“Proceed, sir.”
“I was about to ask of you, Mr. Wilton, whether you ever lived in Devonshire?”
“Am I, before I reply, permitted to ask your motive in questioning me? You, a stranger.”
“Unquestionably. I have just returned from India after an absence—with one short exception—-of seventeen years. One of my first objects, on arriving in England, on retiring from the service, has been to find out those old friends, dwelling in this country, who, in my early years, were kind and generous in their conduct to me. Among those I can so class, was a gentleman of the name of Wilton, who dwelt at Harleydale Manor, Devon. A chance glance at that young lady’s exquisite face awakened memories long since slumbering, and the accidental mention of your name, in connection with it, led me to seek you to ask whether you are Eustace Wilton, of Harleydale Manor?”
Old Wilton’s lip quivered; he drew himself up erect, and said—
“I am that man!”
The officer rose to his feet, and grasped his hand, shaking it with great apparent warmth.
“Time has wrought great changes in us both,” he said. “I am Colonel Mires of the Bengal army—that same Ensign Mires whom you defended at a moment when honour, reputation, family, life itself were at stake.”
Old Wilton started as the name fell upon his ears; he raised his eyes to the face of the officer, and appeared to scan every lineament. Then, uttering an exclamation of wonder, he released his hand from the grip of the colonel, and sank into his seat with an air of stupefaction.