"You have recognised me, I rather think, sir; but do you recollect where and under what circumstances it was that you saw me?"
"I do not indeed; I have not the most distant idea," I said; "but I certainly do recollect having seen you before."
"And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is impossible I should ever forget either you or the occasion that introduced me to you. Do you," she added, "recollect of a young woman calling on you one morning at your lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in readiness, on the Greenock road, to aid"—and here she paused a moment, and betrayed great emotion—"the escape," she resumed, "of Angus M'Intyre."
I need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I knew ere it was half concluded that it was the deliverer of my unhappy friend who stood before me.
"I do, I do, perfectly," I replied—"you are the very person. This is, indeed, strange—most singular—our meeting here again, and in this way. But who, in Heaven's name, are you?" I added; "that I have never yet known."
The lady smiled sadly. "Did you ever hear your unfortunate friend speak of one Miss Eliza Stewart?" she said.
"Often, often," I replied; "to that lady I always understood he was to have been married, had not that deplorable occurrence taken place, which so miserably changed his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life."
"It was so," said my fair companion, with increased emotion. "I am that person."
"Impossible!"
"It is true; I am Eliza Stewart."