the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off
his own! But, no--the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each
one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man
rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be... And Flint,
coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled
or poached that morning?

On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the
succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He
hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a
moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative:
a policeman, a "secret agent," or some other mysterious emissary of the
law?

On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! his
master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind an unread
newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray.

Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil, "From
the District Attorney's office." He started up with a thumping heart,
and signed an assent to the servant.

Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty--the kind
of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. "Just the
type of the successful detective," Granice reflected as he shook hands
with his visitor.

And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself.
He had been sent by the District Attorney to have "a quiet talk" with
Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the
Lenman murder.

His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice's
self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a man who knew
his business--it would be easy enough to make HIM see through that
ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one
himself--to prove his coolness--began again to tell his story.

He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever
before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener's detached,
impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at
least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of
being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time
his words would certainly carry conviction...

V

Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him
stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too
smoothly-shaven fa