Brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with his eyes still fixed upon the Prior's face.
"Why do you think that I know it?" he said.
"Because," said Padre Cristoforo, raising his long forefinger, and emphasising every fresh point with a convincing jerk, "because you have come to San Stefano. You would never have come here unless you wanted to find out the truth. Because you have changed your name. You would have had no reason to abandon the name of Luttrell unless you were not sure of your right to bear it. Because you spoke of Vincenza in your delirium. Do I need more proofs?"
There was another proof which he did not mention. He had found Mrs. Luttrell's letter to Brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the stranger's possessions. It was characteristic of the man that, during the last few years, he had set himself steadily to work to master the English language by the aid of every English book or English-speaking traveller that came in his way. He had succeeded wonderfully well, and no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been undertaken. He found his accomplishment useful; he had thought it particularly useful when he read Mrs. Luttrell's letter. But naturally he did not say so to Brian.
"You are right," said Brian, in a low voice. "But you say it is incapable of proof. She—my mother—I mean Mrs. Luttrell—says so, too."
"If it were capable of proof," said the Prior, softly, "should you contest the matter?"
"Yes," Brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if I had been in England, and any such claimant appeared, I would have fought the ground to the last inch! Not for the sake of the estates—I have given those up easily enough—but for my father's sake. I would not lightly give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that I was his son."
"He never doubted?"
"I am sure he never did."
"But Mrs. Luttrell——"