The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall.

“Disturb me?  Not a bit.  You might have, at ten to-morrow morning ... but this is my liveliest hour ... you know my habits of old.”

Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—­watched his rise through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the Investigator’s editorial office.  In the thick-set man with grizzling hair there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his way home in the small hours, used to “bob in” on Granice, while the latter sat grinding at his plays.  Denver had to pass Granice’s flat on the way to his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and Granice’s shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss the universe.

“Well—­this is like old times—­a good old habit reversed.”  The editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder.  “Reminds me of the nights when I used to rout you out...  How’s the play, by the way?  There is a play, I suppose?  It’s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men:  ‘How’s the baby?’”

Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he had grown.  It was evident, even to Granice’s tortured nerves, that the words had not been uttered in malice—­and the fact gave him a new measure of his insignificance.  Denver did not even know that he had been a failure!  The fact hurt more than Ascham’s irony.

“Come in—­come in.”  The editor led the way into a small cheerful room, where there were cigars and decanters.  He pushed an arm-chair toward his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan.

“Now, then—­help yourself.  And let’s hear all about it.”

He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his cigar, said to himself:  “Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them stupid.”

Then he turned, and began:  “Denver, I want to tell you—­”

The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece.  The room was gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the editor’s face came and went like the moon through a moving sky.  Once the hour struck—­then the rhythmical ticking began again.  The atmosphere grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from Granice’s forehead.

“Do you mind if I open the window?”

“No.  It is stuffy in here.  Wait—­I’ll do it myself.”  Denver pushed down the upper sash, and returned to his chair.  “Well—­go on,” he said, filling another pipe.  His composure exasperated Granice.

“There’s no use in my going on if you don’t believe me.”

The editor remained unmoved.  “Who says I don’t believe you?  And how can I tell till you’ve finished?”