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Updated: June 29, 2025
And you remember the result of 'The Lee Shore, where you carried all the expenses of production yourself, and we couldn't fill the theatre for a week. Yet 'The Lee Shore' was a modern problem play much easier to swing than blank verse. It isn't as if you hadn't tried all kinds " Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope.
"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? You're mistaken. That's not Dr. Stell." McCarren laughed. "Well, I guess I've been in court enough to know Stell when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead insanity."
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 what's wrong with you?
"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 I'd been working all night, didn't I? Well, I hadn't been in my chair ten minutes!" Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. "I didn't know whether YOU remembered that." "What?"
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 you'd call it..." Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. "Remorse? Bosh!" he said energetically. Granice's heart sank. "You don't believe in remorse?" "Not an atom: in the man of action.
Ashgrove," he said, seeming to himself to speak stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. "Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there's not much to TELL." "And you couldn't if there were?" Granice smiled. "Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk." "And what's your impression, now you've seen her?"
He shut his note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on Granice's furrowed face. "Look here, Mr. Granice you see the weak spot, don't 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?"
For three hours he had explained, elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail but without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer's 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.
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.
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 broker's 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.
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