“It was a cloudy night, too—­everything served me.  I dined quietly, and sat down at my desk.  Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to bed early.  As soon as she was gone I slipped out.  I had got together a sort of disguise—­red beard and queer-looking ulster.  I shoved them into a bag, and went round to the garage.  There was no one there but a half-drunken machinist whom I’d never seen before.  That served me, too.  They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn’t even bother to ask if the car belonged to me.  It was a very easy-going place...

“Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was out of Harlem.  Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp pace.  In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard and ulster.  Then away again—­it was just eleven-thirty when I got to Wrenfield.

“I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped through the kitchen-garden.  The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—­I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know. ...  By the stable a dog came out growling—­but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went back...  The house was as dark as the grave.  I knew everybody went to bed by ten.  But there might be a prowling servant—­the kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian.  I had to risk that, of course.  I crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery.  Then I listened.  It was all as silent as death.  I crossed over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in.  I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—­and there was the little French melon ... only one.

“I stopped to listen—­I was quite cool.  Then I pulled out my bottle of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic.  It was all done inside of three minutes—­at ten minutes to twelve I was back in the car.  I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was beyond the last houses.  I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the beard and ulster into a pond.  I had a big stone ready to weight them with and they went down plump, like a dead body—­and at two o’clock I was back at my desk.”

Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable.

At length he said:  “Why did you want to tell me this?”

The question startled Granice.  He was about to explain, as he had explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight with Denver.  Both were successful men, and success does not understand the subtle agony of failure.  Granice cast about for another reason.

“Why, I—­the thing haunts me ... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...”