So: preliminary inspection reveals that the man he is about to meet is small and slight, of Oriental origin, with hair parted on the left and cropped close; he wears the well-cut, discreet clothing of a provincial solicitor. All indisputably true, but this is hardly like identifying a French polisher or a left-handed cobbler from scratch. Yet still Arthur continues to observe, and is drawn back, not to the Edinburgh of Dr Bell, but to his own years of medical practice. Edalji, like many another man in the foyer, is barricaded between newspaper and high-winged armchair. Yet he is not sitting quite as others do: he holds the paper preternaturally close, and also a touch sideways, setting his head at an angle to the page. Dr Doyle, formerly of Southsea and Devonshire Place, is confident in his diagnosis. Myopia, possibly of quite a high degree. And who knows, perhaps a touch of astigmatism too.

'Mr Edalji.'

The newspaper is not flung down in excitement, but folded carefully. The young man does not leap to his feet and fall on the neck of his potential saviour. On the contrary, he stands up carefully, looks Sir Arthur in the eye, and extends his hand. There is no danger that this man is going to start babbling about Holmes. Instead, he holds himself in wait, polite and self-contained.

They withdraw to an unoccupied writing room, and Sir Arthur is able to examine his new acquaintance more closely. A broad face, fullish lips, a pronounced dimple in the middle of the chin; clean-shaven. For a man who has served three years in Lewes and Portland, and who must have been used to a softer life than most beforehand, he shows few signs of his ordeal. His black hair is shot with grey, but this rather gives him the aspect of a thinking, cultured person. He could very well still be a working solicitor, except that he is not.

'Do you know the exact value of your myopia? Six, seven dioptres? I am only guessing, of course.'

George is startled by this first question. He takes a pair of spectacles from his top pocket and hands them over. Arthur examines them, then turns his attention to the eyes whose defects they correct. These bulge somewhat, and give the solicitor a slightly vacant, staring appearance. Sir Arthur assesses his man with the judgement of a former ophthalmologist; but he is also familiar with the false moral inferences the general public is inclined to draw from ocular singularity.

'I am afraid I have no idea,' says George. 'I have only recently acquired spectacles, and did not enquire about their specifications. Nor do I always remember to wear them.'

'You did not have them as a child?'

'Indeed not. My eyesight was always poor, but when an oculist was consulted in Birmingham, he said it was unwise to prescribe them for a child. And then – well – I became too busy. But since my release I am, unfortunately, less busy.'

'As you explained in your letter. Now, Mr Edalji-'

'It's Aydlji, actually, if you don't mind.' George says this instinctively.

'I apologize.'

'I am used to it. But since it is my name… You see, all Parsee names are stressed on the first syllable.'

Sir Arthur nods. 'Well, Mr Aydlji, I should like you to be professionally examined by Mr Kenneth Scott of Manchester Square.'

'If you say so. But-'

'At my expense, of course.'

'Sir Arthur, I could not-'

'You can, and you will.' He says it softly, and George catches the Scottish burr for the first time. 'You are not employing me as a detective, Mr Edalji. I am offering – offering – my services. And when we have won you not only a free pardon but also a large sum in compensation for your wrongful imprisonment, I may send you Mr Scott's bill. But then again I may not.'

'Sir Arthur, I did not imagine for a moment when I wrote to you-'

'No, and nor did I when I received your letter. But there we are. And here we are.'

'The money is not important. I want my name back again. I want to be readmitted as a solicitor. That is all I want. To be allowed to practise again. To live a quiet, useful life. A normal life.'

'Of course. But I disagree. The money is very important. Not just as compensation for three years of your life. It is also symbolic. The British respect money. If you are given a free pardon, the public will know you are innocent. But if you are given money as well, the public will know you are completely innocent. There is a world of difference. Money will also prove that it is only the corrupt inertia of the Home Office that kept you in prison in the first place.'

George nods slowly to himself as he takes in the argument. Sir Arthur is impressed by the young man. He seems to have a calm and deliberate mind. From his Scottish mother or his clergyman father? Or a benign mixing of the two?

'Sir Arthur, may I ask if you are a Christian?'

Now it is Arthur's turn to be startled. He does not wish to offend this son of the manse, so he replies with his own question. 'Why do you ask?'

'I was brought up, as you know, in the Vicarage. I love and respect my parents, and naturally, when I was young, I shared their beliefs. How could I not? I would never have made a priest myself, but I accepted the teachings of the Bible as the best guide to living a true and honourable life.' He looks at Sir Arthur to see how he is responding; soft eyes and an inclination of the head encourage him. 'I still do think them the best guide. As I think the laws of England are the best guide for how society in general may live a true and honourable life together. But then my… my ordeal began. At first I viewed it all as an unfortunate example of maladministration of the law. The police made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the magistrates. The magistrates made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the Quarter Sessions. The Quarter Sessions made a mistake, but it would be corrected by the Home Office. It will, I hope, still be corrected by the Home Office. It is a matter of great pain and, to say the least, inconvenience, that this has happened, but the process of the law will, in the end, deliver justice. That is what I believed, and what I still believe.

'However, it has been more complicated than I at first realized. I have lived my life within the law – that is to say, taking the law as my guide, while Christianity has been the moral support behind that. For my father, however-' and here George pauses, not, Arthur suspects, because he does not know what he is about to say, but because of its emotional weight – 'my father lives his life wholly within the Christian religion. As you would expect. So for him my ordeal must be comprehensible in those terms. For him there is – there must be – a religious justification for my suffering. He thinks it is God's purpose to strengthen my own faith and to act as an example for others. It is an embarrassment for me to say the word, but he imagines me a martyr.

'My father is elderly now, and becoming frail. Nor would I wish to contradict him. At Lewes and Portland I naturally attended chapel. I still go to church every Sunday. But I cannot claim that my faith has been strengthened by my imprisonment, nor-' he gives a cautious, wry smile – 'nor would my father be able to claim that congregations at St Mark's and neighbouring churches have increased in the last three years.'

Sir Arthur contemplates the odd formality of these opening remarks – as if they have been practised, even over-practised. No, that is too harsh. What else would a man do during three years of prison except turn his life – his messy, inchoate, half-understood life – into something resembling a witness statement?

'Your father, I imagine, would say that martyrs do not choose their lot, and may not even have an understanding of the matter.'

'Perhaps. But what I have just said is actually less than the truth. My incarceration did not strengthen my faith. Quite the contrary. It has, I think, destroyed it. My suffering has been quite purposeless, either for me or as any kind of example to others. Yet when I told my father that you had agreed to see me, his reaction was that it was all part of God's evident purpose in the world. Which is why, Sir Arthur, I asked if you were a Christian.'