As Isaacs answered, his voice trembled, and his face was very pale.  There was a moisture in the brilliant eyes that told of genuine emotion.

“Mr. Westonhaugh, I consider that I owe to you everything I have in the world.  This is a greater pleasure than I thought was in store for me.  Indeed I thank you again.”

His voice would not serve him.  He stopped short and turned away to look for something in his coat.

“Indeed,” said Westonhaugh, “it was a very little thing I did for you.”  And presently the two men went together into the drawing-room, Wostonhaugh asking all manner of questions, which Isaacs, who was himself again, began to answer.  The rest of us remained in the vestibule to meet Lord Steepleton, who at that moment came up the steps.  There were more greetings, and then the head khitmatgar appeared and informed the “Sahib log, protectors of the poor, that their meat was ready.”  So we filed into the dining-room.

Isaacs was placed at Miss Westonhaugh’s right, and her brother sat on his other side.  Ghyrkins was opposite his niece at the other end, and Kildare and I were together, facing Westonhaugh and Isaacs, a party of six.  Of course Kildare sat beside the lady.

The dinner opened very pleasantly. I could see that Isaacs’ undisguised gratitude and delight in having at last met the man who had helped him had strongly predisposed John Westonhaugh in his favour.  Who is it that is not pleased at finding that some deed of kindness, done long ago with hardly a thought, has borne fruit and been remembered and treasured up by the receiver as the turning-point in his life?  Is there any pleasure greater than that we enjoy through the happiness of others—­in those rare cases where kindness is not misplaced?  I had had time to reflect that Isaacs had most likely told a part of his story to Miss Westonhaugh on the previous afternoon as soon as he had recognised her brother.  He might have told her before; I did not know how long he had known her, but it must have been some time.  Presently she turned to him.

“Mr. Isaacs,” said she, “some of us know something of your history.  Why will you not tell us the rest now?  My uncle has heard nothing of it, and I know Lord Steepleton is fond of novels.”

Isaacs hesitated long, but as every one pressed him in turn, he yielded at last.  And he told it well.  It was exactly the narrative he had given me, in every detail of fact, but the whole effect was different.  I saw how true a mastery he had of the English language, for he knew his audience thoroughly, and by a little colour here and an altered expression there he made it graphic and striking, not without humour, and altogether free of a certain mystical tinge he had imparted to it when we were alone.  He talked easily, with no more constraint than on other occasions, and his narrative was a small social success.  I had not seen him in evening dress before, and I could not help