Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room
opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror
above the fine old walnut _credence_ he had picked up at Dijon--saw
himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but
furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by
a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass
confronted him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out.

As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door
opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But
it was only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the
mossy surface of the old Turkey rug.

"Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained and
can't be here till eight-thirty."

Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and
harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel,
tossing to the servant over his shoulder: "Very good. Put off
dinner."

Down his spine he felt the man's injured stare. Mr. Granice had
always been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change in
his manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And
very likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the
writing-table till he heard the servant go out; then he threw
himself into a chair, propping his elbows on the table and resting
his chin on his locked hands.

Another half hour alone with it!