DOYLE [hotly]. What is there behind it? Do you think I'm
humbugging you?

BROADBENT. Don't fly out at me, old chap. I only thought--

DOYLE. What did you think?

BROADBENT. Well, a moment ago I caught a name which is new to me:
a Miss Nora Reilly, I think. [Doyle stops dead and stares at him
with something like awe]. I don't wish to be impertinent, as you
know, Larry; but are you sure she has nothing to do with your
reluctance to come to Ireland with me?

DOYLE [sitting down again, vanquished]. Thomas Broadbent: I
surrender. The poor silly-clever Irishman takes off his hat to
God's Englishman. The man who could in all seriousness make that
recent remark of yours about Home Rule and Gladstone must be
simply the champion idiot of all the world. Yet the man who could
in the very next sentence sweep away all my special pleading and
go straight to the heart of my motives must be a man of genius.
But that the idiot and the genius should be the same man! how is
that possible? [Springing to his feet] By Jove, I see it all now.
I'll write an article about it, and send it to Nature.

BROADBENT [staring at him]. What on earth--

DOYLE. It's quite simple. You know that a
caterpillar--