The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little
room was gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and
through them the editor's face came and went like the moon
through a moving sky. Once the hour struck--then the rhythmical
ticking began again. The atmosphere grew denser and heavier, and
beads of perspiration began to roll from Granice's forehead.

"Do you mind if I open the window?"

"No. It IS stuffy in here. Wait--I'll do it myself." Denver
pushed down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. "Well--go
on," he said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated
Granice.

"There's no use in my going on if you don't believe me."

The editor remained unmoved. "Who says I don't believe you? And
how can I tell till you've finished?"

Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. "It was simple enough,
as you'll see. From the day the old man said to me, 'Those
Italians would murder you for a quarter,' I dropped everything
and just worked at my scheme. It struck me at once that I must
find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back in a night--and that
led to the idea of a motor. A motor--that never occurred to you?
You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, I had a
thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I
wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I
tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and
I bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in