At the end of that time I was suddenly conscious that she had laid down her book, and was regarding me through partially-closed eyes. I too laid down my paper. Our eyes met, and she smiled.
"Forgive me," she said, "but did I not see you one day last week upon the sands at Braster with Lady Angela Harberly?"
"I believe so," I answered. "You were riding, I think, with her brother."
"How fortunate that I should find myself travelling with a neighbour!" she murmured. "I rather dreaded this night journey. I just missed the six o'clock, and I have been at the station ever since."
I understood at once one of the charms of this woman. Her voice was deliciously soft and musical. The words seemed to leave her lips slowly, almost lingeringly, and she spoke with the precision and slight accent of a well-educated foreigner. Her eyes seemed to be wandering all over me and my possessions, yet her interest, if it amounted to that, never even suggested curiosity or inquisitiveness.
"It is scarcely a pleasant journey at this time of night," I remarked.
"Indeed, no," she assented. "I wonder if you know my name? I am Mrs.
Smith-Lessing, of Braster Grange. And you?"
"My name is Guy Ducaine," I told her. "I live at a small cottage called the 'Brand.'"
"That charming little place you can just see from the sands?" she exclaimed. "I thought the Duke's head-keeper lived there."
"It was a keeper's lodge before the Duke was kind enough to let it to me," I told her.