you with it any further. To-night I ask you for 1000_l_., to-morrow I
shall ask you for 2000_l_., and the day after--'

'The Sibyl was scarcely so extortionate when she offered the Tarquin
literary wares that no subsequent research with which I am acquainted has
proved to be spurious. And you, Mr. Carrel, offer me forgeries--merely
forgeries.'

Fear expressed itself in clumsy satire. He was thoroughly alarmed. He
began rapidly to review his own antecedents, and to scrape his memory for
discreditable incidents. He could think of nothing he need feel ashamed
of, nothing the world might not thoroughly investigate. There were mean
actions, but many generous ones to balance in the scale.

His knowledge of life was really slight, as his intimacy with Archaeology
(so he told himself) was profound. One foolish incident, a midsummer
madness, before he went to Oxford, was all he had to blush for. This, he
frequently confessed, not without certain pride, to his wife, the
daughter of a respectable man of letters from Massachusetts. He firmly
and privately believed an omission in a catalogue a far greater sin than
a breach of the Decalogue. But ethics are of little consequence where
conduct is above reproach. When buying antiquities he would come across
odd people from time to time, but never any one who openly avowed himself
a blackmailer and a forger. The novel experience was embarrassing and
unpleasant, but there was really little to fear. In all the delight of a
clear conscience, since Carrel vouchsafed no reply to his sardonic
Sibylline allusion, he said:

'You have advanced no reason why I should hand you to-day or to-morrow
these modest sums you demand.'