Denver pushed
down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. "Well--go on," he said,
filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice.

"There's no use in my going on if you don't believe me."

The editor remained unmoved. "Who says I don't believe you? And how can
I tell till you've finished?"

Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. "It was simple enough, as
you'll see. From the day the old man said to me, 'Those Italians would
murder you for a quarter,' I dropped everything and just worked at
my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to
Wrenfield and back in a night--and that led to the idea of a motor. A
motor--that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I
suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I
found what I wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car,
and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I
bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those
no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for
family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I
looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a
baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and
back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for I'd done it often with
the same lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is
over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But
my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning...

"Well, then came the report about the Italian's threats, and I saw I
must act at once... I meant to break into the old man's room, shoot him,
and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it.
Then we heard that he was ill--that there'd been a consultation. Perhaps
the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only
be!..."

Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to
have cooled the room.

"Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up
from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try
a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her--all Wrenfield
was in a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of
the little French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato--and
the patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning.

"In