But a lie must be invented⁠—and quickly. He said, “Will you tell Mrs. Byrne, I’m very sorry⁠—I took the sack out in my boat⁠—to⁠—to collect firewood⁠—and⁠—and⁠—lost it⁠—overboard, you know? Tell her I’m very sorry, will you, and I’ll get her another sack?” He tried to smile nicely at the young woman; a painful smirk revealed itself.

“Thank you, sir.”

The young woman melted away, and he walked indoors, feeling sullied and ashamed. He hated telling lies. He was one of those uncommon members of the modern world who genuinely object to the small insincerities of daily life, lying excuses over the telephone for not going out to dinner, manufactured “engagements,” and so on. And the fact that this lie was part of a grand conspiracy to protect a man from an indictment for murder did not commend it. On the contrary, it enhanced that feeling of “identification” with the end of Emily which he had been trying for two weeks to shake off. Oh, it was damnable!