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Updated: May 21, 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!
Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist's companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred windows. "So that was Granice?" "Yes that was Granice, poor devil," said McCarren. "Strange case! I suppose there's never been one just like it? He's still absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?" "Absolutely. Yes." The stranger reflected.
"See that fellow over there the little dried-up man in the third row, pulling his moustache? HIS memoirs would be worth publishing," McCarren said suddenly in the last entr'acte. Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby's office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being shadowed. "Caesar, if HE could talk !" McCarren continued.
"And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow like that where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever get the least clue to it?" McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze on his companion.
The District Attorney's large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. "Sorry, my dear fellow lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some morning," Allonby said, shaking hands. McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the alibi.
"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?
"Perhaps your friend he is your friend? would glance over it or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?" Granice's voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry we can't stay and talk it over now, Mr.
And though a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been heard from the District Attorney's office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasn't going to drop it not he! He positively hung on Granice's footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off again, running down clues.
"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.
"That was the queer part of it. I've never spoken of it but I did get a clue." "By Jove! That's interesting. What was it?" McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. "Why that it wasn't a delusion." He produced his effect the other turned on him with a pallid stare. "He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest accident, when I'd pretty nearly chucked the whole job."
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