The passengers began to come on shore at about eleven o'clock. There were a good many children and English nursemaids; three or four military-looking men, dressed in loose garments of grey and nankeen colour; several ladies, all more or less sunburnt; a couple of ayahs; three men-servants; and an aristocratic-looking man of about fifty-five, dressed, unlike the rest of the travellers, in fine broadcloth, with a black-satin cravat, a gold pin, a carefully brushed hat, and varnished boots.
His clothes, in fact, were very much of the same fashion as those which Joseph Wilmot had chosen for himself.
This man was Henry Dunbar; tall and broad-chested, with grey hair and moustache, and with a haughty smile upon his handsome face.
Joseph Wilmot stood among the little crowd, motionless as a statue, watching his old betrayer.
"Not much changed," he murmured; "very little changed! Proud, and selfish, and cruel then—proud, and selfish, and cruel now. He has grown older, and stouter, and greyer; but he is the same man he was five-and-thirty years ago. I can see it all in his face."
He advanced as Henry Dunbar landed, and approached the Anglo-Indian.
"Mr. Dunbar, I believe?" he said, removing his hat.
"Yes, I am Mr. Dunbar."
"I have been sent from the office in St. Gundolph Lane, sir," returned Joseph; "I have a letter for you from Mr. Balderby. I came to meet you, and to be of service to you."
Henry Dunbar looked at him doubtfully.