“Perhaps.”
“Then it's an empty one.”
“Why?”
Before replying he waited a moment, looking down at her.
“I conclude,” he began, quietly, “that your idea is to spread this wild, improbable story—to ask people to believe that John Chilcote, whom they see before them, is not John Chilcote, but somebody else. Now you'll find that a harder task than you imagine. This is a sceptical world, and people are absurdly fond of their own eyesight. We are all journalists nowadays—we all want facts. The first thing you will be asked for is your proof. And what does your proof consist of? The circumstance that John Chilcote, who has always despised jewelry, has lately taken to wearing rings! Your own statement, unattended by any witnesses, that with those rings off his finger bears a scar belonging to another man! No; on close examination I scarcely imagine that your case would hold.” He stopped, fired by his own logic. The future might be Chilcote's but the present was his; and this present—with its immeasurable possibilities—had been rescued from catastrophe. “No,” he said, again. “When you get your proof perhaps we'll have another talk; but till then—”
“Till then?” She looked up quickly; but almost at once her question died away.
The door had opened, and the servant who had admitted Loder stood in the opening.
“Dinner is served!” he announced, in his deferential voice.