“My real name is Priam Farll,” he said gruffly.  The gruffness was caused by timidity.

“I thought Priam Farll was your gentleman’s name.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said nervously, “there was a mistake.  That photograph that was sent to you was my photograph.”

“Yes,” she said.  “I know it was.  And what of it?”

“I mean,” he blundered on, “it was my valet that died—­not me.  You see, the doctor, when he came, thought that Leek was me, and I didn’t tell him differently, because I was afraid of all the bother.  I just let it slide—­and there were other reasons.  You know how I am....”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Can’t you understand?  It’s simple enough.  I’m Priam Farll, and I had a valet named Henry Leek, and he died, and they thought it was me.  Only it wasn’t.”

He saw her face change and then compose itself.

“Then it’s this Henry Leek that is buried in Westminster Abbey, instead of you?” Her voice was very soft and soothing.  And the astonishing woman resumed her spectacles and her long needle.

“Yes, of course.”

Here he burst into the whole story, into the middle of it, continuing to the end, and then going back to the commencement.  He left out nothing, and nobody, except Lady Sophia Entwistle.

“I see,” she observed.  “And you’ve never said a word?”

“Not a word.”

“If I were you I should still keep perfectly silent about it,” she almost whispered persuasively.  “It’ll be just as well.  If I were you, I shouldn’t worry myself.  I can quite understand how it happened, and I’m glad you’ve told me.  But don’t worry.  You’ve been exciting yourself these last two or three days.  I thought it was about my money business, but I see it wasn’t.  At least that may have brought it on, like.  Now the best thing you can do is to forget it.”

She did not believe him!  She simply discredited the whole story; and, told in Werter Road, like that, the story did sound fantastic; it did come very near to passing belief.  She had always noticed a certain queerness in her husband.  His sudden gaieties about a tint in the sky or the gesture of a horse in the street, for example, were most uncanny.  And he had peculiar absences of mind that she could never account for.  She was sure that he must have been a very bad valet.  However, she did not marry him for a valet, but for a husband; and she was satisfied with her bargain.  What if he did suffer under a delusion?  The exposure of that delusion merely crystallized into a definite shape her vague suspicions concerning his mentality.  Besides, it was a harmless delusion.  And it explained things.  It explained, among other things, why he had gone to stay at the Grand Babylon Hotel.  That must have been the inception of the delusion.  She was glad to know the worst.

She adored him more than ever.

There was a silence.