He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some
professional matter, no doubt--the punctilious lawyer would have
allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more
especially since Granice, in his note, had said: "I shall want a
little business chat afterward."

But what professional matter could have come up at that
unprofessional hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on
the lawyer; and, after all, Granice's note had given no hint of his
own need! No doubt Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another
change in his will. Since he had come into his little property, ten
years earlier, Granice had been perpetually tinkering with his will.

Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his
sallow temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer
some six weeks earlier, at the Century Club. "Yes--my play's as good
as taken. I shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract.
Those theatrical chaps are so slippery--I won't trust anybody but
you to tie the knot for me!" That, of course, was what Ascham would
think he was wanted for. Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible
laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in
a melodrama. The absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed
him, and he compressed his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy
next?

He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the
writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript,
bound in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a
letter had been slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small