“Perhaps your friend--he _is_ your friend?--would glance over it--or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?” Granice’s voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry we can’t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend has an engagement, and we’re rather pressed--” Granice continued to proffer the paper. “I’m sorry--I think I could have explained. But you’ll take this, at any rate?” The stranger looked at him gently. “Certainly--I’ll take it.” He had his hand out. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” Granice echoed. He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement. Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist’s companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred windows. “So that was Granice?” “Yes--that was Granice, poor devil,” said McCarren. “Strange case! I suppose there’s never been one just like it? He’s still absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?” “Absolutely. Yes.” The stranger reflected. “And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever get the least clue to it?” McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze on his companion. “That was the queer part of it. I’ve never spoken of it--but I _did_ get a clue.” “By Jove! That’s interesting. What was it?” McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. “Why--that it wasn’t a delusion.” He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare. “He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest accident, when I’d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.” “He murdered him--murdered his cousin?” “Sure as you live. Only don’t split on me. It’s about the queerest business I ever ran into... _Do about it?_ Why, what was I to do? I couldn’t hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!” The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice’s statement in his hand. “Here--take this; it makes me sick,” he said abruptly, thrusting the paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the gates. HIS FATHER’S SON I AFTER his wife’s death Mason Grew took the momentous step of selling out his business and moving from Wingfield, Connecticut, to Brooklyn.