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Updated: May 21, 2025
"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?
Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren's attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on his own problem.
"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.
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.
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.
I met him the other day crossin' the Brooklyn Bridge, carryin' a hobbyhorse under one arm, and a doll's carriage under the other, and lookin' perfectly happy. McCarren and his men are the same way. They can't get it into their heads that they are New Yorkers, and just tend naturally toward supportin' Hill and his hay-seeds against Murphy. I had some hopes of McCarren till lately.
"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 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!
"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.
If there were moments when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite sense of security.
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