“I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark--I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know. ... By the stable a dog came out growling--but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed by ten. But there might be a prowling servant--the kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it--and there was the little French melon... only one. “I stopped to listen--I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. It was all done inside of three minutes--at ten minutes to twelve I was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with and they went down plump, like a dead body--and at two o’clock I was back at my desk.” Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable. At length he said: “Why did you want to tell me this?” The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. “Why, I--the thing haunts me ... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...” Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. “Remorse? Bosh!” he said energetically. Granice’s heart sank. “You don’t believe in--_remorse?_” “Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put through such a job.” Granice groaned. “Well--I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt any.” Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What was your motive, then? You must have had one.” “I’ll tell you--” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me this time ... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously as he ended. Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer things. There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life--the wonder is that we find so many for staying in!”