewson?

But he knew in advance what McCarrens answer would be. Hewson? J. B. Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough—I guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his name.