At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced--but that, as Granice now perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: “By Jove, Granice you’ll write a successful play yet. The way you’ve worked this all out is a marvel.” Granice swung about furiously--that last sneer about the play inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? “I did it, I did it,” he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself against the impenetrable surface of the other’s mockery; and Ascham answered with a smile: “Ever read any of those books on hallucination? I’ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two if you like...” Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He understood that Ascham thought him off his head. “Good God--what if they all think me crazy?” The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat--he sat there and shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would believe him. “That’s the trouble--Ascham’s not a criminal lawyer. And then he’s a friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, he’d never let me see it--his instinct would be to cover the whole thing up... But in that case--if he _did_ believe me--he might think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...” Granice began to tremble again. “Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert--one of those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do 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.”