‘Hammond is such a queer fellow,’ wrote Maulevrier, ’the strangest things interest him.  He sits and talks to the workmen for hours; he pokes his nose into all sorts of places—­hospitals, workshops, poverty-stricken dens—­and people are always civil to him.  He is what Lesbia calls sympatico.  Ah! what a mistake Lesbia and my grandmother made when they rejected Hammond!  What a pearl above price they threw away!  But, you see, neither my lady nor Lesbia could appreciate a gem, unless it was richly set.’

And now Lady Maulevrier lay on her couch by the fire, waiting for James Steadman.  She had seen him several times since the day of her seizure, but never alone.  There was an idea that Steadman must necessarily talk to her of business matters, or cause her mind to trouble itself about business matters; so there had been a well-intentioned conspiracy in the house to keep him out of her way; but now she was much better, and her desire to see Steadman need no longer be thwarted.

He came at her bidding, and stood a little way within the door, tall, erect, square-shouldered, resolute-looking, with a quiet force of character expressed in every feature.  He was very much the same man that he had been forty years ago, when he went with her ladyship to Southampton, and accompanied his master and mistress on that tedious journey which was destined to be Lord Maulevrier’s last earthly pilgrimage.  Time had done little to Steadman in those forty years, except to whiten his hair and beard, and imprint some thoughtful lines upon his sagacious forehead.  Time had done something for him mentally, insomuch as he had read a great many books and cultivated his mind in the monotonous quiet of Fellside.  Altogether he was a superior man for the passage of those forty years.

He had married within the time, choosing for himself the buxom daughter of a lodgekeeper, whose wife had long been laid at rest in Grasmere churchyard.  The buxom girl had grown into a bulky matron, but she was a colourless personage, and her existence made hardly any difference in James Steadman’s life.  She had brought him no children, and their fireside was lonely; but Steadman seemed to be one of those self-contained personages to whom a solitary life is no affliction.

‘I hope I see you in better health, my lady,’ he said, standing straight and square, like a soldier on parade.

’I am better, thank you, Steadman; better, but a poor lifeless log chained to this sofa.  I sent for you because the time has come when I must talk to you upon a matter of business.  You heard, I suppose, that a stranger called upon me just before I had my attack?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Did you hear who and what he was?’

‘Only that he was a foreigner, my lady.’

’He is of Indian birth.  He claims to be the son of the Ranee of Bisnagar.’

‘He could do you no harm, my lady, if he were twenty times her son.’