"Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confronting him with kindly authority. "It has needed little penetration, signor, to discover that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; I am now more sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend--that there are reasons why I should take a special interest in you and your family, and that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours." Brian stopped short and looked at him. "Me and mine!" he repeated to himself. "Me and mine! What do you know of us?" "I will be frank with you," said the priest. "Thirteen years ago a document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the nurse of Mrs. Luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. The nurse, Vincenza, died and left this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation, confided the secret to me." Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. "What right have you had to keep this matter secret so long?" he demanded. "Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable family with an assertion that is incapable of proof?" "Then why did you tell me now?" "Because you know it already." 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?"