"Good-day to you, sir," said a voice behind him, with a slight foreign accent. "You wish for to--ah!" broke off Catinka, as Paul turned--"it is my nice critic of the English town! How do you do, Mr. Mexton?"
"You have not forgotten me," said Paul, in rather a faltering voice.
"Oh, my dear, no! I never forget those who speak well of me. Sit down, you good young critic, and let us talk of what you wish."
The violinist was a pretty, sparkling brunette, of no great height, with an olive-hued face, handsome and calm. She was dressed to perfection in a tea-gown of amber-coloured silk, trimmed with black lace; and her back hair was gathered into a kind of coronet, through which was thrust a tortoise-shell silver-headed pin. She was all vivacity and charm and sympathy; yet Baldini had assured him that she had no heart and that she was a dangerous conspirator. Paul could believe neither statement in the presence of this dainty little lady.
"And now, Mr. Mexton," cried Catinka, when they were seated, "why you come for this visit--eh?"
"I want to ask you a question."
"Oh yes; assuredly. What you will, my dear sir?"
"It has to do with Barnstead," said Paul, in a hesitating manner.
Catinka's charming face hardened, and she shot a keen look at Paul. "Ah!" said she, after a pause; "that is a place near to your city where I was giving--a concert. Quite so. Oh, yes. And what you say about Barnstead?"
"I want to know why you were in Barnstead Church three weeks ago?"