ROYCE. We want to get everything in order first—the financial side of it as well as the other—and then make a plain straightforward statement of what has happened and what we propose to do. OLIVER. Yes, of course you can’t just write to _The Times_ and say: “Dear Sir, Blayds’ poetry was written by Jenkins, Yours faithfully.”... When will it be, do you think? ROYCE. We ought to have it ready by to-morrow. OLIVER. H’m.... Then I had better start looking for a job at once. ROYCE. Nonsense! OLIVER. It isn’t nonsense. What do you think my chief will want me for, if I’m not Blayds the poet’s grandson? ROYCE. Your intrinsic qualities. OLIVER. I’m afraid they are not intrinsic enough in the present state of the market. ROYCE. Well, you said you wanted to be a motor engineer—now’s your chance. OLIVER. Helpful fellow, Royce. Now, as he says, is my chance. (_There is a pause and then he says suddenly_) I say, what do _you_ think about it all? ROYCE. What do you mean, think about it all? What is there to think? One tries not to think. It’s—shattering. OLIVER. No, I don’t mean that. I mean—do you really think he did it? ROYCE. Did what? OLIVER. Did _it_. Did Jenkins. ROYCE. I don’t understand. Is there any doubt about it? OLIVER. Well, that’s just it.... The fact is, I had a brain-wave at Bradford. ROYCE. Oh? OLIVER. Yes. Quite suddenly it flashed across me, and I said, “By Jove! Of course! That’s it!” ROYCE. What’s what? OLIVER. He never did it! He just imagined it! It was all—what was the word I used? ROYCE. Hallucination? OLIVER. Hallucination. (_He nods_) That’s the word. I wrote to Father last night. I said, “Hallucination.” You can back it both ways, Royce, and you won’t be far out. ROYCE. Yes, I can see how attractive the word must have looked—up at Bradford. OLIVER. You don’t think it looks so well down here? ROYCE. I’m afraid not. OLIVER. Well, why not? Which is more probable, that Oliver Blayds carried out this colossal fraud for more than sixty years, or that when he was an old man of ninety his brain wobbled a bit, and he started imagining things? ROYCE (_shaking his head regretfully_). No. OLIVER. It’s all very well to say “No.” Anybody can say “No.” As the Old Man said yesterday, you refuse to face the facts, Royce. Look at all the Will cases you see in the papers. Whenever an old gentleman over seventy leaves his money to anybody but his loving nephews and nieces, they always bring an action to prove that he can’t have been quite right in the head when he died; and nine times out of ten they win. Well, Blayds was ninety. ROYCE. Yes, but I thought he left you a thousand pounds.