knew, and at the time were ready to testify in any court of justice, that he had been got rid of by the Ranee’s agents, and at Lord Maulevrier’s instigation, and that his possessions in money and jewels had been conveyed in the palankins that carried the Ranee and her women to his lordship’s summer retreat near Madras.  The Ranee died at that retreat six months after her husband’s murder, not without suspicion of poison, and the wealth which she carried with her when she left Bisnagar passed into his lordship’s possession.  Had your husband lived, Lady Maulevrier, this story must have been brought to light.  There were too many people in Madras interested in sifting the facts.  There must have been a public inquiry.  It was a happy thing for you and your race that Lord Maulevrier died before that inquiry had been instituted, and that many animosities died with him.  Lucky too for you that I was a helpless infant at the time, and that the Mahratta adventurer to whom my father’s territory had been transferred in the shuffling of cards at the end of the war was deeply concerned in hushing up the story.’

’And pray, why have you nursed your wrath in all these years?  Why do you intrude on me after nearly half a century, with this legend of rapine and murder?’

’Because for nearly half a century I have been kept in profound ignorance of my father’s fate—­in ignorance of my race.  Lord Maulevrier’s jealousy banished me from my mother’s arms shortly after my father’s death.  I was sent to the South of France under the care of an ayah.  My first memories are of a monastery near Marseilles, where I was reared and educated by a Jesuit community, where I was baptised and brought up in the Roman Catholic faith.  By the influence of the Jesuit Fathers I was placed in a house of commerce at Marseilles.  Funds to provide for my education and establishment in life, under very modest conditions, were sent periodically by an agent at Madras.  It was known that I was of East Indian birth, but little more was known about me.  It was only when years had gone by and I was a merchant on my own account and could afford to go to India on a voyage of discovery—­yes, as much a voyage of discovery as that of Vasco de Gama or of Drake—­that I got from the Madras agent the clue which enabled me, at the cost of infinite patience and infinite labour, to unravel the mystery of my birth.  There is no need to enter now upon the details of that story.  I have overwhelming documentary evidence—­a cloud of witnesses—­to convince the most sceptical as to who and what I am.  The documents are some of them in my valise, at your ladyship’s service.  Others are at my hotel in London, ready for the inspection of your ladyship’s lawyers.  I do not think you will desire to invite a public inquiry, or force me to recover my birthright in a court of justice.  I believe that you will take a broader and nobler view of the case, and that you will restore to the wronged and abandoned son the fortune stolen from his murdered father.’