Atkins clutched his pistol, quietly upon his guard.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
The stranger took off his hat, revealing the upper portion of a noble head, crowned with grizzled hair. Then slowly he turned down his greatcoat collar, and stood before Atkins without disguise, displaying a grandly noble face, with keen blue eyes, a pale bronzed countenance, and sternly set lips above a gray military beard.
Atkins’ hand dropped to his side. With a wild and stifled shriek, he staggered to a chair, his eyes glaring wildly at the stranger.
“My God!” he cried, with white lips. “Sir Harold Wynde!”
Sir Harold—for it was indeed he, returned that day to England, after a prolonged journey from India—smiled his old warm smile, and held out his hand.
“Sir Harold Wynde!” repeated Atkins, not taking the hand—“who—who died—”
“I can give you the best of proofs, Atkins, that I did not die in India,” said the baronet, with a cheery little laugh. “You look at me as at a ghost, but I’m no ghost. Feel my hand. Is not that real flesh and blood? Atkins, you are giving me a sorry welcome, my old friend.”
Atkins still stared with a wild incredulity at his old friend and employer. He could not yet comprehend the glad truth.
“I—I must be dreaming,” he muttered. “I felt queer to-night. I—”