“I’m simply trying to decide what is the point at which we must stop; but I think we are justified in going this far. It seems to me pretty certain Sir John was considering the honour or the reputation of some third party.”
“That’s so. I’ll admit that, if you bar insanity, I think the same.”
“Very well; that’s one step. Now, he speaks of an interval of one hundred years. What can you connect one hundred years with?”
“It’s a blooming century, if that’s any help.”
“It isn’t, Yardley. To be perfectly candid, I have racked my brains for days over it, and I can think of nothing in which one hundred years from any given date is an integral and essential part of any fact, idea, or supposition.”
“Well, Tempest, if you can’t think of anything, I’m willing to bet there is nothing.”
“I distrust your premise, but I agree with your conclusion, Yardley. What I believe is that it is an outside interval which is sufficient for one to be certain it covers some other known but uncertain interval. Now, what does a hundred years cover?”
“As much as charity. I’ve no doubt you’ve settled it to your own satisfaction. Go on; don’t wait for me.”
“Well, Yardley, I think I can tell you. What’s the length of a man’s life?”
“‘The days of our years shall be three score years and ten, and if by reason of strength they be four score years’—there, you’ve got Bible authority for that, Mr. Tempest.”