�Well, then?�
�Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I counted on that, and knew you�d take any vague outline as mine.�
�Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if you�d fallen asleep.�
�Yes; and she was right. It did move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray must have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something gave my mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the table.�
There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow for the incalculableness of human impulses.
�Well?� Granice faltered out.
Denver stood up with a shrug. �Look here, man—what�s wrong with you? Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I�d like to take you to see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—who�s a wonder at pulling fellows in your state out of their hole—�
�Oh, oh—� Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed each other. �You don�t believe me, then?�
�This yarn—how can I? There wasn�t a flaw in your alibi.�
�But haven�t I filled it full of them now?�