Granice’s heart grew light. “Then you _do_ believe me?” he faltered. “Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes--that’s easy enough, too. But all that doesn’t make you a murderer--though I don’t say it proves you could never have been one.” “I _have_ been one, Denver--I swear to you.” “Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.” “Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a laugh. “Well--how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your sister’s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn’t the change in your ways surprise her?” “No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town for a night or two before--before I did the job.” “And that night she went to bed early with a headache?” “Yes--blinding. She didn’t know anything when she had that kind. And her room was at the back of the flat.” Denver again meditated. “And when you got back--she didn’t hear you? You got in without her knowing it?” “Yes. I went straight to my work--took it up at the word where I’d left off--_why, Denver, don’t you remember?_” Granice suddenly, passionately interjected. “Remember--?” “Yes; how you found me--when you looked in that morning, between two and three ... your usual hour ...?” “Yes,” the editor nodded. Granice gave a short laugh. “In my old coat--with my pipe: looked as if I’d been working all night, didn’t I? Well, I hadn’t been in my chair ten minutes!” Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I didn’t know whether _you_ remembered that.” “What?” “My coming in that particular night--or morning.” Granice swung round in his chair. “Why, man alive! That’s why I’m here now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked round to see what all the old man’s heirs had been doing that night--you who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual. ... I thought _that_ would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else would!” Denver smiled. “Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough--and the idea’s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi to establish your guilt.” “That’s it--that’s it!” Granice’s laugh had a ring of triumph. “Well, but how about the other chap’s testimony--I mean that young doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don’t you remember my testifying that I’d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: ‘All right; you’ll find him in. I passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as usual.’ And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she corroborated his statement, you remember.” “Yes; I remember.” “Well, then?”