Had a bombshell exploded in the room Mrs. Bourne could not possibly have been more astonished. She staggered back several paces and sank into a chair; she became deathly pale, and her whole appearance was indicative of terror intermingled with despair.
“You, William Rawton?” she presently ejaculated. “It is not—it cannot be possible. Rawton has been dead for more than fifteen years.”
The gipsy slowly shook his head.
“You are mistaken, madam,” he said in a tone of abject humiliation, “I am that man.”
“But he was drowned in Harcott’s Mill, I heard, years and years ago.”
“A man, supposed to be Rawton, was drowned there, and there was an inquest on the body, but it was not me.”
“I am ruined, undone, and the most miserable of mortals,” exclaimed Mrs. Bourne, wringing her hands. “What has brought you here, and what is the object of this visit?”
“Do not be alarmed. It has not been my own seeking. I am here by the merest accident, and the very last person in the world I expected to meet here is yourself.”
“I am appalled! Gracious heaven, what am I to do? And you—are in the depths of poverty, I presume?”
“That is so; but do not suppose I mean you any harm. We have been strangers for twenty years—let us continue to be so.”