chimney-piece.

Three minutes to eight.

In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal
firm of Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the
door-bell of the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham
was so punctual--the suspense was beginning to make his host
nervous. And the sound of the door-bell would be the beginning
of the end--after that there'd be no going back, by God--no going
back!

Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the
room opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine
mirror above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at
Dijon--saw himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and
dressed, but furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which
he corrected by a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders
whenever a glass confronted him: a tired middle-aged man,
baffled, beaten, worn out.

As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the
door opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his
guest. But it was only the man-servant who entered, advancing
silently over the mossy surface of the old Turkey rug.

"Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained
and can't be here till eight-thirty."

Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder