"I am a poor weak fool," he said, quietly; "very weak and very foolish, when I think there can be anything in that old story to touch your heart, Mr. Dunbar. I will not offend you again, believe me. I have not led a very sober life of late years: I've had a touch of _delirium tremens_, and my nerves are not as strong as they used to be: but I'll not annoy you again. I'm quite ready to make myself useful in any way you may require." "Get me a time-table, then, and let's see about the trains. I don't want to stay in Southampton all day." Joseph Wilmot rang, and ordered the time-table; Henry Dunbar studied it. "There is no express before ten o'clock at night," he said; "and I don't care about travelling by a slow train. What am I to do with myself in the interim?" He was silent for a few moments, turning over the leaves of Bradshaw's Guide, and thinking. "How far is it from here to Winchester?" he asked presently. "Ten miles, or thereabouts, I believe," Joseph answered. "Ten miles! Very well, then, Wilmot, I'll tell you what I'll do. I've a friend in the neighbourhood of Winchester, an old college companion, a man who has a fine estate in Hampshire, and a house near St. Cross. If you'll order a carriage and pair to be got ready immediately, we'll drive over to Winchester. I'll go and see my old friend Michael Marston; we'll dine at the George, and go up to London by the express which leaves Winchester at a quarter past ten. Go and order the carriage, and lose no time about it, that's a good fellow." Half an hour after this the two men left Southampton in an open carriage, with the banker's portmanteau, dressing-case, and despatch-box, and Joseph Wilmot's carpet-bag. It was three o'clock when the carriage drove away from the entrance of the Dolphin Hotel: it wanted five minutes to four when Mr. Dunbar and his companion entered the handsome hall of the George. Throughout the drive the banker had been in very excellent spirits, smoking cheroots, and admiring the lovely English landscape, the spreading pastures, the glimpses of woodland, the hills beyond the grey cathedral city, purple in the distance. He had talked a good deal, making himself very familiar with his humble friend. But he had not talked so much or so loudly as Joseph Wilmot. All gloomy memories seemed to have melted away from this man's mind. His former moody silence had been succeeded by a manner that was almost unnaturally gay. A close observer would have detected that his laugh was a little forced, his loudest merriment wanting in geniality: but Henry Dunbar was not a close observer. People in Calcutta, who courted and admired the rich banker, had been wont to praise the aristocratic ease of his manner, which was not often disturbed by any vulgar demonstration of his own emotions, and very rarely ruffled by any sympathy with the joys, or pity for the sorrows, of his fellow-creatures.