The millionaire turned, and grew as ashy pale at sight of the shabby stranger as he could have done if the sheeted dead had risen from one of the graves near at hand. But he uttered no exclamation of horror or surprise. He only shrank haughtily away from the Major's touch, as if there had been some infection to be dreaded from those dirty finger-tips. "May I be permitted to know your motive for this intrusion, sir?" the banker asked, in a cold, repellent voice, looking the shabby intruder full in the eyes as he spoke. There was something so resolute, so defiant, in the rich man's gaze, that it is a wonder the poor man did not shrink from encountering it. But he did not: he gave back look for look. "Don't say you've forgotten me, Mr. Dunbar," he said; "don't say you've forgotten a very old acquaintance." This was spoken after a pause, in which the two men had looked at each other as earnestly as if each had been trying to read the inmost secrets of the other's soul. "Don't say you've forgotten me, Mr. Dunbar," repeated the Major. Henry Dunbar smiled. It was a forced smile, perhaps; but, at any rate, it was a smile. "I have a great many acquaintances," he said; "and I fancy you must have gone down in the world since I knew you, if I may judge from appearances." The bystanders, who had listened to every word, began to murmur among themselves. "Yes, indeed, they should rather think so:—if ever this shabby stranger had known Mr. Dunbar, and if he was not altogether an impostor, he must have been a very different sort of person at the time of his acquaintance with the millionaire." "When and where did I know you?" asked Henry Dunbar, with his eyes still looking straight into the eyes of the other man. "Oh, a long time ago—a very long way off!" "Perhaps it was—somewhere in India—up the country?' said the banker, very slowly. "Yes, it was in India—up the country," answered the other. "Then you won't find me slow to befriend you," said Mr. Dunbar. "I am always glad to be of service to any of my Indian acquaintances—even when the world has treated them badly. Get into my carriage, and I'll drive you home. I shall be able to talk to you by-and-by, when all this wedding business is over." The two men seated themselves side by side upon the spring cushions of the banker's luxurious carriage; and the vehicle drove rapidly away, leaving the spectators in a rapture of admiration at Henry Dunbar's condescension to his shabby Indian acquaintance. CHAPTER XXV. AFTER THE WEDDING. The banker and the man who was called the Major talked to each other earnestly enough throughout the short drive between Lisford churchyard and Maudesley Abbey; but they spoke in low confidential whispers, and their conversation was interlarded by all manner of strange phrases; the queer, outlandish words were Hindostanee, no doubt, and were by no means easy to comprehend.