William Le Queux (continued 5)

“No,” I answered. “Tell me.”

“Well,” he said, “the affair is a mystery upon which you no doubt can throw some light, but before questioning you I have to inform you that whatever you will say will be taken down in writing, and may be used in evidence, because you are under arrest.”

“What?” I said, starting up and glaring at him. “Under arrest—for what?”

“For murder.”

“That’s interesting, at any rate,” I exclaimed, half inclined to treat the matter as a joke. “And whom have I murdered, pray?”

“A woman.”

“Well,” I said, “if you will tell me where and how I was found I may perhaps be able to throw some light on the affair. If not, perhaps you will send for the British Consul, and I’ll make a statement to him.”

At first the detective seemed disinclined to tell me anything, but finding the unconcerned manner in which I took the serious charge, he at last told me certain facts that held me utterly dumb with astonishment.

“You were found insensible by some workmen who went to do some repairs in an apartment in a house beyond the Monforte gate—you and the woman. The knife with which you struck her was lying beside you, and we also have the hatchet with which she struck you on the head in self-defence.”

“What!” I gasped, amazed. “Do you allege that I killed the woman?”

“You are guilty until you prove yourself innocent,” was the man’s cold reply, regarding me with a keen quick glance in his dark eyes.

“Well, just tell me a little more about it,” I urged. “You say that some workmen found me in the same room as the woman, and between us was a knife and a hatchet. Whose house was it?”

“Ah! you are unaware of whose place it was? You broke into it during the absence of the proprietor and took up your quarters there, of course,” was the man’s reply. “You are a foreigner—English?”

“I am. And I think before we go any further you’d better send for the Consul and let me put a different complexion upon your story. Your theory is, of course, the natural and only one, if, as you say, a knife and a hatchet have been found. But you have not told me to whom the apartments belonged,” I said.

“They were rented by a man named Rondani, manager of the silk factory in the Via della Stella. He, however, locked up the place about a month ago, having been sent by his firm on a commission to Berlin. The other day a builder received the key by post, with orders to enter and effect certain repairs, and when the men went there they discovered you both in the dining-room and at once informed us. At first you were believed to be dead, but as the doctor declared that you were still alive you were brought here and placed under arrest.”

“But I’m innocent!” I declared dismayed. “I was attacked from behind in the open street.” And then I told him of my midnight vigil, and of the weird scene of which I had been witness. It seemed plain that having been recognised and struck down by the assassins they suddenly changed their plans, taking back the body of the young Countess as well as myself, ingeniously placing us in such a position as to make it appear that I was the actual murderer. No doubt they were under the belief that I had died from the effects of the blow.

I expressed anxiety to visit the scene of the assassination, to which the man replied—

“By all means. Indeed, we shall be compelled to take you there as soon as you are well enough.”

“Let me go now,” I urged. “I can drive there all right.”

“No—to-morrow,” he said.

“What have you found upon the woman?” I inquired.

“Several things—letters in English and other things. They are being translated.”

“Letters in English. May I see them?”

“At the trial,” he said. “Instead of gloating over your crime as you seem to be doing, would it not be better to try and establish your innocence?” he suggested.

“Why should I? I’m not guilty. Therefore I fear nothing. Only take me to the scene of the crime.”

“To-morrow you shall go. I promise you,” was his reply, and then he left, one of his assistants mounting guard over me, in fear, I suppose, that I might try and escape them.

The murder of Lady Stanchester was an appalling dénouement of the mystery, and increased it rather than threw any light upon the extraordinary circumstances. It was evident that she had been deliberately enticed there to her doom, and had I not fortunately followed her, her end would have remained a complete enigma.

The police had discovered certain letters. What, I wondered, did they contain? Would they at last throw any light upon the affair which, when it got into the papers, must startle English society.

At present her name was, of course, unknown, unless perchance any of the envelopes were with the letters. I felt sympathy for my friend George, and wondered how I could prevent her name from being known.

The hours crept slowly on; the day seemed never-ending. The presence of that scrubby-bearded little Italian sitting near me reading a newspaper idly, or gossiping with the men who lay in the neighbouring beds, was particularly irritating.

At last, however, when night came on and my guard was relieved, I slept, for the pain in my head wore me out and exhausted me.

Next day, in accordance with his word, the delegato, accompanied by two other police officials, arrived, and feeling sufficiently well I dressed and accompanied them downstairs, where a closed cab was in waiting. After a short drive we turned into the half-finished street so familiar to me, and pulled up before the house over the threshold of which I had seen, carried by the assassin, the lifeless body of one of the most admired women in England.

They conducted me up a flight of stairs to a landing at the back, and there entered one of the flats with a key. I noticed that the door had been sealed, for the delegato broke the seal before inserting the key.

Inside, the place was rather barely furnished, the home of a man with small means; but as we walked into the little dining-room the sight that met my eyes was terrible.

Upon the table were the remains of a supper—decaying fruit, half-consumed champagne and an unlit cigar lying on one of the plates. Places seemed to have been laid, for five, but the cloth had been half torn off in the struggle, and a dish lay upon the ground, smashed.

Upon the floor of painted stone, the usual floor of an Italian house, were great brown patches—pools of blood that had dried up, and into one the corner of the table-cloth had draggled, staining it with a mark of hideous ugliness.

On the ground, just as they had been found, lay a heavy hatchet with blood upon it, the instrument with which my unknown assailant had struck me down. While at a little distance lay a long very thin knife, with a finely tempered three-edged blade.

To the astonishment of my three guards I took it in my hand and felt its edge. The curious thought occurred to me that with such a weapon, thin and triangular, Hugh Wingfield had been so mysteriously done to death.

“Then this is where they enticed the woman—to an apartment that was not their own, and which they evidently entered by a false key! They invited her to supper, and then—well, they murdered her,” I said reflectively. “Where is the body? May I see it?”

The confronting of a murderer with his victim is part of the procedure of the Continental police, therefore the detectives were not adverse in the least to granting my request.

“Certainly,” answered the delegato. “It is here, in this room, awaiting the official inquiry.” With that he opened the door of the small bedroom adjoining, and there, stretched upon the bed, lay the body, covered with a sheet.

I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had been so terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police had secured in those letters found upon her.

“God!” I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watching my face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white dead countenance.

I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.

“Ah!” exclaimed the delegato in satisfaction. “It is a test that few can withstand. You recognise her as your victim—good!”

I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory he liked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.

The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe my own eyes.

The dead woman was not Marigold, but another—Marie Lejeune!

Chapter Thirty.

A Ray of Light.

Surprise held me dumb.

It seemed quite evident by the fact that five places had been laid at table that the Frenchwoman must have already been in the flat awaiting the arrival of Marigold and her companions, and, further, that Logan and her ladyship had remained behind after the unfortunate woman had been carried to the cab.

These and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my bewildered mind as I stood aghast, my eyes riveted upon the dead white face of the woman whose single word could have saved my love.

She had died, alas! with that secret locked within her heart!

I recollected her quick vivacious manner in those exciting moments when we had met on the Chelsea Embankment, and how I had made a compact with her, one which it was now impossible for her to fulfil. She had hid from the police, first at Hayes’s Farm, where a dastardly attempt had been made upon her, and here, in that unoccupied flat, she had fallen the victim of her enemies. Why? What motive could Marigold and her friends have in her assassination?

That there was a motive, and a very strong one, was quite plain, but it certainly was in no way apparent to me. The mystery was maddening. I felt, indeed, that my weakened brain could not much longer stand the strain.

“You recognise her, I see!” exclaimed the delegato, with satisfaction. He had been watching me narrowly, and believed that the start I gave when the ghastly face was revealed was proof of my guilt.

“Yes, I recognise her,” was my answer. And glancing round the room I saw that it was dirty and neglected, having been unoccupied for some time. The assassins, I supposed, had cleaned the dining-room and salon in order that the victim should not suspect that she was in an apartment that had been so long closed. It was certainly bold and ingenious of them to enter a stranger’s house and use it for their nefarious purpose.

My captors led me back to the room in which I had been found, where one of them pointed to a dark stain upon the floor—the stain of my own blood. Beside it I saw my handkerchief cast aside. It had, no doubt, been used by my discoverers to staunch the blood. Again I took the heavy axe in my hand, and realised what a deadly weapon it was.

Then when the men had concluded making some other investigations they led me away, driving me back to the hospital in the cab, evidently entirely satisfied with their effort to fix the crime upon myself. The doctors had not yet discharged me, therefore I was put to bed again, and a detective mounted guard as before.

At my suggestion, the British Consul, Mr Martin Johnson, was informed, and visited me. He stood at my bedside, a pompous and superior person to whom I at once took an intense dislike. Happily he is now transferred, and his office is now occupied by a very courteous and pleasant-mannered member of His Majesty’s Consular Service. I had, however, the misfortune to call Mr Johnson without knowing the character of the man. He was one of those precious persons of whom there are far too many in the British Consular Service; men who object to be disturbed by the Englishman in distress, whose hours are from one till three, and whose duties in an inland city like Milan are almost nil. Mr Martin Johnson, something of a fop, believed himself an ornament of the Service, hence his annoyance when the police called him to my bedside at the hospital. He regarded me with combined pity and contempt, at the same time drawing himself up and speaking in a ha-don’t-you-know tone, supposed to be impressive.

I had heard of this superior person long ago, and as I lay in bed was amused at his attempt to impress upon me the importance of his position.

I explained to him how I had been discovered and arrested, and that I was entirely innocent of the crime alleged against me, whereupon he said snappily—

“Well, I can’t help you. You’ll have to prove your innocence. The police say that you’ve been confronted with the body of the woman, and that your attitude showed plainly that you were guilty.”

“But it’s monstrous!” I said. “I was attacked in the street by some ruffian, struck insensible, and carried up to the room.”

“You’ll have to prove that, What’s your name?”

I told him, without, however, mentioning my connexion with the Stanchesters.

“And the woman? You admitted to the police that you know her?”

“She’s a Frenchwoman named Lejeune—who was wanted by the police.”

He sniffed suspiciously, and rearranged his cravat in the mirror upon the wall.

“Well,” he remarked in Italian to the delegato who stood at his side. “This is a matter in which I really cannot intervene. The prisoner has to prove his innocence. How can I help him?”

“By doing your duty as Consul,” I chimed in. “By having an interview with the Questore and obtaining justice for me.”

“I know my duty, sir,” he snapped. “And it is not to investigate the case of every unknown tourist who gets into difficulty. If you have money, you can engage some lawyer for your defence—and if you haven’t, well I’m sorry for you.”

“Yours is a rather poor consolation, Mr Johnson,” I remarked in anger. “Am I to understand then that you refuse to help me—that you will not see the Questore on my behalf?”

“I’ve told you plainly, I am unable to interfere.”

“Then I shall complain to the Foreign Office regarding the inutility of their Consul in Milan and his refusal to assist British subjects in distress,” I said.

“Make whatever complaint you like. I have no time to discuss the matter further.” And he turned rudely upon his heel and left me, while the police drew their own conclusions from his attitude.

“Very well, my dear sir,” I called after him down the hospital ward, “when Sir Charles Renton asks for your explanation of your conduct to-day, you will perhaps regret that you were not a little more civil.”

My words fell upon him, causing him to turn back. Mention of the name of the head of his particular department of the Foreign Office stirred the thought within him that he might, after all, be acting contrary to his own interests. He was a toady and place-seeker of the first water.

“And of what do you complain, pray?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “I chance to know Sir Charles very intimately—in fact he is a relative of mine. Therefore when I return I shall not fail to describe to him this interview.” It was the truth. Sir Charles was my cousin.

“Then why didn’t you tell me that before, my dear sir?” asked the pompous official, in an instant all smiles and graces, for he knew too well that direct complaint to the head of his department meant transference to some abominable and desolate hole in West or East Africa. “Of course, I’m only too ready and anxious to serve any friend of Sir Charles,” he assured me.

“No doubt,” I said smiling and inwardly reflecting that, happily, members of our Consular Service were not all cast in that person’s mould. Previously he had put on the airs of an Ambassador—the air he assumed, I suppose, in the drawing-rooms of democratic Milan, but now he was all obsequiousness, declaring himself ready and anxious to carry out my smallest wishes in every respect.

“Well,” I said, regarding him contemptuously, “I can only tell you that the tragic affair that has just occurred concerns the honour of one of the greatest houses in England. I cannot be more explicit, otherwise I should betray a confidence. I am accused of murder, but I am, of course, innocent.”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course! These fools of police are always trying to parade their wonderful intelligence. But,” he added, “how are you going to prove yourself innocent?”

Strangely enough that very serious question had never occurred to me. I was in a country where the law regarded me as guilty, and not in England, where I should be looked upon as innocent until convicted.

I was silent, for I saw myself in a very serious predicament.

I would have asked him to telegraph to Keene or to Lolita, but I feared to give him the address lest he should institute inquiries, and I had no wish to mix up Lord Stanchester or his sister with the terrible affair.

“The only course I can suggest is the engagement of a good criminal counsel who will, without doubt, secure your acquittal at once when the case comes on for trial,” remarked the Consul. “Why the police arrested you appears to be an utter enigma, but in Italy it is not extraordinary. They had to make an arrest, so they detained you.”

“Shall I be detained long do you think?”

“Probably a month,” he replied regretfully. “Perhaps even more.”

My heart sank within me. I was to remain there a prisoner, inactive and in ignorance of the web of intrigue around my love. Too well I knew Lolita’s danger, and now, with the Frenchwoman dead, she would be compelled to face the inevitable.

A month of absence and of seclusion! What might happen in that period, I dreaded to contemplate. If I were free, I might be instrumental in bringing the murderers of Marie Lejeune to justice, but detained there it was impossible.

Of a sudden, like a flash, a brilliant idea occurred to me. There was just a chance that I could secure my release by a very fortuitous circumstance—the meeting of that delegato of police in Biffi’s café on the night of the murder!

At once I explained this incident to Mr Martin Johnson, described the appearance of the detective and his friend, and urged him to go to the Questore, place my statement before him, and if possible ascertain who was the delegato in question and confront me with him.

In an hour the Consul returned. He had seen the chief of police, and from my description it was believed that the detective was a brigadier named Gozi, who was that day over at Como. They had telegraphed for him to return, and he would come and see me at once.

This gave me hope, while knowledge of my statement and the interest the Consul was taking in my case aroused the interest of my guards. Even the doctor and nurses seemed to regard me differently.

The hours crept slowly by in that great house of suffering. A priest, a kindly cheery old man, came to my bedside and chatted. He was from Bologna, a city I knew well, and he had once when a young man been in London, attached to the Italian Church in Hatton Garden. The sunset that streamed through the long curtainless windows and fell upon the big crucifix before me, faded at last, the clear sky deepened into night, and the hush of silence fell upon the ward. Yet still beside me there sat the immovable figure of my guard, his arms folded as he dozed.

That night I passed in the torture of suspense. My head burned, my eyes seemed sore in the sockets, and I was apprehensive lest my hope of release might be a futile one.

In the morning, however, my friend of the café entered briskly with the doctor, who had conducted him to the scene of the tragedy on the previous day, and in a moment our recognition was mutual.

“Well,” he exclaimed, standing by me and regarding me with some surprise. “What has happened to you?”

“I’m under arrest,” was my reply. “Accused of murder.”

“So I hear,” he answered. “It seems that our meeting at Biffi’s was rather fortunate for you—eh?”

“Now you recognise me, I’ll tell you all that occurred,” I said quickly. And then I related to them both in detail all the startling incidents, just as I have already written them down.

“Then it was not the Englishwoman who was murdered?” he said. “You told me her name was Price—if I mistake not. After I left Biffi’s that night I somehow felt convinced that Ostini and Belotto were up to some mischief, and I afterwards regretted that I had not waited and watched them. They looked rather too prosperous to suit my fancy. You, of course, believed the dead woman to be your friend, the English lady?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And the Englishman—what of him?”

“I did not see him after he entered the house,” I answered.

Then, after I had furnished him with many other minute details of my startling adventure of that night in which I had so narrowly escaped death at the hands of the assassins, he held a brief consultation in private with his colleague, who was apparently his superior in rank.

And presently they both returned to my bedside and, to my joy, announced that it was decided to release me from custody.

Within half an hour an active search was being made for the four who had sat at table that night at Biffi’s, and although I hoped that the assassin would be caught, I felt a little apprehensive lest Marigold should fall into the hands of the police and the Earl’s name be dragged into the criminal court.

If she still remained at the Metropole the police must certainly discover her. I could only hope that she had already fled.

The mystery as to who had attacked me was still unsolved. If it were Logan, then was it not probable that she was aware of the blow that had been dealt me? The circumstances, indeed, pointed to the fact that, in the murder of Marie Lejeune, she was at least an accomplice.

That day I begged the doctors to allow me to go forth, but they were inexorable. Therefore for yet another day was I compelled to remain there in anxious uncertainty although free from the irritating presence of the guard.

Chapter Thirty One.

Gives the Keyword.

Still very unwell, my head gave me excruciating pain when next morning I joyfully took my discharge from the hospital. My first destination was the telegraph-office, whence I sent a message to Lolita, and afterwards I went to the Cavour, where I found that, in consequence of my protracted absence, my bag had been taken from my room.

However, I soon had another apartment, although the hotel people looked askance at my bandaged head, and after a wash and a change of clothes, I went forth to the Questore, as I had arranged to meet my friend the delegato to whom I had so fortunately spoken in Biffi’s.

In his upstairs room he explained how he had circulated the description of the two men, Belotto and Ostini, to the various cities and to the frontiers, and how, owing to the pair being so well-known as bad characters, he felt certain of their arrest. That day I attended the official inquiry regarding the death of the woman Lejeune, and after giving some formal evidence, was allowed to leave.

My great fear had been that Marigold and Logan might be arrested. If so the arrest of the former must produce a terrible scandal, and if the latter the result, I feared, must reflect upon my love’s good name. My only hope, therefore, was that they had already passed the frontier police at Modane, Ventimiglia or Chiasso, and had escaped from Italy.

The chief of police was very emphatic in his order that I must remain in Milan for an indefinite period, as perhaps my evidence would be wanted against the men, but after consultation with Mr Martin Johnson, now most active on my behalf, because he hoped to obtain the good-will of my cousin, his chief, I resolved to disobey the mandate of the Questore and slip away from Italy in secret. I was not under arrest, hence the police had no power to detain me.

Therefore, travelling by Turin, Modane and Paris, I arrived at Charing Cross at dawn three days later, and took train at once to Sibberton.

What had happened during my absence I feared to guess. On entering my room at the Hall at noon, I found my table piled with the accumulated correspondence. I had before my departure from London telegraphed to the Earl my intention of taking a fortnight’s holiday, therefore my absence had not been remarked. Only Keene and Lolita knew the truth.

I rang the bell, and old Slater appeared.

“Is his lordship hunting this morning?” I inquired.

“No, sir,” responded the aged retainer, surely a model servant. “He’s across with her ladyship at the stables looking at some new horses.”

“How long has her ladyship been back?”

“She returned from London yesterday, sir.”

“And Lady Lolita?”

“Her ladyship has gone in the motor to luncheon at Deene, sir. Lady Maud Dallas, and one of the other visitors, a lady, are with her.”

With that I dismissed the servant, and walking down the corridor went out into the wide courtyard, through the servants’ quarters and round to the left wing of the house to the great stables where there were stalls for a hundred horses.

The stablemen and grooms in their jerseys of hunting red always gave a picturesque touch of colour to the huge grey old place, and I saw in a corner of the great paved yard, the Earl with a small group of his visitors watching a fine bay mare being paraded by a groom.

One of the traditions of the Stanchesters was to keep good horses, and George spared no expense to maintain the high standard of his forefathers. He had three motors, but Marigold used them more than he did because they were the fashion.

She had learnt to drive herself, and would often drive up to London, eighty-five miles, accompanied by Jacques, the French chauffeur. In town, too, she had an electric brougham in which she paid afternoon calls and did her shopping. Indeed her motor brougham with yellow wheels was a common object in Regent Street in the season.

“Hulloa, Willoughby!” cried the Earl as I approached. “Didn’t know you were back?”

“I’m a day or so earlier than I expected,” I laughed, at the same time saluting the woman whose adventure in Milan had undoubtedly been a strangely tragic one, as well as Keene and the other guests.

“Why, what’s the matter with your head?” asked old Lord Cotterstock, noticing a bandage upon it as I raised my straw hat.

“Oh, nothing very much,” I answered then. “I slipped on the kerb in the Strand, fell back, and struck it rather badly. But it’s getting better. The unsightliness of the plaster is its worst part.”

I dared not glance at Marigold as I uttered this excuse. I felt sure that she was aware of the attack made upon me—whether it had been by Logan or any one else.

The colour had left her cheeks when her startled eyes encountered me, and she glared at me as though I were a ghost. By that alone I knew that my re-appearance there was utterly unexpected—in truth, that she believed that I was dead!

She had turned away from the party at once, to speak with the stud-groom in order to conceal her dismay. Her face had, in an instant, assumed a death-like pallor, and I saw how anxious she was to escape me. Though she made a desperate effort to remain calm and to face me, she was unable, for her attitude in itself betrayed her guilty knowledge.

I saw in her face sufficient to convince me of the truth. She managed to move away, still giving instructions to the man, while I remained with the party watching the cantering of the horse on show. Every man or woman present there was a judge of a horse, for all were hunting people and knew what, in stable parlance in the Midlands, is known as “a good bit of stuff” when they saw it.

Presently when the decision was given, I moved away with Keene, and as soon as we were alone in the pleasure-garden I told him quickly of my startling adventure. He stood open-mouthed.

“Then the woman Lejeune is actually dead,” he gasped, his brows knit thoughtfully. “The Italians must have murdered her!”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, recollecting that he was acquainted with them, for had not one of them, if not both, been in concealment at Hayes’s Farm.

“Well,” he sighed. “This means, I’m afraid, the worst to Lolita.”

“Ah! no!” I cried. “Don’t say that. We must save her! We must! If I could only know the truth I feel sure I could devise some means by which she could be extricated from this perilous position.”

“No,” he answered sadly. “I think not. The assassination of that woman tells me that the conspiracy is a more daring and formidable one than I had even imagined.”

“But what connexion could Marigold or Logan have had with the affair?” I asked. “What is your theory? Why did they travel there in secret? If Marigold was to be their victim, then I could understand it; but she was not.”

“It seems evident she was taken out to Milan by Logan in order to meet Marie in secret,” he said.

“But if the murder was not pre-arranged, why should they have taken possession of a dwelling that was not their own? That fact, in itself, shows that their object was a sinister one,” I argued.

“Stanchester believes that his wife has been at Bray with her sister Sibyl. He has no idea she’s been abroad.”

“And Logan? What of him?”

“I know nothing,” he declared. “He is probably still abroad. My own idea is that he crossed the Channel in order to meet Marigold and escort her to Italy.”

“Then the affair is as great a mystery as it ever was?” I remarked with dissatisfaction. I had risked my life and narrowly escaped being placed on trial for murder—all to no purpose.

“Greater,” he said. “For my own part I cannot see what they’ve gained by sealing Marie’s lips. I know,” he added, “that Belotto made an attempt upon her during her stay at the farm in this vicinity, but they were prevented.”

“Who prevented them?” I inquired eagerly, as this was the first time he had admitted knowledge of their concealment at the farm to which Pink had been called on that fateful night.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” he answered, looking me straight in the face, “I did.”

“You!” I cried.

“Yes,” he responded. “Belotto, who was madly jealous of her, took her for a walk in the wood on purpose, I believe, to get rid of her. Fortunately, however, I had suspicion of his intention, and followed him. Just as she was struck, I emerged and denounced him, but too late. He then attacked me, but I defended myself. Then fearing the girl would die, the others did all they could to succour her, as they dreaded that by her death they would all be arrested for murder.”

“Then the reason they left Hayes’s Farm so suddenly was because they were in fear of you?”

“Exactly. Marie Lejeune was equally afraid of me, and escaped with them—abroad, it seems.”

I related how the doctor, Pink, had been called to the girl, and of the investigations he and I made afterwards, whereupon he said, smiling—

“Yes, I know. I remained in the vicinity, and watched you both ride up to the house that afternoon.”

“And now you have told me so much, Mr Keene,” I said. “Have you no theory regarding the murder of Hugh Wingfield?”

“Ah! That’s quite another matter,” he said as a strange expression crossed his bearded features. “That’s a question which it is best for us not to discuss.”

“Why?”

“Because I can say nothing.”

“But you have a theory?”

“It may not be the right one,” he answered in a hard, strained voice.

“At least you know who the man was?” I said. “You have already mentioned his name.”

“Can you tell me why he, a perfect stranger, wore upon his finger the portrait of Lady Lolita?” I asked.

“For the same reason, I suppose, that a woman wears in a locket a portrait of a man.”

“You imply that he was Lolita’s lover?”

“I imply nothing,” he said vaguely. “I make no statement at all. I have indeed told you that the matter is one which it is wiser not to discuss.”

“But can’t you see how, in my position, that terrible affair is of greatest moment to my happiness and peace of mind?” I pointed out. “Who was he? What brought him to the park on that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lolita went forth to meet him, that I know,” I said.

“Yes,” he remarked. “That was proved by the marks of her heels at the spot where the body was found. She must therefore have met him.”

“If so, then she must know the truth, Mr Keene,” I said in a hard voice, watching his dark face. “What I want to discover is the reason he came here in secret that night.”

He paused a moment his eyes fixed upon me, as though he were debating within himself whether he should betray my love’s secret. Then at length he said—

“You mentioned, I think, to Lady Lolita that you had secured from the dead man’s pocket a scrap of paper bearing a message in cipher—did you not?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed eagerly. “It is the checker-board cipher, I know, but I am unable to read it because I am ignorant of the keyword.”

“If you really desire to decipher it, and think it will help you to a knowledge of the real facts, why not try the single and very unusual word—her own name!”

“Lolita!” I gasped quickly in eagerness. “Then the keyword is Lolita!”

To which he made no response, but nodded gravely in the affirmative.

Then, without further ado, I rushed back to my room took out the folded scrap of paper that had brought Hugh Wingfield to his doom, and spread it before me together with the checker-board.

In a quarter of an hour I had reduced the numerals to letters, subtracted my love’s name, and deciphered it—yes, the fatal message stood revealed.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Weston Expresses Certain Fears.

On reference to the checker-board which my friend had sent me, I found that the word “Lolita” read 31. 34. 31. 24. 44. 11.

These numbers I began to subtract from the first six numbers of the secret message, but the letters represented by the remaining numbers were a mere unintelligible jumble. At last, however, after considerable thought, I tried taking the numbers down the columns:—namely 63. 49. 46. 68. Subtracted by the keyword there remained 32. 15. 15. 44., which I found on reference to my checker-board was the word “meet.”

At last the secret was mine! Very soon I had deciphered the numerals into this message:—

“Meet me in the avenue on Monday. Fear nothing. Marie betrayed to police.—Lol.”

Lolita herself had therefore enticed the unfortunate young man to his doom.

The very signature “Lol,” combined with the fact of the portrait in the ring, confirmed my suspicion that there was affection between them.

I paced the room still utterly mystified.

At four o’clock I heard the horn of the motor in the avenue, and rushed forth to meet my love. She descended in dust-cloak and veil, and took my hand in silent greeting, but Keene, who was also at the door, whispered to her, and she walked away with him. I knew that he was telling her of all that had happened to me—and of the real reason of Marigold’s absence.

She went to her room, and though I waited for an hour or more, she did not descend.

I sent a message up to Weston, and the reply was—

“Her ladyship has a very bad headache after the dust.”

This I told Keene, who shrugged his shoulders.

At tea in the hall, where the guests were nearly all assembled—as gay and well-dressed a crowd as could be found in all England—the Countess approached me quite calmly, and said in a loud voice—

“George has just said that you’ve hurt your head, Mr Woodhouse. I’m so very sorry. How did you manage it?”

The woman’s imperturbable daring was simply marvellous. Her question took me utterly aback.

“I—well, I slipped in the street, and fell,” I stammered. “I gave my skull a nasty knock. I suppose it would have been fractured if I had not had such a thick head,” I laughed, endeavouring to turn the conversation into a joke.

“Ah! You’re inviting compliments now!” exclaimed the brilliant vivacious woman, whom surely none would suspect of associating with those two men of the type of Belotto and Ostini.

“Any compliment from your ladyship is a compliment indeed,” I declared, bowing with mock gravity, whereupon the party laughed, and I saw that she bit her lips in vexation. She knew that I was her enemy; and yet she dare not openly quarrel.

She feared lest I might announce to her husband and her guests her visit to Milan, and its tragic sequel.

Keene stood by, stroking his beard in wonder, half-fearing that she might burst forth in fury at my sneer and dreading the result of hot words between us.

Fortunately, however, she was discreet and laughed it off, while the Earl remarked as he passed Lady Maud her cup—

“I like to hear Willoughby and Marigold quarrel. They slang each other so very gracefully. Willoughby, you’d make a splendid ambassador. You’re so very diplomatic.”

“I’m a good liar, if that’s any qualification,” I laughed openly. “Somebody has said that the two essentials for success as an ambassador are to have a lie ever ready on the lips, and a good coloured ribbon and cross at the throat.”

“Ah! and that’s pretty near the mark too,” observed Lord Cotterstock, who had himself been in the diplomatic service. “It is said of Lord Barmouth that when he was Ambassador at the Porte, he, for a joke, wore the Blue Ribbon, and the Turkish Court thought it the highest of British distinctions. He told the unspeakable ones that it was the Order of Saint Schweppe!”

Whereupon there was a general laugh.

Tea concluded, and the guests dispersed. I was surprised at the non-appearance of my beloved, for I longed to speak with her alone—to learn what had occurred during my enforced absence.

Keene accompanied the Earl and some others across to the kennels after tea, but by no amount of manoeuvring could I obtain an interview with the Countess alone. She walked in the garden with old Lady Cotterstock, in order that I should have no chance of speaking with her.

The house-party assembled in the white drawing-room prior to dinner, yet Lolita did not put in an appearance. I therefore sent one of the under-servants for the faithful Weston, who came to me at the top of the grand staircase.

“Her ladyship has a very bad headache, sir. She’s been lying down. But she’s now in her boudoir writing, and has told me that I am not to disturb her this evening.”

“But isn’t she going to dine?” I inquired in surprise.

“She hasn’t dressed, sir. She said she, had no appetite.”

“She’s not well, I believe, Weston,” I said.

“No, sir,” replied the maid anxiously. “I’ve noticed this last week or two a very great change in her. She seems highly nervous, and when alone always thinking very deeply, and—and—”

“And what?” I asked, seeing the excellent servant’s hesitation.

“Well, sir, I don’t know whether I really ought to mention it, but one thing worries me very much. You know, sir, I’ve been her ladyship’s maid ever since she came back from school, and I’m much attached to her.”

“I know, Weston. I know quite well,” I said. “You are most devoted to her. But what is this you fear?”

“I really don’t know, sir,” was the young woman’s answer. “But of late the young mistress’s mind seems constantly filled with morbid thoughts. She’s always talking of her death—and only a few days ago she actually gave me some of her trinkets, saying that she would never require them again.”

“That’s strange,” I said, sighing, for I, alas! knew the reason. “You must try and prevent her giving way to such thoughts. Go to her boudoir, and tell her that after dinner I desire to see her. I’ll come up here later and see you—at nine o’clock.”

“Very well, sir,” was the maid’s reply, and then I descended to the long meal, where the chatter was gay, and the serving of the most ceremonious character.

The brilliant women on either side of me interested me not a jot. My only thought was for my absent well-beloved.

After dinner I eagerly sought Weston, who said—“No, sir. She has not rung.”

“Then take me to her,” I said, “I wish to see her at once.”

“But—”

“I will take the responsibility upon myself,” I said. “Go and announce me.”

Reluctantly the maid went along the corridor and tapped at the door. There was no response. I stood behind her as she tapped twice, then opened the door. But the room was empty. The candles were burning upon the writing-table, and in the room was a smell of burnt paper, while in the grate lay a quantity of tinder. She had been destroying some letters or papers. Weston was aghast to find that her mistress was absent.

I went to the grate and saw that every particle of paper had been consumed.

The maid went along to my love’s room, but emerged quickly, saying—

“I think her ladyship must have gone out. Her cape and motor-cap have gone.”

In an instant it was evident that having destroyed her private papers she had slipped out into the park unseen.

I rushed downstairs, and finding Keene in the smoking-room took him quickly out into the hall, and told him of my grave apprehensions, whereupon he was in an instant on the alert.

“She surely cannot have carried out her threat!” he gasped. “We must try to find her at once. Not an instant must be lost! The burning of her papers is sufficient proof of the fatal step she contemplated. Come, let’s go in search at once.”

And breathlessly, fearing the worst, we took our caps and hurried out into the chill windy night.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Reveals some Secrets.

For some time we rushed hither and thither in breathless anxiety, convinced that having burned all her letters, her intentions were those of self-destruction.

Some untoward event had evidently occurred of which we knew nothing, and she had been forced to the last extremity. We had explored all my love’s favourite walks, but in that gusty storm that swept across the park we could hear nothing. It was not exactly dark, but the moon was overcast by heavy rain-clouds, and passing through that portion of the grounds known as “the wilderness,” a wild tangle of rhododendrons and laurels, with big old trees from which the leaves fell in showers upon us, we at length approached the lake, a large sheet of water in the centre of the wild uncultivated spot, where the moorhen nested undisturbed and the lordly heron roosted high above. The spot was lonely and unfrequented—the place, no doubt, she would select if she really intended to take her own life.

We both approached it, fearing the worst. The shrill cries of the night-birds sounded above the moaning of the wind, while before us lay the broad sheet of water grey and mysterious in the clouded moon.

We had walked some distance along its edge, when Keene suddenly gripped my arm, and whispered—

“Look!—look ahead! can’t you see her?—with a man!”

I strained my eyes, and there, sure enough, wearing a dark cloak, she stood erect, statuesque, with the pale light falling upon her white face, while the man had apparently gripped her arm and dragged her from the water’s edge.

Next moment I was beside the pair, and to my dismay recognised that her companion was the fellow Logan, whom I had last seen entering that dark unlit house outside Milan.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I cried in quick anger. “Release that lady, and tell me why I find you here with her.”

“I am here to save her,” was his calm reply. “I have already prevented her taking a fatal step, and if you will accompany me to the Hall I think you will find that, instead of proving myself her enemy, I shall show her that I am her friend. You think evil of me, I know—both of you. But an innocent woman’s life shall not be sacrificed. I came here from London to-night, in order to meet another lady, the Countess of Stanchester, but by good fortune I met Lady Lolita, and she has told me the truth.”

“Of what?” inquired Keene.

“Of what I will reveal on our return to the Hall,” was the man’s answer. “You know much that you have not told, but to save her ladyship here, I will now make the whole thing plain.”

“But why have you not spoken before? You had plenty of opportunity,” Keene remarked.

“Because something that Lady Lolita has just told me makes it plain how cleverly her enemies succeeded in closing my lips. Come, it is cold. Her ladyship is shivering.”

“Come with me, Lolita,” I said, and linking my arm in hers led her back along the path through the wilderness and across her Saints’ Garden to the Hall.

The four of us were silent, all too occupied with own our thoughts to discuss the matter with each other. The sudden determination of the man Logan showed me that he meant at last to tell all that he knew.

“Lolita,” I whispered into her ear, just as we were about to enter the house, “whatever caused you to contemplate such a terrible step to-night?”

A shudder ran through her as she answered—

“Because—because of the letter Marigold sent to me by Weston. She told me that to-night, because I refused to give you up, she would tell George the truth!”

The man Logan overheard her answer, and urged her to remain patient.

“Take us at once to Lady Stanchester, Mr Woodhouse,” he urged, as we went in by a side entrance to avoid any guests who might be playing bridge in the large hall.

Thereupon I rang for Slater, and told him to make inquiries where her ladyship was, and to take us straight to her.

Ten minutes later the old butler returned saying—

“Her ladyship is with the Earl in the blue boudoir, sir.” And eyeing Logan with some surprise, he added, “Will you step this way?”

We followed him upstairs, along a corridor on the first floor, until he opened a door, and bowing said—

“Mr Woodhouse desires to see you urgently, m’lady.”

Next second the four of us were in the small elegantly furnished room upholstered in pale blue damask and gold, where the Earl and his wife were in consultation.

“You!” he cried in fury, when his eyes fell upon Lolita. “Leave this place at once, woman! Marigold has just told me everything—that it was you who killed your lover in the park—that it was you who—”

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Logan, coming forward, whereupon at sight of him the Countess fell back with a loud cry of dismay—a deathly pallor overspreading her countenance.

Her hand went to her throat convulsively and she gasped as though she were being strangled. Then, next instant, her teeth were set hard, her nails were clenched into the palms, her shoulders were elevated, and she stood rigid as a statue, and yet magnificent in her dinner-gown of pale pink and shimmering silver.

She tried to face Lolita, the woman whom she had hounded to her death, but her gaze wavered, and I saw that her effort to regain her self-composure was an utterly vain one. She trembled visibly from head to foot, while the expression in her eyes was sufficient to show the terror now consuming her.

The Earl noticing the change in her, and how she shrank from us, looked from Keene to the stranger, and asked—

“Well, sir? I have not the pleasure of knowing you. Who are you?”

“My name is Alfred Logan, architect by profession and—well, adventurer by inclination,” he replied. “I presume from your words that your wife has denounced your sister, Lady Lolita, as the murderess of young Hugh Wingfield in your park, and has also laid certain other charges against that lady? Fortunately, however, I am in a position to reveal to you the other side of the question, and reveal facts which I believe you will find both startling and remarkable.”

“Tell me?” exclaimed George hoarsely. “I suppose you intend to retaliate by making charges against my wife—eh?”

“Yes!” cried the unhappy woman, clinging to her husband. “That man is my worst enemy, George—save me from him—save me if you love me!”

“Your husband has no power to save you, madam,” exclaimed Logan in a cold distinct voice, while we all stood rooted to the spot. “It is my duty, knowing the truth as I do, to tell it, and to leave your husband to form his own conclusions. To-night, knowing that Lady Lolita, driven to desperation by you, had threatened to commit suicide, rather than a scandal should rest upon her noble house, you have written to her, telling her of your intention of making these charges, with the sole object of causing her death by her own hand, and thus placing yourself in a position of safety. Heaven, however, is just, and I am here to reveal those things that you have hidden from your husband—to tell the world what I know regarding your past.”

“Ah! no!” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “No! Enough! Spare me!”

“You have not spared Lady Lolita, therefore you must hear the hard and bitter truth.” Then, disregarding the terrible effect his words had upon her, he faced the Earl, and said, “What I am about to say will be borne out partially by our friend here, Mr Richard Keene—whom you know by the name of Smeeton—partly by Mr Woodhouse, and partly by your sister herself.”

“Go on,” said the Earl in a low voice. “I am all attention.”

“Then, in order to understand events in their true sequence, I must begin at the very beginning,” he said. “You will recollect that two years before your marriage you, with Lady Lolita, spent the spring at the Villa Aurora at San Remo, while Lady Marigold was staying with her mother at the Hotel Royal, close by. At the same hotel was staying Richard Keene, the man you afterwards met out in Africa under the name of Smeeton, together with his valet, a good-looking young fellow named Hugh Wingfield. The latter had very foolishly given a promise of marriage to a rather pretty young French lady’s maid named Marie Lejeune, but on sight of Lady Lolita, he forsook the young woman and fell madly in love with her ladyship. The latter, of course, had no idea at the time that he was a valet. They first met casually when walking in one of the olive woods behind the town, and he rendered her some little service in arranging the easel upon which she was sketching. He spoke well, dressed well, and as he mentioned he was staying at the Royal, the best hotel, she naturally concluded that he was a gentleman. She had, of course, no suspicion of the passion for her which had been aroused within his heart. The young Frenchwoman, however, quickly discovered the truth, and her intense jealousy was at once aroused. She was a woman of rather questionable character, being in association with two Italian adventurers named Belotto and Ostini, who lived over at Mentone, and at once set to work to intrigue against Lady Lolita and Lady Marigold Gordon. The two being great friends, in consequence of your engagement to Lady Marigold, revenge did not present any very great difficulty to that interesting trio who lived by their wits. I admit that I, myself, was living upon what I could win at the tables, and being at that time very hard-up had been induced to join them in various nefarious schemes which, although they brought us the wherewithal to live, caused us to be wanted by the police for helping ourselves to other people’s property.”

“To put it plainly,” remarked the Earl, “you were thieves.”

“Exactly,” Logan replied. “But our recent schemes had met with little success and we were at our wits’ end for money, when Marie Lejeune, who was a born adventuress, suggested a scheme whereby, in addition to revenging herself upon the woman who had robbed her of her lover, we could blackmail both Lady Marigold and Lady Lolita. Therefore, after considerable forethought and much ingenious intrigue, the scheme was put into practice. A watch was placed upon Lady Marigold, and it was found that she was in the habit of meeting clandestinely on the sea-road towards Bordighera an old friend, a certain Major Atherton, and that she one day went over to Monte Carlo with him in secret, where she was seen by the valet Wingfield, who told his master. It was found that Atherton was an old lover of her ladyship’s, and a letter of hers was secured in which Lady Marigold wrote, ‘I am only accepting George for his money. You know my heart is yours alone.’ Having secured that, the intriguers turned their attention to young Wingfield and Lady Lolita. Marie, with the Frenchwoman’s keen jealousy, discovered that she had met the young man once or twice, and that he had copied his master’s checker-board cipher, and with her own name as the keyword, corresponded with her by its means. Lady Lolita had already discovered, to her great surprise, that the prepossessing young man was desperately in love with her, and his affection rather amused her than otherwise, for every woman is flattered by attention. At last, however, the adventurers, of whom I myself was one, contrived to effect a coup that was about as ingenious as any devised by a gang of evildoers. The love-sick valet—still concealing his real avocation—had arranged to meet her ladyship after dinner one evening in the olive wood at the back of your villa, but his master gaining possession of a cipher message which Lady Lolita had sent him, was, of course, able to read it and resolved upon watching the pair. What he saw he will, perhaps, relate with his own lips.” And then the speaker paused and turned to Richard Keene.

“Yes,” he said, “as far as I know, all that Mr Logan says is absolutely correct. Young Wingfield was my valet. He copied my checker-board cipher, and by its means had the audacity to correspond with her ladyship. When I realised what was going on I felt impelled to go to her and tell her. Yet she being a perfect stranger to me, it was really no affair of mine, so I hesitated until the evening in question, when I watched my valet meet her and walk with her in the olive grove about half a mile from the villa. It was one of those brilliant moonlight nights of early spring on the Mediterranean, and it seemed to me that her ladyship was in no way averse to the young fellow’s attention. They walked together for half an hour or so, in earnest conversation, when he at length took leave of her and, apparently at her desire, left her to return home alone. I followed her in secret, but she had not, however, gone far before I heard her utter a cry of surprise and dismay. ‘Help! help!’ she cried, and in the darkness I saw black figures scuffling, the report of a revolver, followed by a man’s loud groan. I rushed forward, but ere I reached the spot the men’s figures I had seen distinctly had disappeared, but in their place stood the woman Marie Lejeune. Upon the ground lay a man dying, and just as Wingfield, attracted by the shot returned, the woman, who had bent tenderly over the prostrate man rose, and in her voluble French accused Lady Lolita of murder. At first her ladyship was too startled and too utterly dumbfounded to deny this astounding allegation, but when she did the Frenchwoman declared to Wingfield that she had been witness of the crime, and taking up the revolver lying at the poor fellow’s side pointed out that the weapon belonged to Lady Lolita’s brother, the young Earl of Stanchester—that his name was engraved upon it. Denials were useless, but the crafty Marie, determined to await her opportunity to levy blackmail, urged her ladyship to take back the revolver, and return to the villa at once, which she did. But as she turned away I addressed her, offering to walk home with her, told her my name and escorted her to her own gate. My own opinion was that she had met the man there and deliberately shot him, an opinion which I have held till quite recently, for it was strengthened by the fact that the dead man, when discovered next day by the police, was found to be one of her most intimate friends and admirers, Lieutenant Randolph Glover, a wealthy young man who had, after distinguishing himself at Ladysmith, been invalided to the Riviera.”

“I recollect the tragedy quite well,” declared the Earl. “And also what a great sensation it caused. The police theory was that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who had robbed him at roulette and afterwards made away with him, fearing his revelations.”

“Exactly. And the police theory was right,” Keene said. “Marie, who had fascinated him, while her accomplices had extracted from him almost his last penny, shot him herself, without a doubt. But this did not prevent her levying blackmail upon poor Lady Lolita by threatening to denounce her as the actual assassin. She had also convinced Wingfield of her ladyship’s guilt, pointing out their intimate friendship previously, and insinuating that the tragedy was owing to jealousy. I must admit that I believed her ladyship guilty, even though, when we met on the following day and she spoke to me on the promenade, asking me to preserve silence, she again denied her guilt. I promised her to remain silent, hence the police of San Remo were in ignorance of her alleged connexion with the crime, and believed it, as it really was, a case of robbery and murder. Yet Lady Lolita was held in bondage by that woman.”

Then Keene paused, and a dead silence again fell among us.

“Well,” remarked Logan at last. “You have heard the truth regarding that incident by one who was its eye-witness. Therefore, I will go further and tell you what happened afterwards.”

I looked at the proud woman who had sneered at my love for Lolita, and who was now swaying pale and unsteadily before us, but even then, after these startling revelations, I did not discern with what marvellous cleverness and daring she had schemed to shield herself at the price of the life of my well-beloved.

Chapter Thirty Four.

The Affair in Sibberton Park.

“The woman Marie Lejeune quickly developed from the smart ladies’ maid of the Comtesse de Martigny, a gay Parisienne, into the shrewdest and cleverest of adventuresses, and aided by the two Italians, made several large and successful coups at Vichy, Aix-les-Bains, and elsewhere,” continued the man Logan, speaking in the same clear, decisive tones, addressing the Earl. “I, however, had parted from them, and was conducting an honest business in London, while Mr Keene had left on a shooting expedition in Africa, where he afterwards met you, and I presume gave his name as Smeeton in order that you should not connect him with the person who had been at San Remo that season.

“Until your marriage, the Frenchwoman did not trouble your wife nor Lolita in the least. She waited her time until Lady Marigold had married and was wealthy and you returned to London from your honeymoon in Cairo, when one day she called at Stanchester House, saw the Countess, and by showing her the letter she had written to Atherton succeeded in extracting blackmail from her, a course which she has continued until quite recently. And not only this,” he added, “but she approached Lolita secretly and made large requests, threatening that if they were not complied with she would denounce her as the murderess of poor Randolph Glover at San Remo! Her ladyship, helpless and terrified, was forced to comply with these demands although entirely innocent of the crime. On the other hand, however, there was some truth in the woman’s allegation against Lady Stanchester—who, by the way, believed that Richard Keene was dead—and these facts were confirmed by Wingfield who, previous to being in the employment of Mr Keene, was valet to Major Atherton.

“One day, it appeared that the woman Lejeune, in an interview in which she repeated her usual demands for money, told her of Wingfield’s allegations against her and how she could ruin her in your eyes by bringing forward the young valet. The Countess thereupon paid the sum demanded, but from that moment entered into a conspiracy against Wingfield, fearing the revelation he might make concerning her. Her friendship with Atherton had long ago given rise to rumour, and these, she knew, had reached your ears before your marriage. Therefore she was now in fear of both the Frenchwoman and the valet. She knew where Marie Lejeune, Belotto and Ostini were living in London, and in order to free herself gave information to Scotland Yard, who held a warrant from the French police for their arrest. The trio were, however, wary, and fearing arrest rapidly changed their place of abode, with the result that the police were baffled.”

“And all this time Lolita was being blackmailed?” asked the Earl.

“Yes,” answered my love faintly. “It is true, George, all this—every word of it.”

“Matters continued thus for two years, until last August, when a tragedy occurred,” Logan went on. “The young valet, Wingfield, whose love for Lady Lolita had now cooled and who had told her ladyship of his lowly station and of how he had been in the service of Major Atherton, had some time before got into low water, and Lady Lolita, in order to assist him, had first given him money and then, when her private resources were drained by the woman Lejeune’s demands, had given him articles of jewellery, which he sold or pawned. The young man’s opinion regarding the death of Randolph Glover had changed, for he explained to her ladyship how he had discovered in San Remo that the unfortunate young officer had fallen a prey to those harpies, and that the manoeuvre had been carried out and the charge laid against her ladyship in order to extract blackmail. Lady Lolita had then entered into negotiations with young Wingfield to effect her release from the bondage in which the Frenchwoman held her, and these continued for some months, until that fateful night in August. Of what occurred then her ladyship herself can best explain to us.”

And, pausing, he turned to my love to allow her to tell us with her own lips.

For a few moments she remained pale and silent. Her great blue eyes met mine, and then looking me straight in the face she said—

“What Mr Logan has told you is perfectly correct. The poor young man was working in my interests, and I had written him a cipher letter making an appointment to meet me in the park at a spot where we had met several times previously, as I knew, secretly watching the Frenchwoman and her accomplices in London as he was, he had something to report to me. That afternoon, however, as I drove through the village I saw at the window of the Stanchester Arms the one man whom I feared would denounce me—the man who had been witness of the affair at San Remo, and who had openly expressed belief in my guilt—Richard Keene. He had come to Sibberton evidently to make inquiries about me. By his presence there, I knew he meant mischief.

“That same evening I also received a secret visit from Marie Lejeune. Still I kept the appointment and walked across the park by a circuitous route, in order that none of the servants should recognise me. I knew I had plenty of time by the chiming of the stable clock, therefore I did not hurry. But when I reached the hollow I found he was not there, and had waited for a moment in expectation, when of a sudden I saw something in the darkness lying close to me. I bent and to my horror discovered that it was the young man Wingfield—dead! I screamed and rushed away, not knowing whither I went, but scarcely had I gone a few yards when I ran right into the arms of Mr Logan. I had, in my horror, picked up the knife lying at the dead man’s side, a long, thin Italian dagger, and when he met me I still held it in my hand. That very fact, of which I was unconscious at the moment, convinced him of my guilt. Thus on a second occasion was I suspected of a crime of which I was innocent. Of what occurred afterwards I have little recollection. I only know that Mr Logan took the knife from my hand, and that for hours we wandered, he trying to obtain from me the true facts against Marigold which the dead man had alleged. Then at dawn we parted, and I was met by Mr Woodhouse, who set about swiftly to remove every piece of evidence that might convict me of the mysterious crime. Ah!” she cried, “God alone knows how much I have suffered—how Marie Lejeune and her accomplices have tortured me.”

“I admit,” declared Logan frankly, “that I believed Lady Lolita to be guilty. The horror at finding the dead man and the knowledge that the great intrigue was still in progress produced upon her an effect which I unfortunately mistook for guilt. You must first know that on the night in question, being again associated with Marie Lejeune, I had accompanied her to Sibberton, whither she went at Lady Lolita’s request. Her ladyship saw her privately, while I awaited her in the ‘Mermaid’ over at Geddington. Marie had, by secret means, learnt of Lolita’s intention to meet Hugh Wingfield in the park that night, therefore on leaving the Hall she awaited in order to watch and obtain knowledge of the negotiations against her which she knew were in progress between the valet and her ladyship, while I, surprised at her long absence, strolled across to the park in order to meet her on her return, as the way was dark and lonely.

“According to the statement she afterwards made to me, it appears that she watched the young valet’s arrival. He stood listening for about five minutes, when suddenly a woman, whom by her ermine cloak she knew was Lady Lolita, approached in the gloom, but as the young man uttered her name and put his hand out to welcome her, she stepped nimbly past him and struck him full in the back—a fatal blow. It was but the work of a single instant. ‘Ah! my lady!’ he gasped, clutching at her cloak. ‘You—you’ve killed me!’ And he sank upon the ground and expired. At that instant Marie Lejeune stepped from her hiding-place and the two women met face to face. Then Marie was staggered to discover that the woman who wore Lady Lolita’s cloak was not Lady Lolita herself—but that woman standing there!” he exclaimed, pointing to the Countess, “Lady Stanchester!”

“Lady Stanchester!” we all gasped in one breath, while the wretched woman thus denounced stood before us, swaying and shrinking from our gaze.

“But surely she was still at Aix-les-Bains!” I cried.

“No,” he declared. “She had returned to London on the previous day, and was living at Burton’s boarding-house, in Hereford Road, Bayswater, under the name of Mrs Frith. That very morning she had seen the young valet in Westbourne Grove, and had followed him down to Sibberton. As soon as she saw him take a ticket for Kettering she knew of his intention to meet Lady Lolita clandestinely, therefore she saw in that her opportunity to deal him a fatal blow, and thus prevent any ugly revelation regarding her past.”

“But the cloak?” I asked.

“Lady Lolita had lent it to her just before her departure for Aix, and she wore it on that night.” Then I saw how, by my neglecting to tell Lolita of the finding of the cloak by the gamekeeper Jacobs, I had myself withheld the truth from her! Had she known that the cloak she had lent Marigold had been found torn and cast aside, she would of course have suspected the identity of the assassin.

“The young man’s acquaintance with Lolita and Marigold accounts, I suppose, for his having watched my movements in London!” remarked the Earl.

Chapter Thirty Five.

The Truth.

“You see,” Logan went on, “Lady Stanchester feared the revelation which the young valet could make concerning her, therefore, knowing that Lady Lolita was in the habit of writing to him in cipher and that they had arranged to meet that night in the park, she saw that if she killed him suspicion must be thrown upon her husband’s sister. Besides, she was believed to be still at Aix, the only person having knowledge of her secret presence in London being Marie, with whom she had an interview that very day. Judge her dismay, therefore, when at the moment of the committal of the crime she came face to face with Marie herself, her bitterest enemy! Only a gasp of surprise escaped the mouths of both women. They glared into each other’s faces, and while the Countess knew that her terrible secret was not her own, Marie Lejeune saw gloatingly that her power over the wealthy woman was now that of life or death. It was not to the Frenchwoman’s interest to tell the truth to the police while Lady Stanchester submitted to blackmail, therefore in this second case, as in the first, the facts against Lady Lolita were sufficiently circumstantial to secure her conviction, and more especially that she held the knife in her hand when I had encountered her at the scene of the crime.”

“But surely you told Lady Lolita that you were satisfied that the charge against her was a false one?” I asked.

“Certainly I did—after Marie Lejeune had told me the truth. I did not, however, tell her who was the actual assassin, as Marie would not allow me. Nevertheless in neither case could her actual innocence be proved unless Marie Lejeune spoke the truth—and this she refused to do, first because she must by so doing implicate herself; and secondly that she would then lose the power for blackmail which she had established with such devilish ingenuity. It was true, as Lady Lolita declared to me, she was their victim—and to drive her to self-destruction was equally their object—in order to save themselves.”

The Earl stood listening to the terrible allegations against his wife, scarcely moving a muscle of his features.

“From the moment of Wingfield’s death Lady Stanchester, against whom the French police held a warrant for her implication in certain frauds of the gang, was entirely in the Frenchwoman’s unscrupulous hands,” Logan continued, “but knowing Lady Lolita’s peril, and sympathising with her—the unconscious victim of the evil deeds of both these women—I took her side against them and joined myself in secret with Mr Keene, although at the time I was still allied with them.

“Keene also joined us, but with a view to freeing Lady Lolita from the false charges against her. He knew the truth regarding Lady Stanchester, and with us sought concealment in a farm in the vicinity, our object being to keep observation upon the movements of the Countess. We should have remained longer, had it not been for the jealousy of Belotto, who one night attacked Marie Lejeune and we were compelled to call in a doctor. Moreover we were compelled, owing to that, to escape abroad again. After a short time, however, the Countess—still compelled to submit to blackmail heavily and even to give some of her jewellery in lieu of money, and living in daily terror that the Frenchwoman should give secret information to the police regarding the assassination of Wingfield—wrote to me in Lucerne expressing a desire to meet Marie again, and come to some amicable arrangement with her. I arranged the meeting, came to London, and escorted Lady Stanchester to Milan. By some means Mr Woodhouse obtained knowledge of her intention and follow us. Perhaps he will tell you what occurred.”

“Certainly,” I said. And then I related the result of my vigilance, and the adventure which subsequently happened to me.

“You were struck down by a man whom Marie had on watch outside the house and carried into the place afterwards,” explained Logan, when I had concluded my narrative.

“Why Marie received us in the apartment that was not her own,” he continued, “was in order that the Countess should not afterwards be able to inform the police of her whereabouts. She invited Lady Stanchester and ourselves to supper, when a fresh and very ingenious scheme of fraud upon jewellers in Paris, in which she intended to compel her ladyship to take part, was discussed. Presently the two women quarrelled, mutual recriminations followed, whereupon Marie openly accused her visitor of Wingfield’s murder and threatened that if she refused her assistance in this new scheme she intended to denounce her. Scarcely, however, had the Frenchwoman uttered these words when Lady Stanchester rose suddenly, drew a knife, and stabbed her to the heart while she sat at table. For a moment we all sat dumbfounded and horrified. Then the question arose how best to dispose of the body. The man who had driven us there was one of our accomplices, therefore it was resolved to drive out about two miles, and place it in the canal.

“While they carried it out I was to remain behind, to remove all trace of the crime. The murderess sat motionless in the corner of the room, appalled by her own deed. Judge my surprise, however, when, a few minutes later, the body of Marie was brought back again, and then Mr Woodhouse, whom we all believed to be here, at Sibberton, was carried in! He was placed in such a position that whoever discovered the tragedy would believe that he was the murderer. The guilty woman screamed aloud when her eyes fell upon her husband’s secretary, saying, ‘Strike him again! Make certain he’s dead, or he will tell the truth—he will expose me!’ But we dragged her away, and two hours afterwards I sat with her in the Bâle express, travelling towards London.

“To-night I came down here to see her in secret, in order to plead with her to release Lady Lolita from the terrible thraldom of suspicion—yet it seems that in order to save herself she had actually uttered the false charges to her husband. Had I not met Lady Lolita in the pleasure-grounds to-night, she would, ere this, have been driven to the last extremity.”

“Ah!” I cried, standing aghast at the extraordinary story, “it is, indeed, the hand of Providence that has directed your presence here to-night, Mr Logan. You have, if nothing else, made atonement for the part you yourself played in the affair, by coming forward and exposing a guilty woman and saving from death one who is pure, innocent and long-suffering—the woman I love.”

Lady Lolita grasped my hand tightly, but no word passed her quivering lips.

Keene, however, said—

“Although Lady Lolita looked upon me as her enemy from the first, I was, in reality, her friend. I allied myself with Mr Logan and the two Italians in order to discover their intrigue and to save her ladyship.”

“And you have done so,” Lolita declared. “I can never sufficiently thank either you or Mr Logan. You have, moreover, saved me from the sin of self-destruction,” she faltered, and then she burst into tears.

“And you?” cried the Earl, in anger and loathing, turning upon his statuesque wife who stood there, erect, immovable, as though turned to stone. “And you, woman!—What have you to reply to all this?”

Her white lips moved, but no sound escaped them. She tried to speak—to deny the truth, perhaps, but words failed her. She raised her hand, moved slightly, then, staggering, fell forward heavily without a hand to save her.

So painful, so terrible, so dramatic was that scene between husband and wife that we all of us withdrew and have ever since been trying to efface it from our recollections.

Thus was the awful truth revealed that the woman whom half London envied had committed a second murder in order to conceal the first, and that she had actually gone out to Milan with the distinct and premeditated object of taking the Frenchwoman’s life.

Never till my dying day shall I forget those terrible moments when before our eyes the love of the Earl of Stanchester turned to hatred, and when he spurned her senseless body with his foot as he turned from her in disgust and left the Hall. I will not attempt to describe it—it was far too painful, too terrible, too awful to be placed upon record.

Would that it could for ever be wiped from the tablets of my memory.

And what occurred afterwards? Patience, and I will tell you.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Containing the Conclusion.

The tragic and untimely end of the smart, pretty, wonderfully-dressed Countess of Stanchester will still be fresh within the memory of newspaper readers.

It will be recollected how, with her maid, she left Sibberton Hall for Paris, and how in her room at the Hotel Continental she was found dead, having unfortunately taken an overdose of morphia.

At least such was the newspaper story, and happily so, for it spared scandal and disgrace to one of England’s noblest houses. To the public the truth never leaked out, and as a consequence the society papers were full of regrets that a woman so young, so popular and so full of life and energy should have been cut off by accident in such a manner, while everywhere the deepest sympathy was expressed towards her husband.

Keene and I accompanied him to Paris, and we three were the only mourners at those terribly tragic last rites at Père Lachaise. He stood motionless with uncovered head until the final act, and then with a great bursting sob he turned away, and for a week I saw nothing of him.

I returned to London on the following day, and in the great drawing-room of Stanchester House, overlooking the Park, I stood and grasped the hands of my well-beloved. In her plain black, she presented a wan and fragile figure, yet upon her cheeks showed the flush of hope and pleasure, and as our lips met in a soft sweet caress I knew that she was mine—mine for ever.

We sat together at one of the long windows of that magnificent room until the golden haze over the Park faded into dull crimson and the London day drew to a close, talking of the future and of what it meant to us, for she held in her hand a brief letter from her heart-broken brother, posted in Brussels, in which he wrote:—

“I know that you love Willoughby and I have no objection whatever to your marriage. I welcome it. He has saved your life, and he has saved our house from dishonour. In such circumstances, my dear Lol, nothing will please me better than a union between you. He is poor, but tell him not to worry on that account. You have sufficient for yourself, but I shall make over Chelmorton to you for your lifetime, which will provide you both with income sufficient.”

“Ah!” I cried joyfully when I read that letter. “Then, after all, George does not object to my birth and station! He is indeed generous!”

“No, dearest,” was her kindly answer as she placed her hand tenderly upon my shoulder and bent of her own accord to kiss my lips. “He does not object because he knows that we really love each other, and that no man has greater claim to me than yourself.”

The words spoken between us are surely of little import to you, my reader, save to know that we mutually resolved that the name of Marigold should never in all our lives again pass our lips. This and other firm resolves we made, until the autumn dusk darkened into night and the footman entering to switch on the lights and draw the curtains, recalled us to the realities of the life about us.

Since that glad reunion when I held my love in my arms, and she promised to be my wife, nearly two years have passed happily, blissful years that have slipped by like mere weeks so unheeded has been Time.

And to-day? Well, there is little to record, save that this season the famous Stanchester hounds are hunted by Frank Blew, the huntsman, for the Earl has been, ever since our marriage, out in Mashonaland hunting with his most intimate friend, the honest, big-handed, weather-beaten sportsman, Richard Keene. Of Alfred Logan we see something on rare occasions, for having been “set upon his legs” by George, he has now an increasing architect’s practice in Great George Street, Westminster, enjoying the great advantage of being the architect to the Stanchester estates.

And ourselves?

After the terrible anxiety and awful suspicion of those dark, never-to-be-forgotten days all is now happiness. The barrier ’twixt me and the rapturous peace I so long panted for is removed, and we have both emerged at last from that fatal region of mystery and doubt. At Chelmorton Towers, the beautiful old ivy-covered place in Sussex which George so generously gave to his sister for our use during her lifetime, I live in the sunshine of Lolita’s matchless beauty, charmed by the secret tenderness of her voice and thrilled by her soft caresses. Nought else I desire. We have, both of us, found happiness in each other’s pure affection.

And as day succeeds day, and every rising sun blesses me with sight of my sweet beloved and ushers in fresh ecstasy, I feel myself in full possession of the world of joy. In vain have I re-dipped my pen to trace the raptures that enchant me; but the thread is broken, and to give to language what my soul conceals is not in me, nor in the brain of human nature to impart.

Life and love are ours, and to us they are all-sufficient.

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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Chapter 31

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Chapter 32

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Chapter 33

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Chapter 34

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Chapter 35

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Chapter 36

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