“How did the bearer of this strange tale discover these strange facts, if facts they are?” he demanded. “I should like to see this gentleman from India? I should like to question him—”
He paused, as the door of the inner room opened, and Sir Harold Wynde, pale and haggard, came into the outer office.
Lord Towyn uttered a strange cry, and sprang backward, his face whitening to deathliness.
Sir Harold approached the young man, extending his hand.
“Behold ‘the gentleman from India,’” he said, faintly smiling. “My dear boy, ask me as many questions as you like. Don’t you know me, Arthur, that you stare at me so? I am no ghost, although our friend Atkins took me for one.”
Another cry, but this time a cry of rapture, broke from the young earl’s lips. He bounded forward and clasped Sir Harold’s hands in his, and both were silent with an emotion too mighty for speech.
Atkins turned aside to add fresh fuel to the blazing fire, his own features working.
“Sir Harold! O, Sir Harold!” cried Lord Towyn at last, in a very ecstasy of gladness. “What a joy this will be to my poor little Neva! She has mourned for you as dead, and I have thought that the shadow of your supposed fate would darken all her life. How glad she will be, my poor little girl!”
“Your little girl?” said Sir Harold.
Lord Towyn’s fair face flushed.