The Sign of the Stranger Part 18

WHICH CONCERNS A GUEST AT THE HALL.

The old fellow's recognition of the name made it clear that the mysterious Mademoiselle, on her escape from Chelsea, had taken refuge in that house, together with certain other persons who were either accomplices, or who had formed some conspiracy in which she was implicated.

To the doctor, of course, this declaration of the man Hayes conveyed but little, but to me it threw an entirely fresh light upon the extraordinary affair. To Pink I gave a false explanation of the reason of my question. Some cunning plot seemed to be in progress, until the attack upon the young Frenchwoman and its subsequent exposure had, it appeared, put them all to flight.

Richard Keene had apparently gone straight from the _Stanchester Arms_ and taken up his abode in that lonely house, ingratiating himself with the old people, in order, it seemed, to obtain a safe retreat for Mademoiselle, the man Logan and his two companions.

For what reason? Was this man Logan the same person who had walked with Lolita when I had discovered her after the tragedy?

I endeavoured to obtain a minute description of him from both the doctor and the farmer, but somehow his appearance, as described by my friend, was not as I had met him in those exciting moments on the Chelsea Embankment. Yet, perhaps, on that night, when he was secretly returning to Britten Street, his countenance might have been disguised. If he suspected that the police were watching, he would, no doubt, try and alter his personal appearance.

We both questioned old Mrs Hayes, a white-faced old woman in a silk cap with faded ribbon, but we could get nothing very intelligible from her, for she seemed upset and nervous regarding the hurried departure of the mysterious foreigners.

"I'm very sorry, sir, we 'ad anything to do with 'em," she declared, shaking her head. "Only the first gentleman 'as come was so nice, an'

made us laugh so much with 'is funny stories that we thought any friends of 'is'n must be just so nice. He'd been at sea, and told us a lot about places abroad."

"Oh! he'd been at sea, had he?" I remarked, as that statement confirmed the suspicion that the man called d.i.c.k was actually Richard Keene--the person whose return had struck terror in the heart of both Lolita and the Countess.

"He said so," was her answer. "'E also said that he knew something of these parts, and made a lot of inquiries about the death of old Lord Stanchester, the present Earl's marriage and all that. In fact it somehow struck me that he had known the family long ago, and was anxious to hear about the recent happenings over at the Hall."

"He made no remark about the man found dead in the park?" asked the doctor.

"No. Not to my recollection. But Mr Logan did. He seemed very concerned about it, and I believe he went over to Sibberton one evening to see the spot. Only he didn't tell us. We knew from the ostler at the _Fox and Hounds_ in Brigstock, where he hired a trap."

This negatived the theory that Logan was the man I had met in Chelsea, for if he were, he would surely not have wished to visit a place he had already seen. Indeed, he would, no doubt, have kept away from it as far as possible.

Compelled as I was to veil from my companion the reason of my inquiries, he regarded them, of course, as unnecessary, and did not fail to tell me so in his plain blunt fashion.

"There's one thing quite certain," he remarked as we cantered home together in the crimson sundown, "there's a lot of mystery connected with those people. I wonder if there really has been a tragedy, and if the man Logan actually made an attempt upon the young fellow, as the girl had declared. It's a great pity," he added, "that we don't know their surnames."

"Yes," I agreed. "If we did, we might perhaps establish their connexion with the affair in Sibberton Park."

"Is it wise to tell Redway what we've heard?" he suggested.

In an instant I saw that to do such a thing would be to break my promise to Mademoiselle, therefore I expressed myself entirely against such a course, saying--

"My own idea is that if we conduct our inquiries carefully and in secret, we'll be able to learn much more than the police. Personally, I've no faith in Redway at all."

"I haven't much, I confess," he laughed. "Very well. We'll keep our own counsel, and find out all we can further."

To me the enigma had a.s.sumed utterly bewildering proportions. The mystery of it all, combined with the distinct suspicion resting upon the woman I loved so fondly, was driving me to madness. Sleeping or waking, my one thought--the one object of my life--was the solution of this problem that now const.i.tuted my very existence.

I would have followed Mademoiselle at once, and questioned her further, had I known her whereabouts. But, unfortunately, she had again escaped me, and I still remained powerless and in ignorance of the truth, which proved afterwards to be so utterly astounding.

We pa.s.sed through Brigstock, and cantering on set out along the long white highway. Both of us were silent, deep in thought. From the west poured an infinite volume of yellow-gold light. A wonderful transfiguring softness covered the earth. Far above the transfiguring gold in the west was a calm clear-shining blue, and into the blue softly blended colour into colour so artistically that any painter's brush would be defied.

Suddenly, the rays of the sun stretched up from behind the dark hill-tops and the whole became an illimitable blaze of gold and crimson.

The sun seemed standing on the edge of the world, and its mystery was mirrored upon my heart.

The life of the day was nearing its end, and in the hush of silence we went onward, onward--towards home. And as we rode on I reflected that life was like an April day of alternate showers and sunshine, laughter and tears, flashes of woe and spasms of pain. One sun alone can brighten our gloom, and that sun is love. Without it, we have only the darkness of desolation.

Lolita! Lolita! The pale troubled refined face arose ever before me, haunting me sleeping or waking; that terrified look that had settled upon her matchless countenance at the moment when she had told me in her desperation that Keene's return meant death to her, I could by no means efface from my mind. It had been photographed indelibly upon my memory.

I received a letter from her next morning, a brief friendly note containing, as usual, no words of affection, only an expression of intimate friendship and trust. Was she guilty? If so, of what?

Could such a woman be really guilty of a crime?

In my quiet room at the Hall I sat with a pile of the Earl's correspondence before me. The letter-bag always contained a strange a.s.sortment of communications; some pathetic, many amusing, and at rare intervals notes on coloured paper in a feminine hand which, not being for my eyes, I re-enclosed in a plain envelope without reading.

Sibberton had had before his marriage what is known in club parlance as "a good time." His name had been coupled with more than one lady; he had driven a coach, given wonderful luncheons at the Bachelors', kept a house-boat up at Bray, was a well-known man about town, and an equally well-known figure at the tables at Monte Carlo. He had shot big game on the Zambesi, caught tarpon in Florida, potted tiger in the Himalayas, and had otherwise run the whole gamut of the pleasures of life as are opened to the wealthy young Englishman. On the day of his marriage with Marigold, he became a changed man, and now having a.s.sumed the responsibilities of an enormous estate, he declared himself to be gradually developing into an old fogey.

I had at last managed to stifle down my conflicting thoughts, and was busy replying to the pile of letters before me, when the Earl, in riding breeches, strode in from "cubbing." He had been out at five, and now, at eleven, had finished the day's sport and returned to his guests.

"Want to see me, Willoughby?" he asked, for it was usual for him to look in each morning to see whether I wished for any directions upon matters which I could not decide myself.

"Nothing of urgent importance," was my reply. "Benwell, the agent at Brockhurst, suggests buying about a thousand acres that adjoin the estate and are in the market."

"He means Haughmond Manor, I suppose?"

I replied in the affirmative.

"Tell him to buy if he can at a reasonable price. I fancy the Manor House isn't let just now. Tell him to get a good tenant for it."

I knew the place, a fine old sixteenth-century house, with beautiful terraces and gardens, one of the prettiest places in all Shropshire.

"What about visitors? Who's coming?" he asked. "Has Marigold given you another list?"

"Yes," I responded, taking out a slip of paper the Countess had handed me on the previous day, giving the names of some thirty persons, with the dates of their arrival and departure.

Having scanned them down quickly he gave a grunt of distinct dissatisfaction, for certain of the names were of persons of whom I knew he did not approve.

"I see she's asked Goffe, after all--hang the fellow. You must put him off, Willoughby. I won't have such a blackguard under my roof--and I told her I wouldn't! I'm no saint myself, but I'm not going to ask my guests to meet such a person. It's simply a marvel to me," he added, striding up and down the room, his spurs clinking as he walked, "how the papers talk about him. To-day you read he is staying with Lord This, and to-morrow he is at the d.u.c.h.ess of That's house-party, and the next day he meets the King at Doncaster. People must really think he's the most popular man alive."

"Sends the paragraphs to the editor himself, I suppose," I remarked.

"Suppose so. There's Marigold's friend Lady Laxton, who boasts that she pays two hundred a year to some poor devil of a journalist up in town to puff her every other day in the papers, and scatter her portraits about in the ladies' journals. That's why you see `Lady Laxton at Home,'

`Lady Laxton on her motor,' `Lady Laxton and her Chow,' `Lady Laxton walking,' `Lady Laxton riding,' and all the rest of it," he laughed.

"The Laxton boom costs a couple of hundred a year, but it's cheap to a draper's wife, for it's put her into a good set where she wouldn't otherwise have been."

I joined in his laughter, for like all his cla.s.s he hated cheap notoriety, and was far too conservative to discern that no success, social or commercial, is achieved in these modern days without judicious advertising.

"Oh, by the way!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I see she hasn't put Smeeton on the list--write it down, David Smeeton. You've never met him, I think. He's a good fellow. I asked him down for a fortnight's shooting. He's a magnificent shot--was with me up the Zambesi."

"When does he come?"

"To-morrow--five-forty at Kettering. See after him, won't you?

Introduce him, and all that. I shall shoot over at Harringworth, and can't be back till late."