Tales of Men and Ghosts | Page 4

GRANICE, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library,
paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece.
Three minutes to eight.
In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of
Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of
the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual--the
suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the
door-bell would be the beginning of the end--after that there'd be no
going back, by God--no going back!
Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room
opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror
above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon--saw
himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but
furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a
spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted
him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out.
As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door
opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was
only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy
surface of the old Turkey rug.
"Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained and
can't be here till eight-thirty."
Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and
harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing
to the servant over his shoulder: "Very good. Put off dinner."
Down his spine he felt the man's injured stare. Mr. Granice had always

been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change in his
manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very
likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the
writing-table till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into
a chair, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his
locked hands.
Another half hour alone with it!
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 revolver. Granice stared a
moment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from
under the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should
do so from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye
fell on that letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it.
It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "The

Diversity Theatre." "MY DEAR MR. GRANICE:
"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and
it's no use--the play won't do. I have talked it over with Miss
Melrose--and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our stage--and I
regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn't the poetry that
scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can to help along
the poetic drama--we believe the public's ready for it, and we're willing
to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give them what they
want. _But we don't believe they could