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