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 little 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?�
Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. �It was simple enough, as you�ll see. From the day the old man said to me, �Those Italians would murder you for a quarter,� I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for I�d done it often with the same lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning...
�Well, then came the report about the Italian�s threats, and I saw I must act at once... I meant to break into the old man�s room, shoot him, and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then we heard that he was ill—that there�d been a consultation. Perhaps the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only be!...�
Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to have cooled the room.