Tales of Men and Ghosts | Page 6

was beginning to feel
the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any
recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into
himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures
than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him.
"My dear fellow, it's sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially the
production of an artist like yours." Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy
luxuriously. "But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me."
Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a
moment he was shaken out of his self-absorption.
"_Mrs. Ashgrove?_"
Ascham smiled. "I thought you'd be interested; I know your passion for
causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it's out of our
line entirely--we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to consult
me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife's. And,
by Jove, it is a queer case!" The servant re-entered, and Ascham
snapped his lips shut.
Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room?
"No--serve it in the library," said Granice, rising. He led the way back
to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what
Ascham had to tell him.
While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the
library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes and
bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline
caught his eye.
"ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.
"THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET."
He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author
he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poetic drama," dance
before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true,
then--she was "game"--it was not the manner but the matter she
mistrusted!
Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. "I
shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up myself."
He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was going

on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of
the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see.
Granice suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage.
As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned
forward to take a light from Ascham's cigar.
"Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove," he said, seeming to himself to speak
stiffly, as if his lips were cracked.
"Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there's not much to tell."
"And you couldn't if there were?" Granice smiled.
"Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her
choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our
talk."
"And what's your impression, now you've seen her?"
"My impression is, very distinctly, _that nothing will ever be known._"
"Ah--?" Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar.
"I'm more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew
his business, and will consequently never be found out. That's a capital
cigar you've given me."
"You like it? I get them over from Cuba." Granice examined his own
reflectively. "Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals
never are caught?"
"Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen
years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved." The lawyer
ruminated behind his blue cloud. "Why, take the instance in your own
family: I'd forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph
Lenman's murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?"
As the words dropped from Ascham's lips his host looked slowly about
the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale
unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It
was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his
throat slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: "I could
explain the Lenman murder myself."
Ascham's eye kindled: he shared Granice's interest in criminal cases.
"By Jove! You've had a theory all this time? It's odd you never
mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the
Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a
help."

Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in
which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were
to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and
bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine
of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another
day--displaced his fleeting vision.
"I haven't a theory. I know who murdered Joseph Lenman."
Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for
enjoyment.