Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937 / 2008-09-08 00:00:00


"What's the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see."
"It's not a joke. It's the truth. I murdered him." He had spoken
painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each
time he repeated the words he found they were easier to say.
Ascham laid down his extinct cigar.
"What's the matter? Aren't you well? What on earth are you driving
at?"
"I'm perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I
want it known that I murdered him."
"_You want it known?_"
"Yes. That's why I sent for you. I'm sick of living, and when I try
to kill myself I funk it." He spoke quite naturally now, as if the
knot in his throat had been untied.
"Good Lord--good Lord," the lawyer gasped.
"But I suppose," Granice continued, "there's no doubt this would be
murder in the first degree? I'm sure of the chair if I own up?"
Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: "Sit down, Granice.
Let's talk."



II


GRANICE told his story simply, connectedly.
He began by a quick survey of his early years--the years of drudgery
and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say "no,"
had so signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that
when he died he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate.
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