younger lady said, without a shadow of embarrassment—
"I reckon, before we begin, we'd better do a little introducing, don't you? This lady (she pointed to her companion) is my very kind friend Mrs. Beecher, of Boston, with whom I am travelling; you've probably heard of Beecher's patent double-action sofa springs, I reckon? I am Kate Sanderson, of New York, only daughter of millionaire Sanderson, of Wall Street, whom I guess you've heard all about too. So you see we're both of the United States of America, and very much at your service."
"I am very glad to have met you," I answered. "My name is De Normanville, and I hail from London."
"Not Dr. De Normanville, of Cavendish Square, surely?"
"Yes, the same. Cavendish Square was my London address two years ago. But how do you come to know it?"
"Well, now, if that isn't real extraordinary! I thought I recognised you directly I set eyes on you. But it's mighty plain you don't remember me! That's not much of a compliment any way you look at it. Is it, Mrs. Beecher?"
The elder declined to commit herself, so Miss Sanderson once more turned to me.
"Just think now. Dr. De Normanville," she said. "Look at me well, and try to remember where we have met before."
I looked and looked, but for the life of me I could not recall her face, and yet somehow it seemed strangely familiar to me. All the time I was watching her she sat gazing at me with an amused smile upon her face, and
