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 the receiver
with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call up the editor of
the _Investigator_--Robert Denver was the very man he needed...

Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the