It was bitterly cold when we landed early in January at Southampton, and my native land seemed to have retired from view behind a thick veil of fog.
We had a wretched journey up to London, packed as tight as sardines in a tin, much to the disgust of Carr, who accompanied me to town, and who, with his usual thoughtfulness, had in vain endeavored to keep the carriage to ourselves, by liberal tips to guards and porters.

When we at last arrived in London he insisted on getting me a cab and seeing my luggage onto it, before he looked after his own at all.

It was only when I had given the cabman my sister's address that he finally took his leave, and disappeared among the throng of people who were jostling each other near the luggage-vans.
Curiously enough, when I arrived at my destination an odd thing happened.

I got out at the green door of 23, Suburban Residences, and when the maid opened it, walked straight past her into the drawing-room.
"Well, Jane!" I cried.
A pale middle-aged woman rose as I came in, and I stood aghast.

It was not my sister.