‘I have found, Lawford,’ he said smoothly,
‘that in all real difficulties the only feasible plan is—is to face the
main issue. The others right themselves. Now, to take a plunge into
your generosity. You have let me in far enough to make it impossible
for me to get out—may I hear then exactly the whole story? All that I
know now, so far as I could gather from your wife, poor soul, is of
course inconceivable: that you went out one man and came home another. You will understand, my dear man, I am speaking, as it were, by rote. God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first the
blow, hours afterwards the bruise. Oh, dear me, that man Hume—“on
miracles”—positively amazing! So that too, please, you will be quite
clear about. Credo_—not quia impossible est_, but because you, Lawford,
have told me. Now then, if it won’t be too wearisome to you, the whole
story.’ He sat, lean and erect in his big chair, a hand resting loosely
on each knee, in one spectacles, in the other a dangling pocket
handkerchief. And the dark, sallow, aquiline, formidable figure, with
its oddly changing voice, re-told the whole story from the beginning. ‘You were aware then of nothing different, I understand, until you
actually looked into the glass?’

‘Only vaguely. I mean that after waking I felt much better, more alert. And my thoughts—’

‘Ah, yes, your thoughts?’

‘I hardly know—oh, clear as if I had had a real long rest. It was just
like being a boy again. Influenza dispirits one so.’

Mr Bethany gazed without stirring. ‘And yet, you know,’ he said, ‘I can
hardly believe, I mean conceive, how—You have been taking no drugs, no
quackery, Lawford?’

‘I never dose myself,’ said Lawford, with sombre pride. ‘God bless me, that’s Lawford to the echo,’ thought his visitor. ‘And
before—?’ he went on gently; ‘I really cannot conceive, you see, how a
mere fit could... Before you sat down you were quite alone?’ He stuck
out his head. ‘There was nobody with you?’

‘With me? Oh no,’ came the soft answer. ‘What had you been thinking of? In these days of faith-cures, and
hypnotism, and telepathy, and subliminalities—why, the simple old world
grows very confusing. But rarely, very rarely novel. You were thinking,
you say; do you remember, perhaps, just the drift?’

‘Well,’ began Lawford ruminatingly, ‘there was something curious even
then, perhaps. I remember, for instance, I knelt down to read an old
tombstone. There was a little seat—no back. And an epitaph. The sun was
just setting; some French name. And there was a long jagged crack in
the stone, like the black line you know one sees after lightning, I
mean it’s as clear as that even now, in memory. Oh yes, I remember. And
then, I suppose, came the sleep—stupid, sluggish: and then; well, here
I am.’

‘You are absolutely certain, then,’ persisted Mr Bethany almost
querulously, ‘there was no living creature near you? Bless me, Lawford,
I see no unkindness in believing what the Bible itself relates. There
_are_ powers supernatural. Saul, and so on. We are all convinced of
that. No one?’

‘I remember distinctly,’ replied Lawford, in a calm, stubborn voice, ‘I
looked up all around me, while I was kneeling there, and there wasn’t a
soul to be seen. Because, you see, it even then occurred to me that it
would have looked rather queer—my wandering about like that, I mean. Facing me there were some cypress-trees, and beyond, a low sunken
fence, and then, just open country. Up above there were the gravestones
toppling down the hill, where I had just strolled down, and sunshine!’
He suddenly threw up his hand. ‘Oh, marvellous! streaming in
gold—flaming, like God’s own ante-chamber.’

There was a very pregnant pause. Mr Bethany shrunk back a little into
his chair. His lips moved; he folded his spectacles. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. And then very quietly he stole one mole-like look
into his sidesman’s face. ‘What is Dr Simon’s number?’ he said. Lawford was gazing gloomily into
the fire. ‘Oh, Annandale,’ he replied absently. ‘I don’t know the
number.’

‘Do you believe in him? Your wife mentioned him. Is he clever?’

‘Oh, he’s new,’ said Lawford; ‘old James was our doctor. He—he killed
my father.’ He laughed out shamefacedly. ‘A sound, lovable man,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘one of the kindest men I ever
knew; and a very old friend of mine.’

And suddenly the dark face turned with a shudder from the fire, and
spoke in a low trembling voice. ‘Only one thing—only one thing—my
sanity, my sanity. If once I forget, who will believe me?’ He thrust
his long lean fingers beneath his coat. ‘And mad,’ he added; ‘I would
sooner die.’

Mr Bethany deliberately adjusted his spectacles. ‘May I, may I
experiment?’ he said boldly. There came a tap on the door. ‘Bless me,’ said the vicar, taking out his watch, ‘it is a quarter to
twelve. ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Lawford,’ he trotted round to the door. ‘We are
beginning to see light—a ray!’

‘But I—_I_ can see in the dark,’ whispered Lawford, as if at a cue,
turning with an inscrutable smile to the fire. The vicar came again, wrapped up in a little tight grey great-coat, and
a white silk muffler. He looked up unflinching into Lawford’s face, and
tears stood in his eyes. ‘Patience, patience, my dear fellow,’ he
repeated gravely, squeezing his hand. ‘And rest, complete rest, is
imperative. Just till the first thing to-morrow. And till then,’ he
turned to Mrs Lawford, where she stood looking in at the doorway, ‘oh
yes, complete quiet; and caution!’

Mrs Lawford let him out. He shook his head once or twice, holding her
fingers. ‘Oh yes,’ he whispered, ‘it is your husband, not the smallest
doubt. I tried: for _myself_. But something—something has happened. Don’t fret him now. Have patience. Oh yes, it is incredible... the
change! But there, the very first thing to-morrow.’ She closed the door
gently after him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered
in. Her husband’s back was turned, but he could see her in the
looking-glass, stooping a little, with set face watching him, in the
silvery stillness. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘is the old—’ he doggedly met the fixed eyes facing
him there, ‘is our old friend gone?’

‘Yes,’ said Sheila, ‘he’s gone.’ Lawford sighed and turned round. ‘It’s
useless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you how
tired I am. And my head—’

‘What is wrong with your head?’ inquired his wife discreetly. The haggard face turned gravely and patiently. ‘Only one of my old
headaches,’ he smiled, ‘my old bilious headaches—the hereditary Lawford
variety.’ But his voice fell low again. ‘We must get to bed.’

With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her
hands across her silk skirts. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said, ‘I have made up a
bed for you in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.’ She came
softly in, hastened over to a closed work-table that stood under the
curtains, and opened it. Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless.