On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! his
master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind an
unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray.

Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil,
"From the District Attorney's office." He started up with a thumping
heart, and signed an assent to the servant.

Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty--the
kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd.
"Just the type of the successful detective," Granice reflected as he
shook hands with his visitor.

And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced
himself. He had been sent by the District Attorney to have "a quiet
talk" with Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement he had
made about the Lenman murder.

His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice's
self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a man who knew
his business--it would be easy enough to make _him_ see through that
ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting
one himself--to prove his coolness--began again to tell his story.

He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever
before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener's detached,
impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at
least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense
of being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this