Yes, the stranger was Sir Harold Wynde—alive and well!
“You know me then, Major?” he said. “I am not changed, as I thought, beyond all recognition!”
He held out his hand. The major grasped it in a mixture of bewilderment and amazement, and not without a thrill of superstitious terror.
“I—I thought you were dead, Sir Harold,” he stammered. “We all thought so, Graham and all. We thought you were killed by a tiger. I—I don’t know what to make of this!”
Sir Harold let go the major’s hand and staggered to the bamboo couch upon which he sank wearily.
“He’s not dead—but dying,” muttered the major. “Lord bless my soul! What am I to do?”
He clapped his hands vigorously. A moment later his Hindoo servant Karrah glided around upon the front veranda.
“Bring brandy—sherbet—anything!” gasped the major, pointing at his guest. “He’s fainting, Karrah—”
Sir Harold lifted his weary head and gazed upon the Hindoo. The sight seemed to endue him with new life. He leaped to his feet, and his blue eyes blazed with an awful lightning, as he pointed one long and bony finger at the native, and cried:
“Traitor! Viper! Arrest him, Major. I accuse him—”