That point lost its sting—­the lie dropped into the background and left comfort behind it.  The next point came to the front:  had he rendered that service?  Well, here was Goodson’s own evidence as reported in Stephenson’s letter; there could be no better evidence than that—­it was even proof that he had rendered it.  Of course.  So that point was settled. . .  No, not quite.  He recalled with a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was Richards or some other—­and, oh dear, he had put Richards on his honour!  He must himself decide whither that money must go—­and Mr. Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the wrong man he would go honourably and find the right one.  Oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation—­ah, why couldn’t Stephenson have left out that doubt?  What did he want to intrude that for?

Further reflection.  How did it happen that Richards’s name remained in Stephenson’s mind as indicating the right man, and not some other man’s name?  That looked good.  Yes, that looked very good.  In fact it went on looking better and better, straight along—­until by-and-by it grew into positive proof.  And then Richards put the matter at once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof once established is better left so.

He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice:  of course he had done that service—­that was settled; but what was that service?  He must recall it—­he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind perfect.  And so he thought and thought.  He thought of a dozen things—­possible services, even probable services—­but none of them seemed adequate, none of them seemed large enough, none of them seemed worth the money—­worth the fortune Goodson had wished he could leave in his will.  And besides, he couldn’t remember having done them, anyway.  Now, then—­now, then—­what kind of a service would it be that would make a man so inordinately grateful?  Ah—­the saving of his soul!  That must be it.  Yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task of converting Goodson, and laboured at it as much as—­he was going to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing.  Yes, he remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson had told him to go to thunder and mind his own business—­he wasn’t hankering to follow Hadleyburg to heaven!

So that solution was a failure—­he hadn’t saved Goodson’s soul.  Richards was discouraged.  Then after a little came another idea:  had he saved Goodson’s property?  No, that wouldn’t do—­he hadn’t any.  His life?  That is it!  Of course.  Why, he might have thought of it before.  This time he was on the right track, sure.  His imagination-mill was hard at work in a minute, now.