Lawford took a deep breath. 'Of course.' he said, 'you realise my
wife does not believe me. She thinks,' he explained naively, as
if to himself, 'she thinks I am an imposter. Goodness knows what
she does think. I can't think much myself--for long!'

The vicar rubbed busily on. 'I have found, Lawford,' he said
smoothly, 'that in all real difficulties the only feasible plan
is--is to face the main issue. The others right themselves. Now,
to take a plunge into your generosity. You have let me in far
enough to make it impossible for me to get out--may I hear then
exactly the whole story? All that I know now, so far as I could
gather from your wife, poor soul, is of course inconceivable:
that you went out one man and came home another. You will
understand, my dear man, I am speaking, as it were, by rote. God
has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first
the blow, hours afterwards the bruise. Oh, dear me, that man
Hume--"on miracles"--positively amazing! So that too, please, you
will be quite clear about. Credo--not quia impossible est, but
because you, Lawford, have told me. Now then, if it won't be too
wearisome to you, the whole story.' He sat, lean and erect in his
big chair, a hand resting loosely on each knee, in one spectacles,
in the other a dangling pocket handkerchief. And the dark, sallow,
aquiline, formidable figure, with its oddly changing voice,
re-told the whole story from the beginning.

'You were aware then of nothing different, I understand, until
you actually looked into the glass?'

'Only vaguely. I mean that after waking I felt much better, more
alert. And my thoughts--'