"No," she said, "I only thought you'd got a bee in your bonnet." She smiled demurely. "Well, I hadn't, had I?" "Seeing the money you've made, I should just say you hadn't," she handsomely admitted. "Where we should be without it I don't know." "You were wrong, weren't you? And I was right?" "Of course," she beamed. "And do you remember that time I told you I was really Priam Farll?" She nodded, reluctantly. "You thought I was absolutely mad. Oh, you needn't deny it! I could see well enough what your thoughts were." "I thought you weren't quite well," she said frankly. "But I was, my child. Now I've got to tell you again that I am Priam Farll. Honestly I wish I wasn't, but I am. The deuce of it is that that fellow that came here this morning has found it out, and there's going to be trouble. At least there has been trouble, and there may be more." She was impressed. She knew not what to say. "But, Priam----" "He's paid me five hundred to-day for that picture I've just finished." "Five hund----" Priam snatched the notes from his pocket, and with a gesture pardonably dramatic he bade her count them. "Count them," he repeated, when she hesitated. "Is it right?" he asked when she had finished. "Oh, it's right enough," she agreed. "But, Priam, I don't like having all this money in the house. You ought to have called and put it in the bank." "Dash the bank!" he exclaimed. "Just keep on listening to me, and try to persuade yourself I'm not mad. I admit I'm a bit shy, and it was all on account of that that I let that d--d valet of mine be buried as me." "You needn't tell me you're shy," she smiled. "All Putney knows you're shy." "I'm not so sure about that!" He tossed his head. Then he began at the beginning and recounted to her in detail the historic night and morning at Selwood Terrace, with a psychological description of his feelings. He convinced her, in less than ten minutes, with the powerful aid of five hundred pounds in banknotes, that he in truth was Priam Farll. And he waited for her to express an exceeding astonishment and satisfaction. "Well, of course if you are, you are," she observed simply, regarding him with benevolent, possessive glances across the table. The fact was that she did not deal in names, she dealt in realities. He was her reality, and so long as he did not change visibly or actually--so long as he remained he--she did not much mind who he was. She added, "But I really don't know what you were _dreaming_ of, Henry, to do such a thing!" "Neither do I," he muttered. Then he disclosed to her the whole chicanery of Mr. Oxford. "It's a good thing you've ordered those new clothes," she said. "Why?" "Because of the trial." "The trial between Oxford and Witt. What's that got to do with me?" "They'll make you give evidence." "But I shan't give evidence. I've told Oxford I'll have nothing to do with it at all."