o anything--their word always
goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I'd better be shut up, I'll be in a
strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he'd do it from the kindest motives--be
quite right to do it if he thinks I'm a murderer!"

The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting
temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had
not believed his story.

"But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer eye he
cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I do?"

He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham
should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with
him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the
morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and
the movement started a new train of association.

He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his
chair.

"Give me three-o-ten... yes."

The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would
act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself
to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through
the meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like
coming out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One
of the queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced
by these momentary lulls.

"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. It had been a happy thought to call
up the editor of the Investigator--Robert Denver was the very man he
needed...

Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the automatic
gestures persisted!--went into the hall, put on his hat and overcoat,
and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator boy
blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice
passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a
crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare
stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs.
But from Denver's house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as
Granice sprang from his cab the