“Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

And that would lead by natural stages to a complete revealing of the fix in which he was.  In five minutes he would have confided to her the principal details, and she would have understood, and then he could describe his agonizing and humiliating half-hour in the Abbey, and she would pour her magic oil on that dreadful abrasion of his sensitiveness.  And he would be healed of his hurts, and they would settle between them what he ought to do.

He regarded her as his refuge, as fate’s generous compensation to him for the loss of Henry Leek (whose remains now rested in the National Valhalla).

Only, it would be necessary to begin the explanation, so that one thing might by natural stages lead to another.  On reflection, it appeared rather abrupt to say: 

“Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

The sum was too absurdly high (though correct).  The mischief was that, unless the sum did strike her as absurdly high, it could not possibly lead by a natural stage to the remainder of the explanation.

He must contrive another path.  For instance—­

“There’s been a mistake about the so-called death of Priam Farll.”

“A mistake!” she would exclaim, all ears and eyes.

Then he would say—­

“Yes.  Priam Farll isn’t really dead.  It’s his valet that’s dead.”

Whereupon she would burst out—­

“But you were his valet!”

Whereupon he would simply shake his head, and she would steam forwards—­

“Then who are you?”

Whereupon he would say, as calmly as he could—­

“I’m Priam Farll.  I’ll tell you precisely how it all happened.”

Thus the talk might happen.  Thus it would happen, immediately he began.  But, as at the Dean’s door in Dean’s Yard, so now, he could not begin.  He could not utter the necessary words aloud.  Spoken aloud, they would sound ridiculous, incredible, insane—­and not even Mrs. Challice could reasonably be expected to grasp their import, much less believe them.

“There’s been a mistake about the so-called death of Priam Farll.”

“Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

No, he could enunciate neither the one sentence nor the other.  There are some truths so bizarre that they make you feel self-conscious and guilty before you have begun to state them; you state them apologetically; you blush; you stammer; you have all the air of one who does not expect belief; you look a fool; you feel a fool; and you bring disaster on yourself.

He perceived with the most painful clearness that he could never, never impart to her the terrific secret, the awful truth.  Great as she was, the truth was greater, and she would never be able to swallow it.

“What time is it?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, you mustn’t think about time,” he said, with hasty concern.