“THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.” He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then--she _was_ “game”--it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted! Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.” He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to take a light from Ascham’s cigar. “Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. “Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to _tell_.” “And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled. “Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.” “And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?” “My impression is, very distinctly, _that nothing will ever be known._” “Ah--?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. “I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital cigar you’ve given me.” “You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals never _are_ caught?” “Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer ruminated behind his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own family: I’d forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenman’s murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?” As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain the Lenman murder myself.” Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases. “By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help.”