“Now,” said he, “we will go to the cutchery and get some papers to prove this handwriting.” On mentioning to the head clerk that we wanted to look at some papers of the year—he immediately said that he had just received orders to collect all the papers beyond a certain date to be burned in a few days, and we could look them over. We found what we wanted, and were allowed to take a dozen or more all written and signed “H. J. Smith.” The very handwriting of our letters to the crossing of a t and the dot of an i. I was satisfied and suggested that we return to his house, but M. Le Maistre said “O, no, we are not through yet. There is the photograph?” “Yes, but what of that?” I asked. “We’ll go to the photographer, and see what we can see,” he replied. He asked the man of art if he had the negative of such a photograph, showing him ours, or if he had any copies of it. He went to his closet and soon returned with a photograph, on the back of which was written: “You may make me one dozen like this—H. J. Smith.” The very same writing as in our letters, and in the cutchery papers. We quickly bought the picture, worth its weight in gold to me, not only for the likeness, but for the writing on the back of it. If I was surprised before, I was astonished now. I was in a delirium of excitement, but my old friend was as cool as when he handled the cobra. Any one can imagine only slightly my feelings, but they cannot realize my intense enjoyment at the out-turn of our search. With a quiet smile, my good friend then said, “I think you can eat a good breakfast now and we’ll have it.” And it was a good one. He drew on his boundless store of stories until I departed, giving him all the thanks my language could express, and carrying with me the proofs that I, Japhet, had found my father! Would he dare me again? It was some days before I felt that I could venture to beard the dragon (I ought to say my beloved father), in his den again. I was anxious to get through with the business, for it seemed that until it was finished I could do nothing else.
CHAPTER XX.
Again I was on my way to Jalalpur, with the precious parcel, the other papers, and that fatal photograph. What is the use of telling of my feelings? Any one can imagine what they were. I reached the big bungalow again, but instead of sending in my card, I told the Janus at the door that Stark Sahib wished to see the Commissioner Sahib. I well knew that if he learned my name I would not be admitted. It was a little lie, but who does not lie sometimes?
I was ushered in. I had scarcely got inside the door before he shouted, “You here again! What the devil do you want now?” I replied that I had come on very important business. Rising to his feet, in a great state of anger, he blurted out, “I don’t want to hear anything from you—not a word,” and he came toward me. I stood my ground, facing him so boldly that he halted. I said, “I have something to tell you this time, and you have got to hear it whether you like it or not. I am not going till I tell you, and the sooner you let me commence, the sooner I will finish.”
“Well, damn it!” he fairly screamed, “what have you got to say?” I calmed down a little and said, “I come to you with all the respect I can command; I want nothing from you whatever; no recognition, no place or position; and as to money, thanks to the best friend of my life, I probably have ten rupees to every one of yours; so I want nothing but to tell my story, and then there will be an end, so far as I am concerned.”
I think he saw that I was not to be bluffed or bullied, and as I asked for nothing, it would be best to let me talk. “Go on then,” he said very sternly, but quite subdued, “and the sooner you get through the better!” I continued, “You were a sub-magistrate in Lucknow in the year —, and you kept a mussalmani in a muhalla.” “It’s a lie, every word of it!” he retorted. I went on regardless of his interruption. “You remember a M. Le Maistre there, for you rented one of his houses. One night, or rather toward morning, he met you in the gully coming from the muhalla. Another time he saw you coming in through the little back door—you remember it—and he saw you go up the narrow stairs in the corner to the upper rooms, where the woman lived.”
“It’s all a lie, a damned lie!” he cried.
I resumed, “You had two children by this woman, a boy and a girl, and then you left her.”
“You cannot prove a word you have said,” he interjected.
“You left a number of letters with her.”