"I shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up myself."

He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was going
on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of
the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming 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