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Updated: June 29, 2025
Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of life of performing the same automatic gestures another day displaced his fleeting vision.
Pretty slim show, ain't 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.
Some professional matter, no doubt the punctilious lawyer would have allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more especially since Granice, in his note, had said: "I shall want a little business chat afterward." But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional hour?
Granice had the habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat in Venn's 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.
There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of amusement, saw his guest's look change from pleasantry to apprehension. "What's the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see." "It's not a joke. It's the truth. I murdered him." He had spoken painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated the words he found they were easier to say.
He read on with a thumping heart found the name of a young author he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poetic drama," dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then she was "game" it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted! Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. "I shan't need you this evening, Flint.
His hand on Granice's 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.
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 that was J. B. Stell fast enough I guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his name." Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. But when they were face to face Allonby's jovial countenance showed no sign of embarrassment.
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 you're right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my statement in the Investigator, just as I've made it. Ridicule it as much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it men who don't know anything about me.
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