It wasn’t a pleasant sight. I identified Charity by the remnant of her watch-garter which was still hanging to what had been her leg. Then, saying nothing to anyone, I went away. Otherwise she was never identified. And then, for some reason or other, I became a clergyman. I don’t really know why. In fact I think I’ve become that individual who told me about that third coach. * * * * * Here the delicate little script came to an end, and a moment later Lanton came back. “Finished?” he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “A very rascally and curious tale,” I replied. “But the most curious part of it is,” said Lanton, “that there’s not a word of truth in it.” “What!” “The Reverend Wellington Scot was a mild, timid, East End curate. Going down for a holiday to Folkestone he was in the Pantham disaster, and hurled from the third coach on to his head. He was unconscious for ten days, and when he came to he had to come here. He spends every moment writing that story in notebooks. He completes it twice a week. We read it carefully to see if his narrative ever changes, but it is always almost word for word the same. He is very docile and easy to manage so long as he is allowed to write. For an experiment we took his writing materials away, whereupon he delivered himself of the most appalling filth and blasphemy I have ever heard. He never speaks unless he is spoken to. When he first came in his face was round, chubby, and ingenuous in expression; it has slowly lengthened, hardened, and its expression has become cunning, watchful and malevolent. That is the story of the Reverend Wellington Scot.” “And the explanation?” I asked. Lanton shrugged his shoulders.