“Again I drew on the memoirs of Dr. Godfrey Vogeldam Guph, and this time I explained that the learned doctor had all the talents but one. He never told a lie––never but once, and that was on his death-bed. Yes, it was a little late, but still it was in time to save his reputation, and, possibly, even his soul. To a man of his parts the truth had always been good enough, and lying unnecessary. If he had told a lie it wouldn’t have amounted to anything––everybody would have believed it. He wouldn’t have got any credit––poor man! He had no more use for a lie than a fish has for a mackintosh––until he came to his last touching words, which were delivered to a minister and his sister Sophia, who 79 had been reading to him from a book of D’Annunzio.
“‘My chance has arrived at last,’ he said to Sophia, ‘and in order that I may make the most of it, you will please send for a minister.’
“The latter came, and, seeing the book, asked the good man if he had read it.
“‘Alas! my friend, that it should be necessary for me to tell a lie on my death-bed,’ said the Doctor. ‘But now, at last, I tell it proudly and promptly. I have not read that book.’
“‘And therein I do clearly see the truth,’ said the wise old minister.
“‘Which is this,’ the learned Doctor confessed. ‘I have come to an hour when a lie, and nothing but a lie, can show my sense of shame. I solemnly swear that I have not read it!’
“‘Well, at least you’re a noble liar,’ said the man of God. ‘I absolve you.’
“‘I claim no credit––I am only doing my 80 duty,’ said the good Doctor, with a sign of ineffable peace.
“As soon as I could get his attention, I called Harry aside and whispered: ‘In Heaven’s name, boy, get hold of that book and hang on to it.’
“‘Why?’ he asked.