At the end of a fortnight, finding no improvement, he grumbled at Providence, and slipped for a moment into his old methods of expression. Then I made a suggestion.
"You will never escape from this hideous predicament, dearest," said I, taking his great, muscular hand between my thin ones, "you will never put yourself on a proper footing with heaven again, unless you proclaim the truth, banish all these false pretences which now hem us in on every side, and explain your position to the world. Only old Mr. Murdoch, of Ealing, knows the truth. Rise up and tell everybody, grandpapa!"
He shaved now, with the exception of his moustache. This he tugged and twisted, and looked at me with undisguised contempt.
"Well, that fairly takes the crumb!" he said. "D' you actually suggest that I should go on the housetops and cry, 'Look at me, look at me, good people; I'm nearly a hundred and seven years of age; I've signed a treaty with the devil. He will have what is left of me in about three years. This ancient woman is my granddaughter. Come, all of you, pray for us'? Would you suggest I did that, Martha?"
"Something like it," I answered. "Then you would feel that you were telling the truth, at all events."
"Pretty true ring about it, certainly. Everybody would believe it, wouldn't they?"
"I could substantiate the facts, grandpapa."
"Which would merely place you in a lunatic asylum as well as me. If you are going to babble about telling the truth we may as well pack up our traps and take the train to Colney Hatch right away."
"But the world might watch you shrinking, grandpapa. A committee of doctors would find out in six weeks that you were telling the truth."
"And have people paying sixpence a head to come in and see me dwindling? I don't mean to make a circus of myself for you or anybody. If Providence can't do anything, then we'll just rip forward as we're going, and abide by the result. I'll keep up this psalm-singing one more week; then, if nothing happens, I shall go on the razzle-dazzle, and chance it."