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Updated: June 29, 2025
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 broker's office.
I don't suppose there's a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can't picture the deadly horrors of remorse " The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the word.
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 man's condition.
Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, after all, Granice's note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been perpetually tinkering with his will. Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow temples.
"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 I've 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.
Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation. The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit seen between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista Granice cut a correct enough figure.
"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? It's rather urgent ... yes, might give you some first-rate 'copy. ... All right!" He hung up the receiver with a laugh.
Denver shook his head. "I might think so if I hadn't happened to know that you wanted to. There's the hitch, don't you see?" Granice groaned. "No, I didn't. 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 doesn't do much credit to your ingenuity."
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 you'll write a successful play yet. The way you've worked this all out is a marvel." Granice swung about furiously that last sneer about the play inflamed him.
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."
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