At this question she seemed to freeze suddenly. Her eyes traversed him from head to foot before she answered him; then in cold clear tones she said: ‘I am the wife of Oscar Boyd.’
‘I thought I could not be mistaken,’ replied the Baronet, with his most insinuating smile.—‘I am Sir Frederick Pinkerton. But it is so long since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, that in all probability you have quite forgotten me.’
There was something about him that had evidently aroused her suspicions. She was at a loss to know what ground to take with him. ‘Yes—I cannot quite call you to mind,’ she said hesitatingly, after a little pause. ‘And yet? No. Tell me where I have seen you before.’
‘At New Orleans.’
‘Ha! I have not been at New Orleans for many years.’
‘I met you on two or three occasions in society, a few months after your marriage.’
‘Yes—I think I remember you now. But it is a long time ago, monsieur, and I was introduced to so many people about that time.’
‘I entertain a very distinct recollection of you, madam.’
‘I am indeed flattered, monsieur.’ She smiled a little set smile, which came and went as if it were produced by clockwork. She was evidently far from being at her ease.
‘Your unexpected appearance must have been a great surprise to Mr Boyd—a surprise and a pleasure in one. The return of a wife whom he believed to have been lost to him for ever several years ago! What a unique experience!’