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?"