Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the
lawyer's, and he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking
about the familiar room. Everything in it had grown grimacing
and alien, and each strange insistent object seemed craning
forward from its place to hear him.

"It was I who put the stuff in the melon," he said. "And I don't
want you to think I'm sorry for it. This isn't 'remorse,'
understand. I'm glad the old skin-flint is dead--I'm glad the
others have their money. But mine's no use to me any more. My
sister married miserably, and died. And I've never had what I
wanted."

Ascham continued to stare; then he said: "What on earth was your
object, then?"

"Why, to GET what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I
wanted change, rest, LIFE, for both of us--wanted, above all, for
myself, the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health,
and came home to tie myself up to my work. And I've slaved at it
steadily for ten years without reward--without the most distant
hope of success! Nobody will look at my stuff. And now I'm
fifty, and I'm beaten, and I know it." His chin dropped forward
on his breast. "I want to chuck the whole business," he ended.



III