Midwinter started back at the sight of it, and
even the less finely strung nerves of his friend were shaken for
the moment.
"Who the devil are you?" cried Allan.
The figure bared its head in the gray light, and came slowly a
step nearer. Midwinter advanced a step on his side, and looked
closer. It was the man of the timid manners and the mourning
garments, of whom he had asked the way to Thorpe Ambrose where
the three roads met.
"Who are you?" repeated Allan.
"I humbly beg your pardon, sir," faltered the stranger, stepping
back again, confusedly. "The servants told me I should find Mr.
Armadale--"
"What, are you Mr. Bashwood?"
"Yes, if you please, sir."
"I beg your pardon for speaking to you so roughly," said Allan;
"but the fact is, you rather startled me. My name is Armadale
(put on your hat, pray), and this is my friend, Mr. Midwinter,
who wants your help in the steward's office."
"We hardly stand in need of an introduction," said Midwinter.
"I met Mr. Bashwood out walking a few days since, and he was kind
enough to direct me when I had lost my way."
"Put on your hat," reiterated Allan, as Mr. Bashwood, still
bareheaded, stood bowing speechlessly, now to one of the young
men, and now to the other.
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