Percival started from his chair. His first exclamation was a rather profane one, for which the monk immediately reproved him. He did not take much notice of the reproof: he stared hard at the young man for a minute or two, unconsciously repeated the objectionable expression, and then took one or two turns up and down the room. After which he came to a standstill, thrust his hands into his pockets, and allowed his features to relax into a sardonically-triumphant smile.

"You couldn't tell me a thing which I should be better pleased to hear," he said. "But I don't believe it's true."

This was rude, but the visitor was not disconcerted. He looked at Percival's masterful face with interest, and a little suspicion, and answered quietly:—

"I do not know exactly what evidence will satisfy you, sir. Of course, you will require evidence. I, myself, Bernardino Vasari of San Stefano, can testify that I saw Brian Luttrell in our monastery on the 27th day of November, some days after his reputed death. I can account for all his time after that date, and I can tell you where he is to be found at present. His cousin, Hugo Luttrell, has already recognised him, and, although he is much changed, I fancy that there would be small doubt about his identification."

"But why, in Heaven's name, did he allow himself to be thought dead?" cried Percival.

"You know, probably, the circumstances attending his brother's death?" said Dino, gently. "These, and a cruel letter from Mrs. Luttrell, made him resolve to take advantage of an accident in which his companions were killed. He made his way to a little inn on the southern side of the Alps, and thence to our monastery, where I recognised him as the gentleman whom I had previously seen travelling in Germany. I had had some conversation with him, and he had interested me—I remembered him well."

"Did he give his name as Brian Luttrell then?"

"I accosted him by it, and he begged me at once not to do so, but to give him another name."

"What name?"

"I will tell you the name presently, Mr. Heron. He remained in the monastery for some months: first ill of a fever on the brain, then, after his recovery, as a teacher to our young pupils. When he grew stronger he became tired of our peaceful life; he left the monastery and wandered from place to place in Italy. But he had no money: he began to think of work. He was learned: he could teach: he thought that he might be a tutor. Shall I go on?"

"Good God!" said Percival, below his breath. He had actually turned pale, and was biting his moustache savagely. "Go on, sir!" he thundered, looking at Dino from beneath his knitted brows. "Tell me the rest as quickly as you can."

"He met with an English family," Dino continued, watching with keen interest the effect of his words. "They were kind to him: they took him, without character, without recommendations, and allowed him to teach their children. He did not know who they were: he thought that they were rich people, and that the young lady who was so dutiful to them, and cared so tenderly for their children, was poor like himself, a dependent like himself. He dared, therefore——"

"He lies and you lie!" Percival burst out, furiously. "How dare you come to me with a tale of this sort? He must have known! It was simply a base deception in order to get back his estate. If I had him here——"

"If you had him here you would listen to him, Mr. Heron," said Dino, in a perfectly unmoved voice, "as you will listen to me when the first shock of your surprise is over."

"Your garb, I suppose, protects you," said Percival, sharply. "Else I would throw you out of the window to join your accomplice outside. I daresay he is there. I don't believe a word of your story. May I trouble you to go?"

"This conduct is unworthy of you, sir," said Dino. "Brian Luttrell's identity will not be disproved by bluster. There is not the least doubt about it. Mr. Brian Luttrell is alive and has been teaching in your father's family for the last few months under the name of John Stretton."

"Then he is a scoundrel," said Percival. He threw himself into his chair again, with his feet stretched out before him, and his hands still thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. His face was white with rage. "I always thought that he was a rogue; and, if this story is true, he has proved himself one."

"How?" said Dino, quietly. "By living in poverty when he might have been rich? By allowing others to take what was legally his own, because he had a scruple about his moral right to it? If you knew all Brian Luttrell's story you would know that his only fault has been that of over-conscientiousness, over-scrupulousness. But you do not know the story, perhaps you never will, and, therefore, you cannot judge."

"I do not want to judge. I have nothing to do with Mr. Stretton and his story," said Percival.

"I will tell you——"

"I will not hear. You are impostors, the pair of you."

Dino's eyes flashed and his lips compressed themselves. His face, thin from his late illness, assumed a wonderful sternness of expression.

"This is folly," he said, with a cold serenity of tone which impressed Percival in spite of himself. "You will have to hear part of his story sooner or later, Mr. Heron; for your own sake, for Miss Murray's sake, you had better hear it now."

"Look here, my good man," said Percival, sitting up, and regarding his visitor with contemptuous disgust, "don't go bringing Miss Murray's name into this business, for, if you do, I'll call a policeman and give you in charge for trying to extort money on false pretences, and you may thank your priest's dress, or whatever it is, that I don't kick you out of the house. Do you hear?"

"Sir," said Dino, mildly, but with great dignity, "have I asked you for a single penny?"

Heron looked at him as if he would like to carry out the latter part of his threat, but the young man was so frail, so thin, so feeble, that he felt suddenly ashamed of having threatened him. He rose, planted his back firmly against the mantelpiece, and pointed significantly to the door. "Go!" he said, briefly. "And don't come back."

"If I go," said Dino, rising from his chair, "I shall take the express train to Scotland at eight o'clock to-night, and I shall see Miss Murray to-morrow morning."

The shot told. A sort of quiver passed over Percival's set face. He muttered an angry ejaculation. "I'll see you d——d first," he said. "You'll do nothing of the kind."

"Then will you hear my story?"

Heron paused. He could have ground his teeth with fury; but he was quite alive to the difficulties of the situation. If this young monk went with his story to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth believed it, what would become of her fidelity to him? With his habitual cynicism, he told himself that no woman would keep her word, if by doing so she lost a fortune and a lover both. He must hear this story, if only to prevent its being told to her.

"Well," he said at last, taking his pipe from the mantelshelf, "I'll listen. Be so good as to make your story short. I have no time to waste." And then he rammed the tobacco into the bowl with his thumb in a suggestively decisive manner, lighted it, and proceeded to puff at his pipe with a sort of savage vigour. He sent out great clouds of smoke, which speedily filled the air and rendered speaking difficult to Dino, whose lungs had become delicate in consequence of his wound. But Percival was rather pleased than otherwise to inconvenience him.

"There are several reasons," the young man began, "why Brian Luttrell wished to be thought dead. He had killed his brother by accident, and Mrs. Luttrell thought that there had been malice as well as carelessness in the deed. That was one reason. His mother's harshness preyed upon his mind and drove him almost to melancholy madness. Mrs. Luttrell made another statement, and made it in a way that convinced him that she had reasons for making it——"

"Can't you cut it short?" said Percival. "It's all very interesting, no doubt: but as I don't care a hang what Brian Luttrell said, or thought, or did, I should prefer to have as little of it as possible."

"I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I must tell my story in my own way," answered Dino. The flash of his eye and the increased colour in his cheek showed that Heron's words irritated him, but his voice was carefully calm and cool. "Mrs. Luttrell's statement was this: that Brian Luttrell was not her son at all. I have in my possession the letter that she wrote to him on the subject, assuring him confidently that he was the child of her Italian nurse, Vincenza Vasari, and that her own child had died in infancy, and was buried in the churchyard of San Stefano. Here is the letter, if you like to assure yourself that what I have said is true."

Percival made a satirical little bow of refusal. But a look of attention had come into his eyes.

"Brian believed this story absolutely, although he had then no proof of its truth," continued Dino. "She told him that the Vasari family lived at San Stefano——"

"Vasari! Relations of your own, I presume," interposed Percival, with ironical politeness.

"And to San Stefano, therefore, he was making his way when the accident on the mountain occurred," said Dino, utterly disregarding the interruption. "There were inquiries made about him at San Stefano soon after the news of his supposed death arrived in England, for Mrs. Luttrell guessed that he would go thither if he were still living; but he had not then appeared at the monastery. He did not arrive at San Stefano, as I said before, until a fortnight after the date of the accident; he had been ill, and was footsore and weary. When he recovered from the brain-fever which prostrated him as soon as he reached the monastery, he told his whole story to the Prior, Padre Cristoforo of San Stefano, a man whose character is far beyond suspicion. I have also Padre Cristoforo's statement, if you would like to see it."

Percival shook his head. But his pipe had gone out; he was listening now with interest.

"As it happened," the narrator went on, "Padre Cristoforo was already interested in the matter, because the mother of Mrs. Luttrell's nurse, Vincenza, had, before her death, confided to him her suspicions, and those of Vincenza's husband concerning the child that she had nursed. There was a child living in the village of San Stefano, a child who had been brought up as Vincenza's child, but Vincenza had told her this boy was the true Brian Luttrell, and that her son had been taken back to Scotland as Mrs. Luttrell's child."

"I see your drift now," remarked Percival, quietly re-lighting his pipe. "Where is this Italian Brian Luttrell to be found?"

"Need I tell you? Should I come here with this story if I were not the man?"

He asked the question almost sadly, but with a simplicity of manner which showed him to be free from any desire to produce any theatrical effect. He waited for a moment, looking steadily at Percival, whose darkening brow and kindling eyes displayed rapidly-rising anger.

"I was called Dino Vasari at San Stefano," he continued, "but I believe that my rightful name is Brian Luttrell, and that Vincenza Vasari changed the children during an illness of Mrs. Luttrell's."

"And that, therefore," said Percival, slowly, "you are the owner of the Strathleckie property—or, as it is generally called, the Luttrell property—now possessed by Miss Murray?"

Dino bowed his head.

Percival puffed away at his pipe for a minute or two, and surveyed him from head to foot with angry, contemptuous eyes. The only thing that prevented him from letting loose a storm of rage upon Dino's head was the young man's air of grave simplicity and good faith. He did not look like an intentional impostor, such as Percival Heron would gladly have believed him to be.

"Do you know," inquired Heron, after a momentary pause, "what the penalties are for attempting to extort money, or for passing yourself off under a false name in order to get property? Did you ever hear of the Claimant and Portland Prison? I would advise you to acquaint yourself with these details before you come to me again. You may be more fool than knave; but you may carry your foolery or your knavery elsewhere."

Dino smiled.

"You had better hear the rest of my story before you indulge in these idle threats, Mr. Heron. I know perfectly well what I am doing."

There was a tone of lofty assurance, almost of superiority, in Dino's calm voice, which galled Percival, because he felt that it had the power of subduing him a little. Before he had thought of a rejoinder, the young Benedictine resumed his story.

"You will say rightly enough that these were not proofs. So Padre Cristoforo said when he kept me in the monastery until I came to years of discretion. So he told Brian Luttrell when he came to San Stefano. But since that day new witnesses have arisen. Vincenza Vasari was not dead: she had only disappeared for a time. She is now found, and she is prepared to swear to the truth of the story that I have told you. Mrs. Luttrell's suspicions, the statement made by Vincenza's husband and mother, the confession of another woman who was Vincenza's accomplice, all form corroborative evidence which will, I think, be quite sufficient to prove the case. So, at least, Messrs. Brett and Grattan assure me, and they have gone carefully into the matter, and have the original papers in their possession."

"Brett and Grattan!" repeated Percival. He knew the names. "Do you say that Brett and Grattan have taken it up? You must have managed matters cleverly: Brett and Grattan are a respectable firm."

"You are at liberty, of course, to question them. You may, perhaps, credit their statement."

"I will certainly go to them and expose this imposture," said Percival, haughtily. "I suppose you have no objection," with a hardly-concealed sneer, "to go with me to them at once?"

"Not in the least. I am quite ready."

Percival was rather staggered by his willingness to accompany him. He laid down his pipe, which he had been holding mechanically for some time in his hand, and made a step towards the door. But as he reached it Dino spoke again.

"I wish, Mr. Heron, that before you go to these lawyers you would listen to me a little longer. If for a moment or two you would divest yourself of your suspicions, if you would for a moment or two assume (only for the sake of argument) the truth of my story, I could tell you then why I came. As yet, I have scarcely approached the object of my errand."

"Money, I suppose!" said Percival. "Truth will out, sooner or later."

"Mr. Heron," said Dino, "are we to approach this subject as gentlemen or not? When I ask you for money, you will be at liberty to insult me, not before."

Again that tone of quiet superiority! Percival broke out angrily:—

"I will listen to nothing more from you. If you like to go with me to Brett and Grattan, we will go now; if not, you are a liar and an impostor, and I shall be happy to kick you out into the street."

Dino raised his head; a quick, involuntary movement ran through his frame, as if it thrilled with anger at the insulting words. Then his head sank; he quietly folded his arms across his breast, and stood as he used to stand when awaiting an order or an admonition from the Prior—tranquil, submissive, silent, but neither ill-humoured nor depressed. The very silence and submission enraged Percival the more.

"If you were of Scotch or English blood," he said, sharply, pausing as he crossed the room to look over his shoulder at the motionless figure in the black robe, with folded arms and bent head, "you would resent the words I have hastily used. That you don't do so is proof positive to my mind that you are no Luttrell."

"If I am a Luttrell, I trust that I am a Christian, too," said Dino, tranquilly. "It is a monk's duty—a monk's privilege—to bear insult."

"Detestable hypocrisy!" growled Percival to himself, as he stepped to the door and ostentatiously locked it, putting the key into his pocket, before he went into the adjoining bed-room to change his coat. "We'll soon see what Brett and Grattan say to him. Confound the fellow! Who would think that that smooth saintly face covered so much insolence! I should like to give him a good hiding. I should, indeed."

He returned to the sitting-room, unlocked the door, and ordered a servant to fetch a hansom-cab. Then he occupied himself by setting some of the books straight on the shelves, humming a tune to himself meanwhile, as if nobody else were in the room.

"Mr. Heron," Dino said at last, "I came to propose a compromise. Will you listen to it yet?"

"No," said Percival, drily. "I'll listen to nothing until I have seen Brett. If your case is as good as you declare it is, he will convince me; and then you can talk about compromises. I'm not in the humour for compromises just now."

He noticed that Dino's eyes were fixed earnestly upon something on his writing-table. He drew near enough to see that it was a cabinet photograph of Elizabeth Murray in a brass frame—a likeness which had just been taken, and which was considered remarkably good. The head and shoulders only were seen: the stately pose of the head, the slightly upturned profile, the rippling mass of hair resting on the fine shoulders, round which a shawl had been loosely draped—these constituted the chief points of a portrait which some people said was "idealised," but which, in the opinion of the Herons, only showed Elizabeth at her best. Percival coolly took up the photograph and marched away with it to another table, on which he laid it face downwards. He did not choose to have the Italian impostor scrutinising Elizabeth Murray's face. Dino understood the action, and liked him for it better than he had done as yet.

The drive to Messrs. Brett and Grattan's office was accomplished in perfect silence. The office was just closing, but Mr. Brett—the partner with whom Percival happened to be acquainted—was there, and received the visitors very civilly.

"You seem to know this—this gentleman, Mr. Brett?" began Percival, somewhat stiffly.

"I think I have that pleasure," said Mr. Brett, who was a big, red-faced, genial-looking man, as much unlike the typical lawyer of the novel and the stage, as a fox-hunting squire would have been. But Mr. Brett's reputation was assured. "I think I have that pleasure," he repeated, rubbing his hands, and looking as though he was enjoying the interview very much. "I have seen him before once or twice, have I not? eh, Mr.—er—Mr.——"

"Ah, that is just the point," said Percival. "Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of this—this person?"

Mr. Brett stopped rubbing his hands, and looked from Dino to Percival, and back again to Dino. The look said plainly enough, "What shall I tell him? How much does he know?"

"I wish to have no secrets from Mr. Heron," said Dino, simply. "He is the gentleman who is going to marry Miss Elizabeth Murray, and, of course, he is interested in the matter."

"Ah, of course, of course. I don't know that you ought to have brought him here," said Mr. Brett, shaking his head waggishly at Dino. "Against rules, you know: against custom: against precedent. But I believe you want to arrange matters pleasantly amongst yourselves. Well, Mr. Heron, I don't often like to commit myself to a statement, but, under the circumstances, I have no hesitation in saying that I believe this gentleman now before you, who called himself Vasari in Italy, is in reality——"

"Well?" said Percival, feeling his heart sink within him and speaking more impatiently than usual in consequence, "Well, Mr. Brett?"

"Is in reality," said Mr. Brett, with great deliberation and emphasis, "the second son of Edward and Margaret Luttrell, stolen from them in infancy—Brian Luttrell."