“Fire away,” said Maurice.
“To begin with, if I do not see the king to-morrow, it is not likely that I ever shall.”
“The king?”
“My business here is with his Majesty.”
Maurice filled the glasses and pushed one across the table.
“Here's!” said he, and gulped.
Fitzgerald drank slowly, however, as if arranging in his mind the salient points in his forthcoming narrative.
“I have never been an extraordinarily communicative man; what I shall tell you is known only to my former Colonel and myself. At Calcutta, where you and I first met, I was but a Lieutenant in her Majesty's. To-day I am burdened with riches such as I know not how to use, and possessor of a title which sounds strange in my ears.”
The dim light from the gas-jet in the room flickered over his face, and Maurice saw that it was slightly contorted, as if by pain.
“My father was Lord Fitzgerald.”