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Updated: June 29, 2025
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 Ascham's dead cigar. "Better light another," he suggested. The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale.
I'll lock up myself." He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? Granice suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to take a light from Ascham's cigar. "Tell me about Mrs.
You smoke a good deal, don't you?" He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or any form of diversion that did not that in short Granice interrupted him impatiently. "Oh, I loathe all that and I'm sick of travelling." "H'm. Then some larger interest politics, reform, philanthropy? Something to take you out of yourself." "Yes. I understand," said Granice wearily.
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.
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 lawyer's, and he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room.
Leffler's 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 Explorer's "smartest" reporter.
What if he were really being shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment to the conditions of their previous meeting. "We have to do that occasionally, Mr. Granice; it's one of our methods. And you had given Allonby a fright." Granice was silent.
"Nothing in it?" Granice furiously interposed. "Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don't you bring me proofs? I know you've been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been able to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?" Granice's lips began to tremble. "Why did you play me that trick?" "About Stell?
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 McCarren's attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on his own problem.
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... 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.
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