“Well, I don’t know that we need lock you up just yet.  But of course I’m bound to look into your statement—­”

Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief.  Surely Allonby wouldn’t have said that if he hadn’t believed him!

“That’s all right.  Then I needn’t detain you.  I can be found at any time at my apartment.”  He gave the address.

The District Attorney smiled again, more openly.  “What do you say to leaving it for an hour or two this evening?  I’m giving a little supper at Rector’s—­quiet, little affair, you understand:  just Miss Melrose—­I think you know her—­and a friend or two; and if you’ll join us...”

Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made.

He waited for four days—­four days of concentrated horror.  During the first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham’s alienist dogged him; and as that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal had made no impression on the District Attorney.  Evidently, if he had been going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before now. ...  And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how little the story had impressed him!

Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate himself.  He was chained to life—­a “prisoner of consciousness.”  Where was it he had read the phrase?  Well, he was learning what it meant.  In the glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable selfness, keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever known.  He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark wind-ings.  Often he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—­and as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance.

Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window at the awakening activities of the street—­at the street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light.  Oh, to be one of them—­any of them—­to take his chance in any of their skins!  They were the toilers—­the men whose lot was pitied—­the victims wept over and ranted about by altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own!  But, no—­the iron circle of consciousness held them too:  each one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego.  Why wish to be any one man rather than another?  The only absolute good was not to be ...  And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that morning?