"Because I felt certain that you didn't recognise me," she laughed; "and I had no wish to spy upon you, knowing as I do that your life is the reverse of happy." "Then you pity me, eh?" "I scarcely think that is the word that one of my position ought to use," she answered, with some hesitation. "Your life has, since your marriage, not been of the happiest, that's certain." "And so you have no intention of telling any one where I've gone?" I asked eagerly. "None in the least, sir. Rest assured that I shall say nothing--not a single word." "I thank you," I said, and sat back pondering in silence until the train ran into Waterloo, where we parted, she again reassuring me of her intention to keep my secret. I congratulated myself upon a very narrow escape, and, taking a cab, drove straight to Trafalgar Square. As I crossed Waterloo Bridge the long line of lights on the Embankment presented the same picture as they had ever done. Though six years had passed since I had last had knowledge of London, nothing had apparently changed. The red night-glare in the leaden sky was still the same; the same unceasing traffic; the same flashing of bright dresses and glittering jewels as hansoms passed and repassed in the Strand--just as I had known London by night during all my life. The gold-braided porter at the _Grand_ handed me out of the cab, and I ascended by the lift to the room allotted to me like a man in a dream. It hardly seemed possible that I could have been absent in mind from that whirling, fevered world of London for six whole years. I had given a false name in the reception bureau, fearing that those people who called themselves my friends--Heaven save the mark!--might make inquiries and cause my arrest as a wandering lunatic. I had no baggage, and I saw that the hotel-clerk looked upon me with some suspicion. Indeed, I threw down a couple of sovereigns, well knowing the rules that no person without luggage was taken unless he paid a deposit beforehand. I laughed bitterly within myself. How strange it was! Next morning I went forth and wandered down the Strand--the dear old Strand that I had once loved so well. No; it had in no wise changed, except, perhaps, that two or three monster buildings had sprung up, and that the theatres announced pieces quite unknown to me. A sudden desire seized me to see what kind of place was my own office. If, however, I went near there, I might, I reflected, be recognised by some one who knew me. Therefore I turned into a barber's and had my beard cut off, then, further on, bought a new dust coat and another hat. In that disguise I took a hansom to Old Broad Street.