'Very well.' Arthur is impressed by such firmness – indeed, stubbornness. 'I should like to meet your parents. Also your sister. Discreetly, however. My instinct is always to go directly at things, but there are times when tactics and even bluff are necessary. As Lionel Amery likes to say, if you fight with a rhinoceros, you don't want to tie a horn to your nose.' George is baffled by this analogy, but Arthur does not notice. 'I doubt it would help our cause if I were to be seen tramping the district with you or a member of your family. I need a contact, an acquaintance in the village. Perhaps you can suggest one.'

'Harry Charlesworth,' replies George automatically, just as if facing Great-Aunt Stoneham, or Greenway and Stentson. 'Well, we sat next to one another at school. I pretended he was my friend. We were the two clever boys. My father used to rebuke me for not being friendlier with the farm boys, but frankly there was little contact possible. Harry Charlesworth has taken over the running of his father's dairy. He has an honest reputation.'

'You say you had little society with the village?'

'And they little with me. In truth, Sir Arthur, I always intended, after qualifying, to live in Birmingham. I found Wyrley – between ourselves – a dull and backward place. At first I continued living at home, fearing to break the news to my parents, ignoring the village except for necessities. Having boots repaired, for example. And then gradually I found myself, not exactly trapped, but living so much within my family that it was becoming harder and harder to even think of leaving. And I am very attached to my sister Maud. So that was my position until… all that you know was done to me. After I was released from prison, it was naturally impossible for me to return to Staffordshire. So now I am in London. I have lodgings in Mecklenburgh Square, with Miss Goode. My mother was with me in the first weeks after my release. But Father needs her at home. She comes down when she can be spared to see how I am faring. My life-' George pauses for a moment, 'my life, as you can see, is in abeyance.'

Arthur notes again how cautious and exact George is, whether describing large matters or small, emotions or facts. His man is a first-class witness. It is not his fault if he is unable to see what others can. 'Mr Edalji-'

'George, please.' Sir Arthur's pronunciation has been slipping back to Ee-dal-jee, and his new patron must be spared embarrassment.

'You and I, George, you and I, we are… unofficial Englishmen.'

George is taken aback by this remark. He regards Sir Arthur as a very official Englishman indeed: his name, his manner, his fame, his air of being absolutely at ease in this grand London hotel, even down to the time he kept George waiting. If Sir Arthur had not appeared to be part of official England, George would probably not have written to him in the first place. But it seems impolite to question a man's categorization of himself.

Instead, he reflects upon his own status. How is he less than a full Englishman? He is one by birth, by citizenship, by education, by religion, by profession. Does Sir Arthur mean that when they took away his freedom and struck him off the Rolls, they also struck him off the roll of Englishmen? If so, he has no other land. He cannot go back two generations. He can hardly return to India, a place he has never visited and has little desire to.

'Sir Arthur, when my… troubles began, my father would sometimes take me into his study and instruct me about the achievements of famous Parsees. How this one became a successful businessman, that one a Member of Parliament. Once – though I have not the slightest interest in sports – he told me about a Parsee cricket team which had come from Bombay and made a tour of England. Apparently they were the first team from India to visit these shores.'

'1886, I believe. Played about thirty, won only a single match, I'm afraid. Forgive me – in my idle hours I am a student of Wisden. They returned a couple of years later, with better results, I seem to remember.'

'You see, Sir Arthur, you are more knowledgeable than I am. And I am unable to pretend to be something I am not. My father brought me up an Englishman, and he cannot, when things become difficult, attempt to console me with matters he has never previously stressed.'

'Your father came from…?'

'Bombay. He was converted by missionaries. They were Scottish, in fact. As my mother is.'

'I understand your father,' says Sir Arthur. It is a phrase, George realizes, that he has never in his life heard before. 'The truths of one's race and the truths of one's religion do not always lie in the same valley. Sometimes it is necessary to cross a high ridge in winter snow to find the greater truth.'

George ponders this remark as if it is part of a sworn affidavit. 'But then your heart is divided and you are cut off from your people?'

'No – then it is your duty to tell your people about the valley over the ridge. You look back down to the village whence you have come, and you observe that they have dipped the flags in salute, because they imagine that getting to the ridge itself is the triumph. But it is not. And so you raise your ski stick to them and point. Down there, you indicate, down there is the truth, down there in the next valley. Follow me over the ridge.'

George came to the Grand Hotel anticipating a concentrated examination of the evidence in his case. The conversation has taken several unexpected turns. Now he is feeling somewhat lost. Arthur senses a certain dismay in his new young friend. He feels responsible; he has meant to be encouraging. Enough reflection, then; it is time for action. Also, for anger.

'George, those who have supported you so far – Mr Yelverton and all the rest – have done sterling work. They have been utterly diligent and correct. If the British state were a rational institution, you would even now be back at your desk in Newhall Street. But it is not. So my plan is not to repeat the work of Mr Yelverton, to express the same reasonable doubts and make the same reasonable requests. I am going to do something different. I am going to make a great deal of noise. The English – the official English – do not like noise. They think it vulgar; it embarrasses them. But if calm reason has not worked, I shall give them noisy reason. I shall not use the back stairs but the front steps. I shall bang a big drum. I intend to shake more than a few trees, George, and we shall see what rotten fruit falls down.'

Sir Arthur stands to say goodbye. Now he towers over the little law clerk. Yet he has not done this in their conversation. George is surprised that such a famous man can listen as well as fulminate, be gentle as well as forceful. Despite this last declaration, however, he feels the need for some basic verification.

'Sir Arthur, may I ask… to put it simply… you think me innocent?'

Arthur looks down with a clear, steady gaze. 'George, I have read your newspaper articles, and now I have met you in person. So my reply is, No, I do not think you are innocent. No, I do not believe you are innocent. I know you are innocent.' Then he extends a large, athletic hand, toughened by numerous sports of which George is entirely ignorant.