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Updated: May 21, 2025
"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."
His old father was dead, too, the house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. "And there's the third door slammed in our faces."
A cold shiver ran down Granice's spine, but he repeated obstinately: "That's not Dr. Stell." "Not Stell? Why, man, I know him. Look here he comes. If it isn't Stell, he won't speak to me." The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. "How'do, Doctor Stell?
"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.
His old father was dead, too, the house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. "And there's the third door slammed in our faces."
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.
Gates wants to double his bet on Jackstone, make it $80,000!" shrieked another. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" begged the "trusted cashier," "not quite so fast, if you please. One at a time." "Sixty thousand on Hesper for a place!" bawled one addressed as "Mr. Keene," while Messrs. "Ryan," "Whitney," "Belmont," "Sullivan," "McCarren," and "Murphy" all made handsome wagers.
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.
A cold shiver ran down Granice's spine, but he repeated obstinately: "That's not Dr. Stell." "Not Stell? Why, man, I KNOW him. Look here he comes. If it isn't Stell, he won't speak to me." The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. "How'do, Doctor Stell?
McCarren had fastened on the case at once, "like a leech," as he phrased it jumped at it, thrilled to it, and settled down to "draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go till he had." No one else had treated Granice in that way even Allonby's detective had not taken a single note.
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