cigar you've given me."

"You like it? I get them over from Cuba." Granice examined his own
reflectively. "Then you believe in the theory that the clever
criminals never _are_ caught?"

"Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen
years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved." The lawyer
ruminated behind his blue cloud. "Why, take the instance in your own
family: I'd forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph
Lenman's murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?"

As the words dropped from Ascham's lips his host looked slowly about
the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale
unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It
was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his
throat slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: "I
could explain the Lenman murder myself."

Ascham's eye kindled: he shared Granice's interest in criminal
cases.

"By Jove! You've had a theory all this time? It's odd you never
mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in
the Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may
be a help."

Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table
drawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side.
What if he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he