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Updated: June 29, 2025
Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. "That's it the memory of it ... always ..." McCarren nodded vehemently. "Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn't let you sleep? The time came when you had to make a clean breast of it?" "I had to. Can't you understand?" The reporter struck his fist on the table. "God, sir!
It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual the suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the door-bell would be the beginning of the end after that there'd be no going back, by God no going back! Granice resumed his pacing.
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.
Even if he did believe me, he'd 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.
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.
"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.
He sprang up and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a startled deprecating, "Why ?" "You didn't know me? I'm so changed?" Granice faltered, feeling the rebound of the other's wonder. "Why, no; but you're looking quieter smoothed out," McCarren smiled. "Yes: that's what I'm here for to rest.
Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years watched his rise through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the Investigator's 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.
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 don't know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I'm bound to look into your statement " Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief.
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.
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