She had a rich, deep contralto voice, one of those speaking voices that at once arouse interest and curiosity. It aroused interest now, for the guests seated in the hall simultaneously interrupted their conversation in order to look at the new arrival, so striking was her appearance.
“I went to the station quite a while ago,” Paulton said. “They told me the train could not arrive.”
“It has not arrived yet, I believe,” she answered. “I got off at a wayside station, drove the two miles into Beaulieu, and then hired the car which has just brought me on here.”
She was indeed a handsome woman, obviously a woman of singular personality. Exceedingly dark, with great coils of blue-black hair that her travelling-veil only partly concealed, she was very handsome still. When I had watched her for nearly a minute, wondering whom she might be, my gaze unconsciously drifted to the quietly-dressed maid who stood respectfully and demurely a few feet behind her mistress, bearing a large leather dressing-case in her hand. Her appearance somehow seemed familiar. Suddenly she turned her face rather more towards me, and I recognised her at once.
It was Judith, the French girl who had been Lady Thorold’s maid. Her beady little black eyes rested on me for an instant, then were quietly lowered. But instinctively I knew that in that single, swift glance she had recognised me—and I certainly held her in suspicion.
“The rooms have been retained for you Baronne,” I heard Paulton say, “the rooms you had last year. Shall I order supper?”
“Certainly. Please do,” the deep voice answered. “Tell Gustave to send it to my rooms in a quarter of an hour. Ma foi! I am famished.”
For the first time I noticed that she spoke with a foreign accent. But it was not very marked.
“Then I shall see you later,” Paulton said, as the new arrival moved towards the lift. “À tantôt, Baronne.”
“À bientôt.”