"But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer
eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I
do?"

He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if
Ascham should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and
come back with him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden
gesture brushed the morning paper from the table. Mechanically
he stooped to pick it up, and the movement started a new train of
association.

He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack
by his chair.

"Give me three-o-ten . . . yes."

The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He
would act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead,
committing himself to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he
could pull himself through the meaningless days. Each time he
reached a fresh decision it was like coming out of a foggy
weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the
queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced
by these momentary lulls.

"That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver,
please. . . Hallo, Denver. . . Yes, Hubert Granice. . . . Just
caught you? Going straight home? Can I come and see you . . .
yes, now . . . have a talk? It's rather urgent . . . yes, might
give you some first-rate 'copy.' . . . All right!" He hung up