BROADBENT [instantly recovering his confidence]. Ah! it was only your delightful Irish humor, Mr Keegan. Of course, of course. How stupid of me! I'm so sorry. [He pats Keegan consolingly on the back]. John Bull's wits are still slow, you see. Besides, calling me a hypocrite was too big a joke to swallow all at once, you know. KEEGAN. You must also allow for the fact that I am mad. NORA. Ah, don't talk like that, Mr Keegan. BROADBENT [encouragingly]. Not at all, not at all. Only a whimsical Irishman, eh? LARRY. Are you really mad, Mr Keegan? AUNT JUDY [shocked]. Oh, Larry, how could you ask him such a thing? LARRY. I don't think Mr Keegan minds. [To Keegan] What's the true version of the story of that black man you confessed on his deathbed? KEEGAN. What story have you heard about that? LARRY. I am informed that when the devil came for the black heathen, he took off your head and turned it three times round before putting it on again; and that your head's been turned ever since. NORA [reproachfully]. Larry! KEEGAN [blandly]. That is not quite what occurred. [He collects himself for a serious utterance: they attend involuntarily]. I heard that a black man was dying, and that the people were afraid to go near him. When I went to the place I found an elderly Hindoo, who told me one of those tales of unmerited misfortune, of cruel ill luck, of relentless persecution by destiny, which sometimes wither the commonplaces of consolation on the lips of a priest. But this man did not complain of his misfortunes. They were brought upon him, he said, by sins committed in a former existence. Then, without a word of comfort from me, he died with a clear-eyed resignation that my most earnest exhortations have rarely produced in a Christian, and left me sitting there by his bedside with the mystery of this world suddenly revealed to me. BROADBENT. That is a remarkable tribute to the liberty of conscience enjoyed by the subjects of our Indian Empire. LARRY. No doubt; but may we venture to ask what is the mystery of this world?