Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another day--displaced his fleeting vision. “I haven’t a theory. I _know_ who murdered Joseph Lenman.” Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. “You _know?_ Well, who did?” he laughed. “I did,” said Granice, rising. He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he broke into another laugh. “Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all about it! Confession is good for the soul.” Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.” The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham did not laugh. “Granice!” “I murdered him--to get his money, as you say.” There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension. “What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.” “It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated the words he found they were easier to say. Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?” “I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want it known that I murdered him.” “_You want it known?_” “Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in his throat had been untied. “Good Lord--good Lord,” the lawyer gasped. “But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be murder in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?” Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice. Let’s talk.” II GRANICE told his story simply, connectedly.