William Le Queux (continued 2)

At last, after some haggling, more in order to conceal my anxiety to obtain it than anything else, I said, with affected reluctance—

“I haven’t the money with me. It’s a pretty thing, but a trifle too dear.” And I turned as though to leave.

“Well, now, ninetheen pound won’t hurt yer. You shall ’ave it for ninetheen pound.”

“Eighteen ten, if you like,” I said. “What time do you close?”

“Nine.”

“Then I’ll be back before that with the money,” I answered, and I saw the gleam of satisfaction in the Hebrew’s eyes, for it had been pawned for five pounds. He, however, was not aware that it was I who was getting the best of the bargain.

I drove in a cab back to the Constitutional Club, where I had left my bag for the night, and the secretary, a friend of mine, at once cashed a cheque, with the result that within an hour I had the necklet and deposited it safely in my suit-case, gratified beyond measure to know that at least I had baffled the police in the possession of this very suspicious piece of evidence.

From the Jew I had endeavoured to ascertain casually who had pledged the ornament, but neither he nor his assistant recollected. In that particularly improvident part of London with its floating population of struggling actors and music-hall artistes, each pawnbroker has thousands of chance clients, therefore recollection is well-nigh impossible.

Having successfully negotiated this matter, however, a second and more difficult problem presented itself, namely, how was I to avoid delivering the letter to Sir Stephen Layard, the Home Secretary—the Earl’s request that the Criminal Investigation Department should hound down the woman I adored?

My duty was to go at once to Pont Street and deliver the Earl’s note, but my loyalty to my love demanded that I should find some excuse for withholding it.

I stood on the club steps in Northumberland Avenue watching the arrivals and departures from the Hotel Victoria opposite, hesitating in indecision. If I did not call upon Sir Stephen, then some suspicion might be aroused, therefore I resolved to see him and during the interview nullify by some means the urgency of the Earl’s request.

The Cabinet Minister, a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with keen eyes and very pronounced aquiline features, entered the library a few minutes after I had sent in my card. He was in evening clothes, having, it appeared, just dined with several guests, but was nevertheless eager to serve such a powerful supporter of his party as the Earl of Stanchester.

We had met before, therefore I needed no introduction, but instead of delivering the letter I deemed it best to explain matters in my own way.

“I must apologise for intruding at this hour, Sir Stephen,” I commenced, “but the fact is that a very curious and tragic affair has happened in the Earl of Stanchester’s park down at Sibberton, and he has sent me to ask your opinion as to the best course to pursue in order to get the police at Scotland Yard to take up the matter.”

“What, is it a mystery or something?” inquired the well-known statesman, quickly alert.

I described how the body of the unknown man had been discovered, but added purposely that the inquest had not yet been held, and there that were several clues furnished by articles discovered in the dead man’s pockets.

“Well, the Northampton police are surely able to take up such a plain, straightforward case as that!” he remarked. “If not, they are not worth very much, I should say.”

“But his lordship has not much faith in the intelligence of the local constabulary,” I ventured to remark with a smile.

“Local constables are not usually remarkable for shrewdness or inventiveness,” he laughed. “But surely at the headquarters of the county constabulary they have several very experienced and clever officers. With such clues there can surely be little difficulty in establishing the man’s identity.”

“Then you think it unnecessary to place the matter in the hands of the Criminal Investigation Department?” I remarked.

“Quite—at least for the present,” was his reply, which instantly lifted a great weight from my mind. “We must allow the coroner’s jury to give their verdict, and, at any rate, give the local police an opportunity of making proper inquiries before we take the matter out of their hands. I much regret being unable to assist the Earl of Stanchester in the matter, but at present I am really unable to order Scotland Yard to take the matter up. If, however, the local police fail, then perhaps you will kindly tell him that I shall be very pleased to reconsider the request, and, if possible, grant it.” This was exactly the reply I desired. Indeed, I had put my case lamely on purpose, and had gradually led him to this decision.

“Of course,” I said, “I will explain to his lordship the exact position and your readiness to order expert assistance as soon as such becomes absolutely imperative. By the way,” I added, “he gave me a note to you.” And I then produced it, as though an after-thought.

He glanced over it and laid it upon his table, repeating his readiness to render the Earl all the assistance he could when the proper time came—the usual evasive reply of the Cabinet Minister.

Then he shook hands with me, and I left him, reassured that I had at least prevented the introduction of any of those clever experts in criminal investigation. The suspicions against Lolita grew darker every hour, yet even though they were well-grounded I was determined to save her.

That broad-shouldered man with whom I had seen her strolling in the early morning after the tragedy puzzled me greatly. Had I only obtained sight of him, I should, perhaps, have learnt the truth. Yet when I reviewed the whole of the mysterious circumstances my brain became awhirl. They were bewildering, for the mystery had become even more inscrutable than it at first appeared.

That my love had some connexion with the affair, I could not for a moment disguise. Her manner, her very admissions in themselves convicted her. Therefore I felt that with the facts of which I was already in possession I had greater chance than the most expert detective of pursuing my own inquiries to a successful issue.

On leaving Sir Stephen Layard’s about nine o’clock, I resolved to ascertain what kind of house was number ninety-eight in Britten Street, Chelsea, the place where lived the Frenchwoman, Lejeune. I recollected the desperate words of my love on the previous night and wondered whether the death of the unknown man might not have altered the circumstances. Somehow I had a distinct suspicion that it might, hence I resolved not to reveal my presence at the place until I had again consulted Lolita.

The darkness was complete when I alighted from the cab in the King’s Road, Chelsea, and turned down the rather dark but respectable street of even two-storied, deep-basemented houses that ran down towards the Embankment. It was one of those thoroughfares like Walpole Street and Wellington Square, where that rapacious genus, the London landlady, flourishes and grows sleek upon the tea, sugar and bottled beer of lodgers. In the night the houses seemed most grimy and depressing, some of them half-covered by sickly creepers, and others putting forward an attempt at colour with their stunted geraniums in window-boxes.

The double rap of the postman on his last round sounded time after time, by which I knew he was approaching me, therefore I retraced my steps into the King’s Road and awaited him.

He had, I noticed, finished his round, therefore a cheery word and an invitation to have a drink at the flaring public-house opposite soon rendered us friendly, and without many preliminaries I explained my reason for stopping him.

“Oh!” laughed the man, “we’re often stopped by people who make inquiries about those who live on our walks. Number ninety-eight Britten Street—a Frenchwoman? Oh, yes. Name of Lejeune. She doesn’t have many letters, but they’re mostly foreign ones.”

“What kind of people live there?” I inquired, whereupon he eyed me rather strangely, I thought, and asked—

“You’re not a friend of theirs, I suppose?”

“Not at all. I don’t know them.”

“Well, I’ll tell you in confidence. Mind, however, you don’t let it out to a single soul—but the fact is that the house is under the observation of the police, and has been for some time. Sergeant Bullen, the detective, is on duty up there at the end of the road,” and he jerked his thumb in that direction. “He said good-night to me only a minute ago.”

“The place is being watched, then?” I gasped in surprise.

“Yes. They’ve been keeping it under observation night and day for a week or more. Bullen told me one day that they expect to make an arrest which will cause a great sensation.”

“For whom are they lying in wait?”

“Oh, that I’m sure I can’t tell you! The ’tecs, although I know ’em well, don’t talk very much, you know.” And then, after some further questions to which I received entirely unsatisfactory answers, we parted.

Chapter Nine.

Tells Some Strange Truths.

Along the dark street, quiet after the glare and bustle of the King’s Road, I retraced my steps, when, about half-way up, I met a man dressed as a mechanic, idly smoking a pipe. He glanced quickly at me as I passed beneath the light of a street-lamp, and I guessed from his searching look that he was the detective Bullen.

Without apparently taking notice of him I went along almost to the end of the street, until I discovered that the house which Lolita had indicated differed little from its neighbours save that it was rendered a trifle more dingy perhaps by the London smoke. And yet the large printed numerals on the fanlight over the door gave it a bold appearance that the others did not seem to possess. The area was a deep one, but the shutters of the kitchen window were tightly closed. With the exception of the light in the hall the place seemed in darkness, presenting to me a strange, mysterious appearance, knowing all that I did. Why, I wondered, was that police officer lounging up and down keeping such a vigilant surveillance upon the place? Surely it was with some distinct motive that a plain-clothes man watched the house day and night, and to me that motive seemed that they expected that some person, now absent, might return.

There is often much mystery in those rows of smoke-blackened uniform houses that form the side-streets of London’s great thoroughfares, and the presence of the police here caused me to ponder deeply.

My first impulse had been to try and get sight of the mysterious Frenchwoman and her associates, but to escape the observation of that vigilant watcher was, I knew, impossible. So I passed along down to the Embankment, where the river flowed darkly on and the lights cast long reflections.

I was puzzled. I could not well approach the detective without making some explanation of who I was, and by doing so I recognised that I might inadvertently connect my employer’s sister with whatever offence the inmates of the mysterious house had committed.

Yet when I recollected that wild terrified declaration of Lolita’s on the previous night, how she had told me that if the Frenchwoman withheld her secret “it must result in my death,” I felt spurred to approach her at all hazards. There are moments in our lives when, disregarding our natural caution, we act with precipitation and injudiciously. I fear I was given to hot-headed actions, otherwise I should never have dared to run the risk of arousing suspicion in Bullen’s mind as I did during the hours that followed.

From the fact that the house was in darkness there seemed to me a chance that the woman Lejeune was absent and that she might return home during the evening. The detective was apparently keeping watch at the King’s Road end of the street, therefore I resolved to keep a vigilant eye on the Embankment end. She might perchance approach from that direction, and if she did I hoped that I should be able to stop her and obtain a few minutes’ conversation. It was true that I did not know her, yet I felt sufficient confidence in my knowledge of persons to be able to pick out a Frenchwoman in a half-deserted London thoroughfare. The gait and manner of holding the skirts betray the daughter of Gaul anywhere.

Patiently I lounged at the corner, compelled to keep an eye upon the detective’s movements lest he should notice my continued presence. Apparently, however, he had no suspicion of a second watcher, for he stood at the opposite end of the street gossiping with all and sundry, and passing the hours as best he could. Presently a ragged newsvendor came up, and after exchanging words the man shuffled along the street in my direction, while the detective went off to get his supper. Then I knew that the ragged man was one of those spies and informers often employed by the London police and who are known in the argot of the gutter as “policemen’s noses.”

I avoided him quickly, well knowing that such men are as keen-eyed and quick-witted as the detectives themselves, being often called upon to perform observation work where the police would be handicapped and at once recognised. Many a crime in London is detected, and many a criminal brought to justice by the aid of the very useful “policeman’s nose,” whose own record, be it said, is often the reverse of clean.

It was then nearly eleven o’clock. The newsvendor had seated himself upon a doorstep half-way up the road and almost opposite the house with the number upon the fanlight, munching his supper, which he had produced from his pocket. I had watched him from around the corner and was turning back towards the Embankment, when of a sudden I heard footsteps.

On the opposite side, by the parapet which divided the roadway from the river, two persons were walking slowly, a man and a woman. In an instant I strained my eyes in their direction, and as they passed beneath one of the lamps I saw that the woman was young, dark-haired, thin-faced and rather well-dressed, while her companion was older, bearded, with a reddish bloated face which betokened an undue consumption of alcoholic liquors. As they passed on towards Britten Street I stepped across the road and walked behind them when, next instant, I recognised by the man’s dress and his broad back view that he was none other than he whom I had observed walking with Lolita in the wood that morning—the stranger whose face I had not then plainly seen!

My curiosity was aroused immediately, for on hearing the woman make an observation in French I knew that she must be the person of whom I was in search.

Was she, I wondered, aware that the police were watching her house? Should I not, by placing her on her guard, ingratiate myself with her? My object was to get her to speak the truth and thus save Lolita, therefore I should have greater chance of success were I her benefactor.

She and her companion, whoever he was, were stepping straight into the trap laid for them, therefore on the spur of the moment, regardless of the fact that I might be the means of enabling certain criminals to escape from justice, I stepped boldly up to her just before they turned the corner into Britten Street and, raising my hat, said—

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but your name, I believe, is Lejeune?”

The pair started quickly, and I saw that they were utterly confused. They were evidently endeavouring to reach the house by the less-frequented route.

“Well, and what if it is?” inquired the broad-shouldered man in a harsh bullying tone, speaking with a pronounced Cockney accent and putting forward his flabby bull-dog face in a threatening attitude.

“There’s no occasion for hot blood, my dear sir,” I replied quietly. “Just turn and walk back a few yards. I’m here to speak with mademoiselle—not with you.”

“And what do you wish with me?” the young woman inquired in very fair English.

“Come back a few yards and I’ll explain,” I responded quickly. “First, let me tell you that my name is Willoughby Woodhouse, and that I am private secretary to the Earl of Stanchester.”

“Woodhouse!” gasped her companion involuntarily, and I saw that his face went pale. “You are Mr Woodhouse!”

“Yes,” I continued, “and I have been sent here to you by Lady Lolita Lloyd to warn you that your house is being watched by the police.”

“The police!” ejaculated the man. “Are they there now?”

“They are. A detective has been keeping observation all the evening.”

“Then we must fly,” he whispered quickly. “By Jove! we’ve had a narrow escape! And, sir, I can only apologise for what I’ve just said. Of course I didn’t know who you were. The fact is I thought you were yourself a detective.”

“No apology is needed,” I smiled. “I’ve only one further word to deliver from her ladyship,” I added, turning to the young Frenchwoman, “and it is that, having given you this timely warning, she hopes that you will not fail to let her know your whereabouts. She also says that you are to regard myself as the intermediary between you.”

“Tell her that I shall not fail to recognise this kindness,” was the woman’s answer in her broken English. “But for her we might both have fallen into the hands of the police. I’ve been absent a fortnight, but thought that all was clear, otherwise I should not have dared to return here.”

“Come, let’s get away,” urged her companion anxiously.

It was on the tip of my tongue to remark upon his presence in the Monk’s Wood with her ladyship, but perhaps fortunately I held my peace. He seemed more in fear of detection than she did, for his face had gone ghastly pale and his bloodshot eyes were turned back upon the street-corner.

“Have you any message for her ladyship?” I inquired eagerly of the woman.

“Only my thanks to her.”

“But,” I said, bending to her and speaking in a low very earnest voice, “she is in grave peril. Only the truth, spoken by yourself, can save her. Recollect by giving you this warning she is saving you from the police.”

“I know. I know!” she replied. “I am fully aware of the disaster which threatens her. Tell her that I have not yet myself learned the whole truth. When I do, I will write to her.”

“But you will surely tell what you know?” I urged quickly.

“At risk of incriminating myself? Not likely,” was her reply.

“Then when the blow falls—as fall it must—it will kill her,” I said, disregarding the man’s presence, for I felt that he must certainly be aware of everything.

“Perhaps,” was her vague answer, in a hard strained voice. “If I could help her I would. At present, however, it is utterly impossible.”

“Not after this great service she has rendered to you? She has rescued you, remember.”

“Because it is not to her own interests that she should be connected with the affair,” she remarked with what seemed a sneer.

Then, for the first time, I realised what a terrible mistake I had committed. The warning I had given this woman she actually believed to be an additional sign of weakness on the part of my well-beloved!

“But her very life depends upon your words,” I cried. “You surely will not now withhold the truth?”

“I can say nothing—at least at present,” she responded evasively.

“But you must—you hear?” I cried. “You must!”

“I shall not until it suits me,” was the woman’s defiant answer, as her dark eyes flashed quickly upon me, and I recognised with what kind of person I had to deal. “Tell her that in this matter the stake is her life, or mine—and I prefer to keep my own.” And she laughed that harsh discordant laugh of a Frenchwoman triumphant.

“Then you refuse to tell the truth?” I demanded fiercely.

“I do.”

In that instant a bold plan had suggested itself. She expected to escape, but now she defied me I had no intention that she should; therefore I sprang forward, seized her, and at the same time shrieked with all my might—

“Murder! Murder! Help—help!”

Her companion flung himself upon me, beating me about the head, but I had gripped them both, and in a few moments there sounded hurrying footsteps and several persons, including the detective Bullen, came tearing round the street-corner.

Next second the pair recognised how very neatly they had been trapped.

Chapter Ten.

The Earl of Stanchester Speaks his Mind.

“Let me go!” cried the woman, speaking in French in her excitement. “Let us cry quits and I will tell the truth. If I am arrested, Lady Lolita must also fall into the hands of the police. You do not know everything or you would not do this! Let us go—and save her.”

There was something in her quick argument that struck me as truthful. If the pair were arrested they might certainly lay some counter-charge, true or false, against my love, therefore with as sudden an impulse as I had raised the alarm I released my hold, saying—

“Very well. That’s a bargain. I shall hold you both to it, remember. Get away as quickly as you can.”

And before the detective, the newsvendor and the two other men attracted by my shouts could reach the spot, the pair had sped along the Chelsea Embankment as fast as their legs could carry them and turned into a narrow thoroughfare running parallel with Britten Street.

The detective had, of course, not recognised them and when he inquired what was the matter I merely explained that two drunken men had struck me on the head when passing, and that I had been alarmed.

“Well,” he grunted, “you needn’t have kicked up such a fuss. We thought you were being killed, at least!”

“The fact is,” I responded lamely, “I was frightened. I’m from the country, you see, and don’t appreciate the horseplay of your London hooligans.”

“Then you’d better not take evening walks along this place,” was the man Bullen’s response, while the ragged newsvendor picked up my battered silk hat, and handing it to me with a grim laugh, said—

“You’ll want a new ’un, sir. Them ’ooligans likes toppers. Some o’ Jimmy Boyle’s gang agin, I ’spect.”

To which the detective answered—

“I expect so. They’ll get into trouble one of these nights.”

And so the curious incident ended. I walked with them to the further end of Britten Street, taking leave of the unsuspecting detective in the King’s Road. He returned to his vigil, but I laughed within myself knowing how ingeniously the wily pair had slipped through his fingers.

On my drive back to the club I wondered whether I had acted wisely. At any rate I had made the acquaintance of the woman Lejeune, and had succeeded in showing her that I was prepared to aid her in exchange for the secret upon the knowledge of which Lolita’s future depended. Whether she would keep faith with me was quite another matter.

I deeply regretted that I had not been able to ascertain the name of the man who had been Lolita’s companion and had talked so earnestly with her in the wood. Without doubt he knew of the tragedy in the park—if, indeed, he were not the actual murderer. This latter suspicion became somehow impressed upon me. His face had gone ashen grey when I had revealed to them that a detective was awaiting them round the corner.

Was it possible that he had come to London in order to hide, knowing that the Metropolis is the best place to secrete oneself in all the world.

Next day at noon I sat in the schoolroom at Sibberton, listening to the opening of the Coroner’s inquiry into the tragedy. The facts having already got into the papers, the small room was crowded to suffocation by villagers and outsiders. The jury had viewed the body over at the Stanchester Arms opposite, and after a few introductory remarks from the Coroner, a solicitor from Northampton, I was called as the first witness.

I told how I had obtained the assistance of the publican Warr, and described how we had found the body of the murdered man. Then, when I had concluded, the foreman of the jury, a man who combined the avocation of baker and local preacher, asked—

“What first aroused your attention?”

“I heard a noise,” I replied. I did not intend to tell them the truth—that it was a woman’s cry. “A noise from behind the trees in the avenue,” I added. “It was very dark at that point.”

“You saw no one?”

“Nobody. I came to the village at once for assistance.”

“Any other questions to ask?” inquired the Coroner of the jury.

“I would like, sir, to inquire whether Mr Woodhouse had any suspicion of the body having been searched before he discovered it?” asked Redway, the police officer.

My answer was a negative one. I feared he was about to question me regarding the footprints, and held my breath in fear and expectation.

“What time elapsed between the hour when you heard the noise and the discovery of the tragic occurrence?” the Coroner asked.

“About half an hour.”

A dozen other questions upon points of detail were put to me, but they were of no importance. Neither was the evidence given by Warr or any other of the witnesses, except perhaps that of Dr Pink, who, in his sharp way and using many medical terms which conveyed no meaning to the majority of those in the room, explained that the result of the post-mortem was that the man had been fatally stabbed.

“The instrument used was not an ordinary knife,” the doctor continued. “From the appearance of the wound it must have been inflicted by a long thin triangular instrument almost like a skewer. With a sharp point this would penetrate the man’s clothing much more easily than a knife or dagger, which requires considerable force to drive to the heart. My colleague, Doctor Newman, agrees with me that such an instrument as was used could be used fatally with very little force. It was, at the point, almost as sharp as a needle, and each of the three sides were keen-edged as razors—a terrible weapon. I don’t think it was much more than a quarter of an inch across at its widest part.”

The public heard this and sat mystified.

“Then it would appear very much as though the crime were a premeditated one,” remarked the Coroner, looking up when he had finished laboriously writing down the depositions with his scratchy quill.

“Undoubtedly,” replied the doctor. “The man is a complete stranger, and no doubt kept an appointment at that spot and was done to death. The steel inflicted a mortal wound, and he must have expired in a few moments.”

“Any questions to ask the doctor?” inquired the Coroner turning to the twelve villagers who sat in a row in their Sunday clothes.

There was no response, therefore Redway was called, and the public, to whom he was well-known, were instantly on the alert.

“Philip Redway, inspector, Northamptonshire Constabulary,” he commenced, giving his evidence with the business-like air of police officials. “I was called by Constable Knight of Sibberton at five AM on the 18th of August and drove back with him to a spot in Sibberton Park where the deceased had been discovered. I examined the ground carefully and found certain marks of footprints, casts of which I have taken. I afterwards saw the body of the deceased, but do not identify him. His description has been circulated throughout the Kingdom, but up to the present no one has recognised him. I have also had the body photographed.”

“These footprints?” asked the Coroner, laying down his pen and looking at the inspector. “Are you of opinion that they will form any substantial clue to the assassin?”

“The marks were those of a woman’s feet,” Redway explained, whereat there was a stir of sensation among the public, who sat so quiet and open-mouthed that the proverbial pin might hitherto have been heard had it been dropped.

“Recent?”

“No doubt,” was his reply. “There were also the marks of the boots worn by deceased—and of others. The latter were probably those of Mr Woodhouse, Mr Warr and Constable Knight. They were so overtrodden that it was very difficult to recognise any distinctly. One fact, however, that I might mention, sir, and which adds a peculiar mystery to this case, is that I discovered that certain footprints had been deliberately erased.”

“Erased!” exclaimed the Coroner, surprised. “How do you mean?”

“Scratched over by some person who was able to visit the spot before I could arrive there.”

“Some accomplice?”

“It seems so. The spot was unfortunately left unguarded during Knight’s absence to warn me, and in that time it would appear that some one went there and deliberately set about to defeat the ends of justice.”

“This seems very curious and suspicious, gentlemen,” remarked the Coroner, re-adjusting his gold pince-nez as he turned to the twelve expectant jurymen. “If the theory of the police is true, then some second person, having knowledge of the crime, risked arrest and actually went to the spot and effaced those tell-tale marks. That the assassin had an accomplice is thus proved without a doubt. Therefore I think that under such peculiar circumstances you should leave the matter in the hands of the police to investigate. They will, I hope, be able both to establish the dead man’s identity, and to fix the crime upon the guilty person. In cases such as this it is always best for the jury to return a verdict of ‘Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown,’ as it allows the police an entirely free hand afterwards, and prevents them from being compelled in evidence to disclose the nature or direction of the inquiries.”

“Redway’s a fool. He’ll discover nothing,” whispered the Earl to me, as he stood beside me in the further corner of the schoolroom. “If Sir Stephen had stirred up Scotland Yard we might have hoped for success. But now it’s in Redway’s hands we may rest assured it will be bungled from the very first.”

“I fear so,” was my reply, although at heart I was honestly glad that the inquiries were left to the local constabulary.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed the foreman of the jury to the Coroner, “we are, I think, entirely in your hands.”

“You’ve heard the evidence, and that is as far as we can proceed to-day,” he said. “Of course if you deem it wiser to adjourn for a week you may do so. You are here to decide not who committed the murder but to inquire by what means the deceased came by his death. About the latter I think you can have no doubt, and if you return a verdict in accordance with the evidence—a verdict of wilful murder—then the police will push their inquiries, I hope, to some successful issue. Are you all agreed?”

The twelve villagers in their Sunday tweeds whispered together and the local baker at last replied in the affirmative. Then the verdict was signed, and Knight in a loud voice thanked the jury for their attendance and declared the court closed.

Thus ended the official inquiry into the death of the man unknown—the man who had carried secreted within his vest the paper with those strange cabalistic numbers written upon it, and who, strangest of all, had worn in the ring upon his finger a portrait of my love!

Chapter Eleven.

Certain Questions and their Answers.

The inquest concluded, I walked back to the Hall with the Earl. The latter was annoyed that the Home Secretary had not acted upon his suggestion. He was young, and therefore impetuous sometimes, as a man of his great wealth is perhaps apt to be. Since his marriage he had, I noticed, become more quick-tempered, restless and rather less good-humoured than in his buoyant bachelor days. The gay irresponsibility of Marigold, his wife, worried him, I knew, and I therefore looked upon his irritability as only natural.

“The whole thing’s a confounded mystery, Woodhouse,” he remarked after a long silence as we went up the avenue, glad of the shade, for it was a blazing day. “I haven’t yet told that thick-headed fool Redway about the fellow watching me in London. Do you think I ought?”

“No,” I answered. “Let him find out for himself. He’s got lots of self-assurance, therefore he may, I think, be allowed to show his great talent as a tracker of criminals.”

“By Jove! you’re right,” he laughed. “If it were not for the fact that I should be aiding him, I’d pay a smart private detective myself to look into the matter. What’s all that rot he says about finding a woman’s footprint there? I expect it’s only where one of the maids from the Hall has passed along. I’ve lots of times seen courting couples from the village going along on the grass parallel with these trees, so as to avoid being noticed by any of us.” I did not remark that neither the girls of Sibberton nor the maids at the Hall were in the habit of wearing Louis XV heels. On the contrary, I entirely agreed with my employer’s remarks.

He wanted to see Frank Blew, his huntsman, therefore we struck across the wide level park to the curious old building, the gate of which, flanked by two circular towers, presented the appearance of an ancient castle, and entered the celebrated kennels of the Stanchester Foxhounds.

Blew and his assistants were in the paved courts, wearing long white smocks over their clothes and engaged in feeding the hounds as we entered. The instant we passed the low wicket-gate a dozen of them were pawing us, while the Earl, knowing each of the pack by name, cried—

“Down Jason! Down Jerry! Down Bound-away.” And each addressed by name obediently returned to his companions.

“I’ve decided the date, Blew,” the Earl said. “We begin cubbing three weeks on Monday, so you’ll have everything ready.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“We’ll commence in the covers around the park, as usual, you know. I shall fix the first meet at Spring Wood, at five. Her ladyship will be back, and both she and Lady Lolita intend cubbing this season.”

“Glad to hear that, m’lord. Last season all the Hunt regretted that the Countess came out so very little.”

“Well, let’s hope we kill as many cubs as we did last back-end. I wish all of you the best of good luck.”

“Thank you, m’lord; we shall all of us do our best, I assure you.” And the sharp-nosed, thin-faced, thin-legged huntsman, one of the “cracks” of England, touched his cap to his master to whom he had always been devoted ever since the days when he was only a stable “helper” and young Lord Sibberton used to ride to the meets on his pony.

There is still among hunting-men in England, both master and servant, a genuine camaraderie that exists in no other sport. In the hunting-field the Master is supreme to control and direct; and after that millionaire and farmer, countess and vicar’s daughter, squire and horse-breaker are all on equality, all keen upon the running down of the crafty marauder of the hen-roost.

Therefore it was not really surprising that Blew was the Earl’s adviser in all connected with the pack and with the hunt, and that in his absence at San Remo in the latter part of the winter season, or in London, he left the hounds for Frank Blew to hunt, and surely a better huntsman there was not in all the shires. After leaving Sibberton he had graduated in the Belvoir, and the Quorn kennels, and had returned to the old Earl’s service as kennel-huntsman and subsequently as huntsman.

Some conversation followed regarding the condition of the puppies, the bad epidemic of distemper, and the consequent fatality among them; the naming of some fresh puppies which were to be put out to “walk” with farmers on the estate, and then, with Blew accompanying us to the gate and raising his cap, we struck away across the park, back again to the Hall.

I lunched alone, and about four o’clock had finished the correspondence. My brain was on fire. I wanted to see Lolita, for truth to tell I wished to ascertain from her how much she knew regarding the dead man who had worn her portrait in secret.

When I had met her in that draggled condition in the wood I had purposely made no mention of the crime and its discovery, preferring to allow her to make some mention of it herself. But she had made no remark. Perhaps she, too, had been waiting for me to broach the unwelcome subject. One thing was, however, plain: with the exception of that unfortunate footprint of which Redway had taken a cast, she had succeeded in very cleverly hiding the fact that she had been absent from her room that night, or that she had had any connexion whatsoever with the tragedy.

I thought of the necklet which I now had locked safely in my room down in the village, and wondered how it possibly could have come into the young man’s possession a year ago. It surely had not been stolen, otherwise she would have remarked upon her loss. Had she given it to him? That was the question which constantly held me thinking and wondering.

I awaited my opportunity to encounter her when tea was served in the hall and, there being no visitors, she seated herself at the great silver tray and handed me my cup. The Earl had ridden over to Laxton, therefore we were alone, except for the irritating presence of Slater, the grave-faced old butler.

She was dressed to go out walking, her brown tailor-made gown fitting her like a glove and her smart straw canotier to match gave her that chic, almost Parisienne appearance which was so characteristic of her well-bred style. She always dressed well, without any undue show of laces and trimmings, but with that exquisite taste which betokens the well-turned-out woman who is an aristocrat.

I stood before the great old fireplace with its enormous bright steel dogs of an age bygone, and chatted to her, noting that in her face there was no trace of anxiety, so well did she conceal her feelings before the servants. Our conversation was rather strained, it was true, mostly about a tennis tournament over at Drayton and regarding the decision of her brother to cut down and grub-up Oxen Wood, a favourite cover which he had suddenly taken it into his head to sweep away. Then, when tea had finished, she announced her intention of walking across the park to Stanion village and invited me to accompany her.

This I eagerly did, and a few moments later we were out in the bright afternoon sunshine. Our way led first up the north avenue across the deer park for half-a-mile, then along a narrow path through one of the densest woods in the district, called Geddington Chase, and afterwards skirted the river for some distance to Stanion mill, and thence by the high road to the village.

“You have been to London,” she exclaimed in a low voice as soon as we were safely out of hearing from the Hall. “Well, did you recollect what I told you?”

“I did, and I acted according to your directions,” was my quiet answer.

“And what did the woman say?” she inquired, turning to me eagerly, her face suddenly anxious and changed.

“She told me nothing. She refused to speak.”

“Ah!” my idol gasped, and I saw the light of hope at once die from her countenance. “As I expected! Just as I feared!”

“She says she cannot yet tell the truth,” I hastened to explain. “But I have made a compact with her.”

“How?”

Then I explained how I had discovered the house in Britten Street watched by the police; and how I had been able to give the Frenchwoman warning.

“But,” I said, “will you pardon me, Lolita, if I remark upon one most peculiar circumstance?”

She started visibly and held her breath, for the tragedy had never been mentioned between us, and it seemed as though she feared I would broach it.

“You will recollect,” I went on, “that when I met you early yesterday morning you were accompanied by a man who—”

“Ah, you saw him, then!” she gasped, interrupting me.

“I did. And moreover I met that same man in Mademoiselle’s company last night.”

“With her!” she cried. “Never! Why, he doesn’t know her.”

“I met them walking together on the Chelsea Embankment,” I persisted in a quiet tone, wondering the reason of her utter amazement.

“How? Where? Tell me all about it?” she urged quickly. “There’s mystery here.”

In obedience to her wish I explained the circumstances just as I have already recorded them; how I had first implored her to divulge her secret, and then in order to threaten her, had called the police, afterwards making a solemn compact with her and allowing them both to escape.

She heard me in silence to the end, nervously pulling her veil beneath her chin and twisting it to keep it tight. Then sighing, she remarked, turning her wonderful eyes upon me—

“She is not the woman to keep any promise, Willoughby. It is just as I feared! She is afraid to tell the truth lest she herself should suffer. Her words only confirm that.”

I recalled what she had said, and was bound to agree.

“But surely,” I cried, “the outlook is not so black as you anticipate? If this woman, in order to safeguard herself, refuses to speak, are there not other means by which the truth could be revealed?”

“No—none!” was her despairing answer as she shook her head.

“Perhaps I acted unwisely in allowing them to slip through the fingers of the police?” I suggested.

“No. It was wise, very wise. Had they been arrested they would both have sought to seriously incriminate me—and—and the blow would have fallen. I—I should have killed myself to avoid arrest,” she added in the low hoarse voice of a woman absolutely desperate.

“Oh, don’t speak like that, Lolita,” I urged earnestly. “Recollect you have at least in me a true and loyal friend. I will defend you by every means in my power. You refuse to tell me this strange secret of yours; nevertheless I am ready to serve you without seeking to penetrate the mystery which you are so determined to withhold.”

“I would tell you everything if I dared,” she assured me with a sweet grateful look upon her countenance, and I saw that upon her veil a teardrop glistened. I saw too how agitated she was, and how she longed to take me entirely into her confidence—yet dared not do so. Why, I wondered, had she made no remark upon the tragedy or upon the Coroner’s verdict that morning. Was that, too, a subject which she dare not mention?

I glanced at the boots she was wearing, and saw that they were small dark-brown ones but with those same Louis XV heels that had left such tell-tale traces.

“Is your secret such a terrible one that you fear to entrust it to me?” I asked gravely after a brief pause.

“You couldn’t understand—you couldn’t believe the real facts even if I told you,” was her reply. “Besides, this refusal of the woman Lejeune prevents me knowing the real truth myself. She intends that I shall suffer—that I shall pay the penalty of the crime of another. She vowed revenge and, alas!” she sighed, “she has it now.”

“But she’s quite a common person,” I remarked, for knowing the Continent as I did, and being some thing of a cosmopolitan, I put her down as of the lower class.

“It is her foreign ill-breeding that renders her such a bitter enemy. She has no pity and no remorse—indeed what Frenchwoman has?”

“Then I was a fool to let her escape! Had I known, I would have given the pair into the detective’s hands and faced the worst.”

“And by so doing you would have caused my death!” was her low remark in a hard strained voice. We had climbed the hill and arrived at the edge of Geddington Chase, where we halted at the old weather-worn stile which gave entrance to the wood.

“Yet by allowing them to escape it seems that I have unwittingly been their accessory!” I remarked. “You do not anticipate that this woman Lejeune will reveal the truth and thus place you in a position of safety. Therefore, why should we shield her?”

“I feel sure she will not—now that she is friendly with Joseph Logan.”

“You mean the man who was with you at early morning?”

She nodded in the affirmative, and with a sigh declared: “The interests of the pair are entirely identical. Even if she wished to reveal what she knew, he would prevent her. I never anticipated that they would become acquainted and thus unite their evil intentions against myself!”

“Against you?” I cried. “Why?”

“It is an intrigue—a vile and ingenious plot against myself and certain persons who are innocent and unoffending. Ah! If you only knew the woman Lejeune as I have reason to know her, you would not ask such a question. You, too, would be well aware that the man or woman unfortunate enough to fall into her cunningly-devised pitfalls may at once abandon all hope of the future—for death alone can release them from the bond.” I failed to understand the true meaning of those words which sounded to my ears so wild and tragic. The mystery of it was all-consuming. I tried to discern some light through the dark cloud that had so suddenly fallen and enveloped my well-beloved, but all was utterly inscrutable.

We crossed the stile and walked on into the dim lonely gloom of the Chase. I took her hand and felt that she was trembling. Of what, I wondered, was she in fear? Was it because of the sudden return of that rough seafarer, Richard Keene? Was it of some denunciation that could be made by Mademoiselle Lejeune; or was it because of what had occurred down in that damp hollow behind the beeches in the south avenue—that spot that bore the imprint of her shoes?

“Lolita,” I said at last in a soft, low voice, “are you aware of the terrible affair—I mean the discovery in the park?”

“Yes,” was her mechanical answer, without, however, daring to look me in the face. “I have heard all about it.”

“Well,” I said, “the unfortunate young man is unidentified except—” and I hesitated.

“Except what?” she gasped quickly. “What have they discovered?”

“They have discovered nothing,” I assured her. “But I myself have discovered that the man now dead pawned, a year ago, your amethyst and pearl necklet—the one your father, the Earl, gave you for a birthday present in India, and, further, that he wore upon his finger a ring containing your portrait!”

“The police!—do they know these facts?” she gasped, halting and glaring at me.

“They are known only to myself,” I answered in a grave, low tone. “What have you to say?” For a moment she stood with her countenance blanched to the lips, and a strange haunted look in her eyes. Summoning all her courage, her gloved fingers clenching themselves into the palms, she bowed her head and answered hoarsely—

“I have nothing to say—nothing—nothing!”

I stood in silence regarding her, utterly mystified. Was it guilt that was written so vividly upon her face, or was it the fierce desperation of an innocent woman hounded to her death?

Ah! had I known the startling truth at that moment, how differently would I have acted!

Chapter Twelve.

Love and Lolita.

To press her further was out of the question. I had sufficiently explained that I held the knowledge to myself, and that I did not intend to divulge to the police what I had discovered.

That she had been fully aware of the unknown’s death was quite plain and equally so that she feared lest the inquiries might lead the police in her direction.

The silent manner in which she had changed her mud-bedraggled dress was in itself sufficient to show that she was well aware that I suspected her of being implicated in the young man’s death, and her mute thankfulness was also very marked.

In silence we walked on through the forest gloom where the damp smell of the moss and dead leaves was welcome after the dry August heat outside, until presently, after debating within myself whether it were wise to place her upon her guard, I suddenly put my hand upon my love’s arm, saying—

“Lolita, you know that your interests in every particular are mine, therefore it is, I think, but right that you should know that the police have already made a discovery in connexion with the—the unfortunate affair in the park. They have found at the spot the marks of small shoes with French heels. Casts have been taken of those imprints, and it is suspected that they are of your shoes!”

“My footprints!” she gasped, turning and glaring at me with wide-open frightened eyes. “Ah! I—I never thought of that! It never occurred to me!” And then I saw how she trembled visibly from head to foot. She had striven to remain calm, but had now utterly broken down.

“The situation is perilous,” I said quite quietly, “inasmuch as the man Redway has taken casts, and knowing that only you in this district are in the habit of wearing such shoes, I fear he suspects. He will, no doubt, seek some secret means, probably through the servants, to compare his cast with the boots you are in the habit of wearing.”

“Ah! I see,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Then I must either hide or destroy them all, unknown to Weston.”

“That is best. I will help you,” I said. “We will do it as soon as we return. If you will collect them all I’ll pack them in my suit-case and send them up to the cloak-room at St. Pancras. They’ll be safe enough there for a few months.”

“An excellent idea,” she said. “I must get rid of them at all costs. I’ll order some others from Francis—shoes with flat heels, although I hate them.”

I could not, however, help noticing that she had actually admitted being present at the spot where the dead man was discovered, yet she had made no mention of him. My object was to learn his name and who he really was, but with a woman’s cleverness she vouchsafed no information. I think she saw that I suspected her of the crime, although my intense love for her prevented me withdrawing from her in loathing as would otherwise have been the case.

That strange cipher that I had found secreted in the dead man’s waistcoat occurred to me, and I longed to be in possession of its key. I knew a man who often amused himself in deciphering such things, and counted himself something of an expert in such matters, but I had not yet had time to submit it to him and obtain his opinion.

As we continued our way she expressed a hope that the man Redway would not make investigations in her wardrobe during her absence.

“He may bribe Weston, you know,” she suggested in an apprehensive tone. “And if he found that his cast corresponded with my foot, the result would surely be fatal. I could not live to face it, Willoughby. How could I?”

“Don’t let us anticipate such a thing. Redway will not be able to enter the Hall without some very good excuse, that’s very certain. Up to the present only two persons are aware that you were out in the Park all night—the man whom I afterwards found with the Frenchwoman, and myself.”

“Ah! yes, thanks to you I succeeded in returning home as though I had only been out for an early walk. The manner in which you accomplished it was most ingenious. It has freed me from suspicion. Yet in the footmarks has arisen another and much more serious matter.”

“The boots you must leave to me. I will get rid of them, never fear,” I assured her; and she pressed the gloved hand I held, as though to confirm her trust in me.

Yet was I acting as accessory to a foul and dastardly crime. A man, unarmed and unsuspecting, had been cruelly and secretly done to death, and I, because I loved her, was seeking by all means in my power to throw the police off the scent and dispel even those grave suspicions that were so strongly increasing in my own mind daily, nay hourly.

Walking at her side I tried to argue with myself. But I was too loyal to her. That face drawn and haggard, the paleness of which even her veil failed to hide, was the countenance of a woman whose heart was torn with conflicting emotions—one whose enemies had triumphed, leaving her friendless, crushed—and guilty before the face of the world.

We went on, past the smithy, into Stanion village, an old-world place with its grey church-spire the most prominent figure in the landscape. The sun was setting, and our long shadows lay in front of us upon the dusty highway.

Young Sampson, the squire of Ashton, over near Oundle, whirled past us in his ten-horse Panhard, enveloping us in a cloud of dust, passing before he became aware of who we were. Then we turned into the rectory, where in the cool little drawing-room Lolita had a brief conversation with the worthy rector’s wife concerning a forthcoming sale of work. Oh! those everlasting jumble sales and sales of work.

As she sat there, her veil raised, coolly discussing such things as stalls, stall-holders, fancy needlework and church expenses, she smiled sweetly and certainly did not in the least present the woeful picture that she had done as we passed through the Chase. They even discussed the tragic discovery in the park. With the well-bred woman’s natural tact she could control her outward appearance marvellously. The wife of the estimable rector would certainly never have dreamed the subject of our conversation a quarter of an hour before. They strolled across the tennis lawn together, and her neat figure and graceful swinging carriage was surely not that of a woman suspected of a heartless and brutal assassination.

Yet when I argued coldly and methodically with myself; when I recollected her admission, and her eager anxiety to get rid of those boots with the small high heels, I could not disguise from myself the hard fact that if she were not the actual assassin she was, at any rate, an accessory.

There had been some strong motive why that young man should die. That was plain, and without the slightest shadow of doubt.

I strolled beside the pair in the garden until my love took leave of her hostess, and then we walked home in the calm golden glow of the sundown.

Before the dressing-bell rang I surreptitiously carried my old suit-case, empty, up to her room, and half-an-hour later fetched it down. It was packed full of all her French boots, and having locked it securely I tied upon it an address-label inscribed to myself to be left at St. Pancras cloak-room “till called for.” Then I rang for a servant, and dispatched it to Kettering station.

The blazing August days went slowly by. The body of the nameless victim had been laid in its grave in Sibberton churchyard, and the inquiries conducted by the obsequious Redway resulted in nothing. As was to be expected, he and his assistants haunted the village continually, endeavouring to gather all they could, but fortunately no suspicion was cast upon the sweet woman whom I loved. An active search was made for the boots with the Louis XV heels, in which Pink, the doctor, joined, but it never once occurred to them that they had belonged to Lolita. Or, if it did, the theory had no doubt been dismissed as a wild and unfounded one.

Eager to escape from the place which was undoubtedly so full of tragic memory, Lolita, in the early days of September, went up to Strathpeffer to stay with her aunt, Lady Clayton, as was her habit each year.

On the morning just before she left, however, she came to my room ready dressed for her departure, and again, for the first time since our walk to Stanion, referred to the tragedy.

“Recollect, Willoughby, I am now entirely in your hands,” she said, standing at the window with her eyes fixed aimlessly across the broad level park. “I cannot bear to remain here now, for I feel every moment that I am being watched, suspected—that one day that awful person Redway will enter my room with—perhaps a warrant for my arrest.”

“There is no evidence,” I pointed out, first ascertaining that there were no eavesdroppers in the corridor outside. “We have been able to efface everything. The police are utterly puzzled.”

“Thanks to you,” she said, turning her great blue eyes sweetly upon me. Surely she did not at the moment present the appearance of a murderess, and yet the circumstances all pointed to one fact—that there was a motive in the death of that young man who had remained unidentified. “You told me the other day,” she went on, “that the necklet had been pawned. My connexion with the poor young fellow may be established through that. You see I do not conceal my fears from you, Willoughby—my only friend,” she added.

“You need fear nothing in that direction,” I responded. “I purchased the necklet, and I have it at this moment safely at home.”

“You have!” she cried, a great weight lifted from her mind. “Ah! you seem to have left nothing undone to secure my safety.”

“For the reason I explained to you on the night of the unfortunate affair,” I responded, taking her small soft hand in mine and raising it slowly to my lips. She did not attempt to withdraw it. She only sighed, and a slight shiver ran through her as my lips came in contact with her fingers. What did that shudder mean?

Was it that I was actually kissing the hand that had committed murder?

“Lolita!” I said a moment later when I had crushed from my heart the gradually increasing suspicion. “You have received from the innkeeper, Warr, a letter left for you by a rough uncouth stranger.”

“Ah,” she sighed, “I have. Richard Keene has returned! You don’t know what that means to me.”

“The letter contained news that has filled you with serious apprehension, then?”

“It contained certain information that is utterly astonishing!”

I explained how I had seen the stranger and overheard his conversation with Warr, whereupon she said—

“I expected that he would return, but it seems that he does not intend to do so. He fears, perhaps, to call upon me—just as I fear that he may reveal the truth.”

For some time I was silent, pretending to occupy myself with some papers, but truth to tell I was considering whether the question I wished to put to her was really a judicious one. At last I decided to speak and make a bold demand. Therefore I said—

“And now, Lolita, that I have rendered you all the assistance I can, I want to ask you one single plain question—I want you to answer me truthfully, because what you tell me may in the future be of greatest assistance to me. Recollect that in this affair I am combating the efforts of the police, therefore I wish to know the name of the man who is dead.”

“His name!” she exclaimed, looking straight at me. “His name—why do you wish to ascertain that?”

“First, because of curiosity, and, secondly, because in dealing with your enemies it will give me advantage if I am aware of facts of which they are in ignorance.”

But she shook her head, while her brows knit slightly, by which I knew that she was firm.

“Your knowledge of the affair is surely sufficient, Willoughby,” was her answer. “You see in me a miserable woman, haunted by the shadow of a crime, a woman whom the world holds in high esteem but who merits only disgrace and death. You pity me—you say that you love me! Well, if that is so—if you pity me, and your love is really sincere, you will at least have compassion upon me and allow me to retain one secret, even from you—the secret of that man’s name!”

“Then you refuse to satisfy me,” I exclaimed in bitter disappointment.

“Is it a proof of love and confidence to wring from a woman a name which is her secret alone?” she asked reprovingly.

“But I am trying to act as your protector,” I argued.

“Then have patience,” she urged. “His name does not concern you. He is dead, and his secret—which was also my secret—has gone with him to the grave.” Then, almost in the same breath, she bade me farewell, and a few moments later I saw the station-brougham receding down the long avenue.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Young Countess Makes a Statement.

The harvest had been garnered and on the glorious “first” the young Countess returned from the Continent, just in time to receive her annual house-party.

The instant she arrived Sibberton always put on an air of gaiety which it never wore during her absence. Full of verve and go, she lived only for excitement and pleasure, and always declared the Hall as dull as a convent if it were not full of those clever, well-known people who constituted her own particular set. Therefore she seldom brightened the place with her presence unless she brought in her train a dozen or so merry men and women of the distinctly up-to-date type, some of whom were fashionable enough to have scandal attached to their names.

Has it ever occurred to you that feminine beauty in the higher circle of society is unfortunately, but very surely, deteriorating? It is remarkable how the type has of late years changed. When our grandmothers were celebrated and toasted in old port as beauties, quite a different ideal reigned. The toast was then something petite, womanly, of a pink complexion, of a delicious plumpness and animated by a lively and natural emotionalism. But with the introduction of athletic, open-air exercise, motors and mannish achievements, we have developed an entirely different type.

The modern athletic girl is generally ugly. She begins early, and continues till after her marriage to cycle, shoot, ride and play golf and tennis, all of which ruin her figure and consequently her health. She shoots up tall, flat-chested, colourless and lacking in reasonable proportions, with one hip larger than the other if she rides regularly to hounds. She becomes wried and atrophied by rough wear and unseemly habits, and the womanly delicacy shrinks and withers from the form of health and beauty.

Glance over any social function in town or country, any meet of hounds, or any shooting-party where ladies are included, and you will not fail to recognise how women, by overtaxing their physique, are fading and gradually becoming asexual.

The Countess of Stanchester’s house-parties were always merry ones, and generally included an Ambassador or two, a Cabinet Minister, a few good shots, and a number of ladies of various ages. The gigantic place was liberty hall, and both the young Earl and his wife carried out to the letter the traditions of the noble house for boundless hospitality. There was no better shooting in all the Midlands than that furnished by the Earl of Stanchester’s huge estate, extending as it did for nearly thirty miles in one direction; and the bags were always very huge ones.

Twenty-eight guests arrived on the same day that the young Countess returned home, and dinner that night was served as it always was on the first night of the shooting-season, upon the historic service of gold plate presented by Queen Elizabeth to the first Earl of Stanchester. I was invited to dine, and after music in the blue drawing-room retired with the men to the cosy panelled smoking-room with the grotesque carvings over the mantelshelf.

Many were the anecdotes and low the laughter, until at about midnight I rose and went back to my study, intending to get through some correspondence before retiring.

I suppose I must have been writing half-an-hour when the door opened and the Countess entered, greeting me merrily, saying—

“Well, Mr Woodhouse! I’ve had no time to talk to you to-night. And how have you been all this time?”

“As usual,” I responded, smiling, for notwithstanding her faults she was so beautiful, merry and witty that her companionship was always pleasant. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. I want you, please, to send out cards for dinner next Tuesday to this list.” And she handed me half a sheet of note-paper on which she had hastily scribbled some names. “These county people, as they call themselves, are a fearful bore, and their women-folk are a terribly dowdy lot, but I suppose I must have them. It’s only once a year—thank Heaven.”

I laughed, for I knew that outside her own set she had withering sarcasm for the lower grade of society. With poor people she was always pleasant and popular, but with that little circle which called itself “the county,” and which consisted of hard-up “squires,” country parsons, men who had made money in the city and had bought properties, and the tea-and-tennis womankind that came in their wake, she had no common bond. They were a slow, narrow-minded lot who held up their hands at what she would term a harmless game at baccarat, and would be horror-stricken at tennis-playing or even bridge on Sundays.

Yet from time immemorial these people had been invited to dine at the Hall once during the shooting-season, and it was her husband’s wish that all the old customs of his noble house should be strictly observed. For hospitality, the house of Stanchester had always been noteworthy. The Earl’s grandfather, whom many aged villagers in Sibberton could still remember, used to keep open house every Friday night, and any of his friends could come up to the Hall and dine with him at six o’clock, providing they left or sent their cards on the previous day, in order that the cook should know how many guests would be present. It was the one evening in the week when his lordship entertained all his hunting friends, and on that day he did them royally for the port was declared the best in the country.

In these modern go-ahead days, however, with the giddy young Countess as chatelaine, this sort of thing was of the past. She tolerated people only as long as they amused her. When they ceased to do that, she calmly and ruthlessly struck them off her list. In town, she petted young foreign musicians and got them to sing or play at her concerts and brought them into notoriety by paying them cheques of three figures for their nightly services. But their reign usually lasted only half the season, when they were cast aside, disappointed and dejected, and other popular favourites rose to take their places.

She noticed my cigarettes in the big silver box the Earl had given me, and walking across, selected one, and slowly lit it with that free-and-easy air that was essentially that of the latter-day woman. An exception to the general rule that beauty in women of the higher class is growing rarer, she was extremely good-looking—fair-haired, grey-eyed, with handsome regular features and a clear pink complexion devoid of any artificial “make-up.”

Her dress was magnificent, the latest Paquin creation for which I had sent a cheque only the week before for one hundred and ten guineas. It was a study in cream, and trimmed with sparkling sequins which caused the gauze to shimmer and sparkle with every movement. The curves of her figure were graceful in every line, and at her throat she wore the magnificent collar of rubies which Queen Anne had given to the beautiful Countess of Stanchester, wife of Her Majesty’s Ambassador to France.

With careless abandon she threw herself into an armchair opposite where I sat, stretched out her tiny shoes upon the rug, gazing steadily at me, and blew a cloud of blue smoke from her lips. Yes, as I gazed upon her I really did not wonder how completely Lord Sibberton had been fascinated. Magnificent was the only word that described her.

“I’ve only just heard about this awful affair in the park,” she commenced. “George says he knows nothing very much about it. He says you found a man murdered. Tell me all about it—I’m interested.” And she placed the cigarette to her lips and gazed lazily at me through the haze of smoke. Knowing the strong bond of friendship existing between her husband and myself, she always treated me with a flippant equality that would be viewed with some surprise in any other circle of society. But to-day it seems that the more daring a wealthy woman is in words and actions, the greater is her popularity.

“Yes,” I answered, turning towards her upon my revolving writing-chair. “It is a mystery—an entire mystery.” And then I briefly related the curious facts, omitting, of course, all mention of the connexion between the murdered man and her sister-in-law, whom, be it said, she secretly ridiculed as a pious stay-at-home.

Lolita did not care for the ultra-gay set who formed the shooting parties, therefore was absent from them when she could escape. She hated bridge and baccarat, and had nothing in common with those women about whom scandalous tales were told in boudoirs and smoking-rooms.

“I suppose Doctor Pink has been exercising his talents in trying to discover the assassin?” she remarked.

“Yes. But the young man has remained unidentified,” I answered. “And for my own part, I believe the affair will remain an absolute mystery.”

“Why? What causes you to anticipate that?”

“Because there are certain features which are utterly incomprehensible. The young man came along the avenue that night to keep a secret appointment—that’s very certain. And the person who met him coolly murdered him.”

“Yes. But it really isn’t very nice to have a tragedy at one’s very door, and yet be unaware of the identity of the assassin! Who was the murderer? Who is suspected?”

“A woman,” I responded, whereupon, to my great surprise, I noticed in her eyes a strange expression, but whether of fear or of surprise I could not determine.

“A woman!” she repeated. “How is it that the police suspect a woman?”

I told her how Redway had discovered certain footmarks, and how at least two of the prints were those of a woman’s shoe.

“That’s very strange! Most interesting!” she remarked. “Sounds almost like what you see in a drama on the stage—a dark wood, man meets a woman who stabs him, then rushes away full of remorse—green lights, and all that sort of thing. You know what I mean.”

“But this is no theatrical effect,” I said. “It is a hard solid tragic fact that an unknown man has been murdered in the park here not half-a-mile away, and the affair is still a complete mystery except, as I have said, a woman was certainly present.”

“Exactly. She might have been present—and yet innocent,” she said, with a slightly triumphant ring in her argument, I thought. Was it possible that she, too, knew something of Lolita’s secret and, suspecting her, sought to divert suspicion from her?

Her beautiful face was sphinx-like. She continued to discuss the startling affair, and I somehow felt convinced that she knew rather more of its details than she would admit. Yet probably she had read some report of it in the papers. Nevertheless, certain remarks of hers were distinctly curious, especially her eagerness to know exactly what suspicions the police entertained, and in what direction their inquiries were at present directed.

As to the latter, I could tell her nothing, for I had not met Redway for several days. Indeed I had not heard of his presence in the neighbourhood, and I had begun to believe that he and his men were giving up the matter as a mystery that would never be solved save by confession or by mere chance. They were evidently pursuing that policy of masterly inactivity of which local police officers are past-masters. Gossips all of them, they are full of pretended activity on false scents, and prone to discover clues wherever beer chances to be deposited.

“I hear that Warr, the innkeeper, was with you when you found the man,” the Countess presently remarked. “If the dead man were not an absolute stranger surely he, of all men, would have recognised him!”

“But he was an entire stranger—and apparently a gentleman,” I said. “From his clothes, his appearance was that of a foreigner—but of course that’s only mere surmise. He may have been abroad and purchased foreign clothes there.”

“A foreigner! And who in Sibberton could possibly have any business with a foreigner?” she laughed. “Why, half the villagers haven’t been as far away from their houses as Northampton, and I don’t believe, with the exception perhaps of our studsman James, that any one has crossed the Channel.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “the whole affair is a profound puzzle. All that is known is that a certain young man who, from his exterior appearance and clothes, was well-bred, met in the park a certain woman, and that afterwards, he was found stabbed in the back with some long, thin and very sharp instrument. That’s all!”

“And the police are utterly confounded?”

“Utterly. They photographed the unfortunate man.”

“Did they? Where can I see a copy?” asked the Countess quickly, bending forward to me in her eagerness. “I would so very much like to see one. Could you get one?”

“I have one here,” I replied. “The police sent it to me a week ago, in response to my request.” And unlocking a drawer, I took out the inartistic picture of the dead man.

So keenly interested was she that she sprang from her chair, and came quickly to the edge of my writing-table in order to examine the picture.

“God!” she gasped, the colour of her cheeks fading pale as death as her eyes glared at it. “The woman has killed him, then—just as I thought! Poor fellow—poor fellow! The police don’t even know his name! It is a mystery—then let it remain so. They regard it, you say, as a strange affair. Yet if the real truth were known, the remarkable romance of which this is the tragic dénouement would be found to be most startling—one so curious and mysterious indeed as to be almost beyond human credence. Yes, Mr Woodhouse,” she added in a low voice as she straightened herself and looked at me, “I know the truth—I know why this man was sent to his grave—and I know by whom!”

Chapter Fourteen.

Concerns a Gay Woman.

The open declaration of the Countess held me in weak indecision. No doubt she was well aware of the motive of the crime, and therefore guessed who had struck the fatal blow. Yet she boldly expressed her intention of concealing her knowledge, which seemed strange on the face of it. A murder had been committed, therefore if she really had no reason to defeat the ends of justice she might surely reveal the dead man’s identity and explain all she knew concerning him. I argued this with her, but she shook her head and remained firm in her decision of silence.

Did she entertain, as I did, a grave suspicion of Lady Lolita?

This vague suggestion occurred to me as I sat staring straight up into the grey eyes of that brilliant woman before me. She knew the truth. She had told me so, yet next instant she seemed to regret the words had escaped her and sought lamely to modify her assertion.

She appeared to regard her statement as an error of judgment, and with all the tact of a clever woman ingeniously endeavoured to mislead me.

“One person could, I believe, tell us something,” I remarked presently, in order to show her that I was in possession of other facts that I had not revealed.

“Who’s that, pray?”

“A certain man named Richard Keene.” It was quite a haphazard shot, only made in order to ascertain whether the name really conveyed anything to her.

“Richard Keene!” she echoed, her brows knit in quick apprehension. “Did you know him?”

“I do know him,” was my calm response. “I have seen him down in Sibberton, if I am not very much mistaken.”

“Seen him!” she cried hoarsely. “Why, if you’ve seen him you’ve met an apparition. He died long ago.”

“No,” I declared. “I have seen Richard Keene in the flesh. He is not dead.”

“Impossible! You’re deceiving me,” she exclaimed. “The man cannot possibly be alive.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated, for she saw that to reply to my question was to expose her own knowledge. Her face was ashen grey. My announcement, I saw, held her rigid in terror and surprise.

“Because his death is common knowledge to those who—well, those who knew him,” she replied lamely.

“I tell you that Richard Keene has eaten cold meat and drunk beer in the tap-room at the Stanchester Arms. He came to Sibberton to make inquiries regarding the Earl and the occupants of this house.”

“He did!” she gasped aghast. “Are you quite certain of that?”

“I heard him with my own ears. He questioned Warr, who is not, however, very communicative to strangers, especially if they are not very well-dressed.”

“How long ago?”

“On the evening of the tragedy.”

“Ah!” she sighed, and the light died out of her countenance again. “But are you really certain that it was Richard Keene?—does Lolita know this?”

“Yes. He wrote to her.”

“Wrote to her! Then there is no mistake that the fellow is still alive?” she cried, dismayed.

“None. He told Warr that he had only just arrived home from abroad. And he looked very travel-stained and weary. He seemed to be on tramp.”

“Without money?”

“On the contrary, he appeared to have plenty. It struck me that his penurious exterior was assumed for some purpose of his own.”

“Then if he really has returned, he means mischief—serious mischief,” exclaimed the Countess, still very pale. “The fact that he is not dead, as we had all supposed, alters entirely my theory regarding the crime and its motive.”

“You believe then that he is the guilty one?”

“No. That could not be,” was her quick reply.

“There are strong reasons—very strong reasons—why there can be no suspicion against him.”

“Is he such a very estimable person, then?” I inquired, hoping to obtain some further facts from her.

“Estimable!” she ejaculated. “Why, he is the one person in all the world who—but no!” she added, suddenly breaking off. “You are George’s friend!”

“And therefore I must not be told the truth,” I remarked disappointedly.

“You must not know the secret of his sister Lolita,” she answered quite calmly. “I cannot betray her confidence.”

I felt assured that the real reason of her refusal to tell me was because she feared lest I might betray her to her husband, and not on account of Lolita at all. She and I had somehow never been very close friends. I distrusted all women of her stamp, and treated them with that same light airy irresponsibility with which they treated me. The Countess of Stanchester could not be taken seriously. She was one of those women who, though married, live for the admiration and flattery of the opposite sex, and who indeed, according to her enemies, would court the admiration of her footman, provided no other male of higher status were available. Often she had set herself to win from me some complimentary speech, but had, probably to her chagrin, always found me blind to all her feminine blandishments. That she was amazingly handsome could not for a moment be denied, but the open manner in which she coquetted under her husband’s nose filled me with anger and contempt.

How different she was from Lolita. The latter possessed all that calm, well-bred dignity, that inflexible moral principle which had ever been characteristic of the noble Catholic line of Stanchester. Her early years had been passed with the good nuns of the Sacred Heart at Provins, in France, and even now she gave the impression of one who had passed under the ennobling discipline of suffering and self-denial; a melancholy charm tempered the natural vigour of her mind; her spirit seemed to stand upon an eminence and look down upon the world as though it were not of it; and yet when brought into contact with that world which she inwardly despised, she shrank back with all the timidity natural to her convent education.

Marigold, on the other hand, possessed all the worst traits of the Gordons of Glenloch, that ill-fated house whose men were gamesters and whose women had for two centuries been noted only for their personal beauty. Successions of Gordons had ruined the estates, now mostly in the hands of Jew mortgagees, and the present generation, still reckless and improvident, were consequently very poor. Lady Gordon had successfully schemed to marry her three dashing daughters to wealthy men as a means of saving the last remnant of the estate from passing out of her husband’s hands and of the trio of girls who, for two seasons in London, were the most admired and most courted, Marigold, now Countess of Stanchester, was perhaps the most confirmed flirt. She had set all the convenances at naught then, just as she did now. The golden bond of matrimony never for a moment, galled her. She found the world most amusing, she declared, pouting if her husband reproved her, and surely she might be allowed to amuse herself!

She differed very little from thousands of other wives—women of our latter-day degenerate stock which has neither code of honour to husband nor to tradesmen. Debts trouble them not, they fear neither man nor God, but skip arm-in-arm with the devil down to ruin and disgrace. If, however, the husband chances to be wealthy and their extravagance makes no difference to his income, they will, strangely enough, instead of descending to destruction, rise to a pinnacle of notoriety, become popular leaders of Society, and have their daily doings chronicled by the papers as assiduously as those of the princes of the earth. But, after all, conscience is the padlock that we try to put on our inclinations.

I tried to ascertain the reason why the announcement of the man Keene’s return should concern her so deeply, but she was far too clever to betray herself. From her manner, as soon as she grew calmer again after the first startling shock which the truth had given her, I saw that she was trying to exercise her blandishments upon me. She had some motive in this, I felt convinced. Was it that she was trying to win me over to her side as her friend?

“I really think the less we discuss the unfortunate affair, Mr Woodhouse, the better,” she exclaimed at last, standing upon the hearthrug and facing me with her hands clasped behind her back. The lamplight caught the magnificent ornaments on her throat and bodice, causing them to dance with a thousand flashing fires.

“You yourself approached the subject,” was my cool response. “I quite agree that we may well leave the matter in the hands of the police.”

“But there is one thing I would implore you, as Lolita’s friend—for she is very fond of you, I know—and as my own friend also—and that is to keep this man Keene’s return a profound secret from every one—more especially from George. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered. “At least I don’t understand your reason for endeavouring to conceal the fact.”

“Of course not,” she exclaimed in quick earnestness. “Because you don’t know the truth—you don’t know what exposure means to me—or to Lolita.”

“To you? Then you wish me to assist you in preserving the secret?”

“You have guessed aright, Mr Woodhouse. I confess that I am in fear lest George shall learn that this man Keene has been to Sibberton. He must be kept in ignorance of it at all hazards. Besides yourself, who knows of his return?”

“The innkeeper, Warr.”

“Ah!” she gasped quickly. “Then you must see him and make him promise to say nothing—either to the police or to any person Whatsoever.”

“I will act as you wish,” I responded. “But Lolita has already told me of her own peril.”

“Yes, she no doubt foresaw it, just as I do. If you will assist me in this matter, which is purely confidential between us, you will earn my everlasting gratitude,” she declared.

Then after a brief pause she turned from me, as though to hide her face, and said—

“I know quite well, Mr Woodhouse, that you hold me in little esteem. I daresay that if I dared I should be your open enemy, but knowing the friendship my husband has for you, I am prevented from acting as I would perhaps otherwise act. I confess to you, however, that no one is better aware of my own failings than I am myself. People believe that because I like to amuse myself, I am a woman without a heart. But I tell you that George is the only man I care for, even though I may laugh and allow others to pay court to me. George will not believe me when I say this, but some day I will show you, as I will show him, the strength of my love for him. I will, in a word, redeem my character as a woman worthy to bear his honourable name.”

I was utterly dumbfounded at this sudden outburst of confidence. There was a strange catch of emotion in her voice by which I knew that the words came direct from her heart, that remorse had at last seized her, and she intended to make atonement for all the grief and pain she had caused the devoted man who was her husband.

“If I can assist you in any way in this, Lady Stanchester, I will willingly do so,” I replied, deeply in earnest.

She turned her handsome countenance to me, and I saw that her grey eyes were dimmed by tears.

“I ought not, I suppose, to make you my confidant,” she went on, “yet if you will really take pity upon me, a helpless woman, you can at least prevent the one thing I dread from becoming known—you can help me to show George that I love him fondly after all—that I will try to make him as happy as is my duty. You have no belief in me, that I know full well. You believe that if it suited my purpose I would betray any confidence of yours to-morrow, and laugh in your face for being such a fool as to trust me. That is my exact character, I admit; but if you will preserve the secret of Richard Keene’s return and promise to act as my friend as well as Lolita’s, I swear to you that I will keep faith with you and endeavour when the day comes—as it certainly must ere long—to show George my heart is his, and his alone.”

I could scarcely follow her true meaning, except that she was in deadly fear that the Earl should learn of the stranger’s presence at the Stanchester Arms.

I promised to remain secret and, if possible, to secure Warr’s silence, yet in her words there was some hidden meaning that even then I could not fathom. She seemed to anticipate an event in the near future by which her love for her husband would be sorely tried. How strange it was that she, gay and giddy woman that she was, had been seized by a genuine remorse on learning of the return of that dusty, down-at-heel stranger!

I looked at her and became convinced that the words she had spoken were by no means idle ones. Her slim white hand, laid upon the edge of my table, trembled, her pale lips were set, and in her grey eyes was a strange hard light as she said—

“Then I trust you, as you will trust me. In future, Mr Woodhouse, we will be friends, and I assure you that you will find your friendship has not been misplaced.”

“Remember,” I pointed out, “that I do not unite with you against the Earl.”

“No, of course not,” she cried in a low intense voice. “But by your silence you can give me a chance to atone for all the past—you—you can save me!”

Chapter Fifteen.

The Track of the Truth.

When the Countess had gone, leaving behind her a sweet breath of “Ideale,” that newest invention of the Parisian perfumer, I sat with my elbows idly upon the table, pondering over her strange words and becoming more than ever puzzled.

Beauty may be only skin-deep, yet it makes a very deep impression. The brilliant woman who was my dear friend’s wife had never captivated me. Nevertheless I had seen in her a genuine desire for reform and had therefore given her my promise. Still the mystery of it all seemed to increase, instead of diminish.

The Earl of Stanchester had, of course, seen the dead man on the morning after the discovery, but had not recognised him. At least it was quite clear that he had no suspicion whatever of who the young man really might be.

From a drawer I took that piece of paper with those puzzling numerals upon it which I had managed to obtain in secret. The cipher was, however, utterly unreadable. Staring at the paper I sat wondering what was written there. If only I could learn the meaning of those figures, then I knew that the truth would quickly become revealed.

Only that morning I had received a response from an expert in cipher—one of the officials at the Record Office in London—to whom I had submitted a copy of that tantalising document.

“This,” he wrote, “is what is known as the checker-board cipher, a numerical cipher invented by a Russian revolutionist some forty years ago, and of all secret means of correspondence is the most complicated and ingenious. It is absolutely undecipherable unless the keyword or words agreed upon by the two correspondents be known, and it is therefore much used by Anarchists and Revolutionists. The meaning of the present cipher can never be solved until you gain knowledge of the keyword used, for in writing it the numbers representing each letter of that word are added to the numbers representing each letter of the message. Therefore, in deciphering, the proper subtraction must be made before any attempt can be successful in learning the message contained. I enclose you a copy of the checker-board used in writing the cipher, but without knowledge of the keyword this can be of no use whatever. It will, however, serve to show you what an extremely ingenious cipher it is, devised as it has been by a Russian of quick and subtle intellect, and used as means of secret communication in the constant plots against the Russian aristocracy. In the Russian prisons this square with its five numbers and twenty-five letters is used in a variety of ways, for most political prisoners have committed it to memory. If two persons are in separate cells, for instance, and one wishes to communicate with the other, who in all probability is acquainted with the use of the square, he will ask, ‘Who are you?’ by rapping on the wall, thus, 5 raps, a pause, 2 raps, a pause (W); 2 raps, a pause, 3 raps, a pause (H); 3 raps, a pause, 4 raps, a pause (O); and so on until the whole question is rapped out. This is the way in which the cipher you have submitted to me is written, but in this case, as I have said, with the numbers of the keyword added. Discover that, and the secret here will be yours.”

Enclosed was a half sheet of note-paper on which was drawn the following device:—

- 1 2 3 4 5 1 A B C D E 2 F G H I K 3 L M N O P 4 Q R S T U 5 V W X Y Z

Ah! If only I could read what was written there! I placed the key beside the message, but saw that all the numbers were higher than those of the checker board, showing that the unknown keyword had been added, thus rendering the cipher secure from any save the person aware of the pre-arranged word. If, however, the expert failed to decipher what was written there, how could I hope to decipher it? I therefore replaced the papers in the drawer regretfully, locked it, and went upstairs to the long, old-fashioned room set apart for me when I dined and slept at the Hall.

My thoughts were full of Lolita and of the curious effect the news of Richard Keene’s return had produced upon the Countess. For a long time I sat gazing out across the park, flooded as it was by the bright white light of the harvest moon.

My window was open, and the only sound that reached me there was the distant barking of the hounds in the kennels and the bell of the old Norman church of Sibberton striking two o’clock.

Over there, beyond the long dark line of the avenue, was the spot where the tragedy had been enacted, the spot where, in the clay, was left the imprints of Lolita’s shoes. Time after time I tried to get rid of those grave suspicions that ever rose within me, but could not succeed. The evidence against my love, both confirmed by her own words and by the circumstances of the affair, was so strong that they seemed to convey an overwhelming conviction.

Yet somehow the Countess herself seemed to have united with Lolita in order to preserve the secret. Their interests, it seemed, were strangely identical. And it was this latter fact that rendered the enigma even more puzzling than ever.