some six weeks earlier, at the Century Club. "Yes--my play's as
good as taken. I shall be calling on you soon to go over the
contract. Those theatrical chaps are so slippery--I won't trust
anybody but you to tie the knot for me!" That, of course, was
what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice, at the idea,
broke into an audible laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like the cackle
of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the
unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his
lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next?

He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the
writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript,
bound in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a
letter had been slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small
revolver. Granice stared a moment at these oddly associated
objects; then he took the letter from under the string and slowly
began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment
his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that
letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it.

It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "The
Diversity Theatre."


"MY DEAR MR. GRANICE:

"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last
month, and it's no use--the play won't do. I have talked it over
with Miss Melrose--and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our
stage--and I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it.