Ten years passed quickly away in the worry and turmoil of a daily increasing business, when a morning delivery brought me a strangely-worded invitation to dinner at the Inns of Court Hotel. I had transferred my business to London by this time. The note I cannot put my hands on for the moment, but it was to the effect that a gentleman who was once well acquainted with me, and who had been out of the country for some years, would be glad if I would dine that day with him and his wife. The signature was not familiar to me, but I had so many clients it (the invitation) might have emanated from one of them. I decided to accept, and wrote a line to that effect to my unknown host.
A few minutes to seven—the hour mentioned—I presented myself at the hotel, and was ushered into a sitting-room on the first floor, where preparations had been made for dinner, but there was no one present. In a minute or two, however, the door of the room opened, and a heavily-bearded man entered, whom I did not know from Adam, who heartily shook hands with me.
"So you don't recollect me?" he said with a laugh.
"I have not that pleasure," I answered. "A client, I presume."
"Why, Jim, you are more stupid than I thought; has ten years made such a difference in your old schoolfellow, Augustus Graham?"
It was a few minutes before I could speak—I was so utterly taken by surprise. He was the very last man I expected to see on earth. When the film of doubt had at length been removed from my eyes, he went into the next room, and came back leading a lady.
"My wife!" he said.
"We are old acquaintances," said the lady, smilingly.
It was Mrs. Murray, looking as beautiful as she did ten years before.
"So you did not perish in the theatre that night, after all?"