the lower part of 'er face. When shesaid `good-bye' to me she looked like a corpse--poor thing."
"Then she said nothing about Logan's attack upon her?" I asked. "Sheappeared anxious to get away with the others?"
"Very," replied the old farmer. "She seemed to fear that she had saidsomethin' which would reveal what they were all tryin' to keep secret."
"Now tell me, Mr Hayes," I said, facing him very seriously. "Tell meone thing. Have you ever heard any of your mysterious visitors mentionthe name of Lejeune?"
The old fellow leaned heavily on his stick, scratched his white head andthought hard a moment.
"Ler--june,--Ler--june," he repeated. "Why, I believe that's the nameby which the gentleman called Dick addressed the young lady when he cameto see Mister Logan the other day! I recollect quite distinctly now.I've been a-tryin' an' a-tryin' to remember it--an' couldn't. Yes. Itwor Ler--june--I'm certain. Do you happen to know her, sir?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
WHICH CONCERNS A GUEST AT THE HALL.
The old fellow's recognition of the name made it clear that themysterious Mademoiselle, on her escape from Chelsea, had taken refuge inthat house, together with certain other persons who were eitheraccomplices, or who had formed some conspiracy in which she wasimplicated.
To the doctor, of course, this declaration of the man Hayes conveyed butlittle, but to me it threw an entirely fresh light upon theextraordinary affair. To Pink I gave a false explanation of the reasonof my question. Some cunning plot seemed to be in progress, until theattack upon the young Frenchwoman and its subsequent exposure had, itappeared, 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 withthe old people, in order, it seemed, to obtain a safe retreat forMademoiselle, the man Logan and his two companions.
For what reason? Was this man Logan the same person who had walked withLolita when I had discovered her after the tragedy?
I endeavoured to obtain a minute description of him from both the doctorand the farmer, but somehow his appearance, as described by my friend,was not as I had met him in those exciting moments on the ChelseaEmbankment. Yet, perhaps, on that night, when he was secretly returningto Britten Street, his countenance might have been disguised. If hesuspected that the police were watching, he would, no doubt, try andalter his personal appearance.
We both questioned old Mrs Hayes, a white-faced old woman in a silk capwith faded ribbon, but we could get nothing very intelligible from her,for she seemed upset and nervous regarding the hurried departure of themysterious 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 friendsof 'is'n must be just so nice. He'd been at sea, and told us a lotabout places abroad."
"Oh! he'd been at sea, had he?" I remarked, as that statement confirmedthe suspicion that the man called Dick was actually Richard Keene--theperson whose return had struck terror in the heart of both Lolita andthe Countess.
"He said so," was her answer. "'E also said that he knew something ofthese parts, and made a lot of inquiries about the death of old LordStanchester, the present Earl's marriage and all that. In fact itsomehow struck me that he had known the family long ago, and was anxiousto hear about the recent happenings over at the Hall."
"He made no remark about the man found dead in the park?" asked thedoctor.
"No. Not to my recollection. But Mr Logan did. He seemed veryconcerned about it, and I believe he went over to Sibberton one eveningto see the spot. Only he didn't tell us. We knew from the ostler atthe _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 hadalready seen. Indeed, he would, no doubt, have kept away from it as faras 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 meso in his plain blunt fashion.
"There's one thing quite certain," he remarked as we cantered hometogether in the crimson sundown, "there's a lot of mystery connectedwith those people. I wonder if there really has been a tragedy, and ifthe man Logan actually made an attempt upon the young fellow, as thegirl had declared. It's a great pity," he added, "that we don't knowtheir surnames."
"Yes," I agreed. "If we did, we might perhaps establish their connexionwith 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 promiseto Mademoiselle, therefore I expressed myself entirely against such acourse, saying--
"My own idea is that if we conduct our inquiries carefully and insecret, 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 ourown counsel, and find out all we can further."
To me the enigma had assumed utterly bewildering proportions. Themystery of it all, combined with the distinct suspicion resting upon thewoman 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 thisproblem that now constituted my very existence.
I would have followed Mademoiselle at once, and questioned her further,had I known her whereabouts. But, unfortunately, she had again escapedme, and I still remained powerless and in ignorance of the truth, whichproved afterwards to be so utterly astounding.
We passed through Brigstock, and cantering on set out along the longwhite highway. Both of us were silent, deep in thought. From the westpoured an infinite volume of yellow-gold light. A wonderfultransfiguring softness covered the earth. Far above the transfiguringgold in the west was a calm clear-shining blue, and into the blue softlyblended colour into colour so artistically that any painter's brushwould be defied.
Suddenly, the rays of the sun stretched up from behind the darkhill-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 wasmirrored upon my heart.
The life of the day was nearing its end, and in the hush of silence wewent onward, onward--towards home. And as we rode on I reflected thatlife was like an April day of alternate showers and sunshine, laughterand tears, flashes of woe and spasms of pain. One sun alone canbrighten our gloom, and that sun is love. Without it, we have only thedarkness of desolation.
Lolita! Lolita! The pale troubled refined face arose ever before me,haunting me sleeping or waking; that terrified look that had settledupon her matchless countenance at the moment when she had told me in herdesperation that Keene's return meant death to her, I could by no meansefface from my mind. It had been photographed indelibly upon my memory.
I received a letter from her next morning, a brief friendly notecontaining, as usual, no words of affection, only an expression ofintimate 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'scorrespondence before me. The letter-bag always contained a strangeassortment of communications; some pathetic, many amusing, and at rareintervals notes on coloured paper in a feminine hand which, not beingfor 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; hehad driven a coach, given wonderful luncheons at the Bachelors', kept ahouse-boat up at Bray, was a well-known man about town, and an equallywell-known figure at the tables at Monte Carlo. He had shot big game onthe Zambesi, caught tarpon in Florida, potted tiger in the Himalayas,and had otherwise run the whole gamut of the pleasures of life as areope
ned to the wealthy young Englishman. On the day of his marriage withMarigold, he became a changed man, and now having assumed theresponsibilities of an enormous estate, he declared himself to begradually developing into an old fogey.
I had at last managed to stifle down my conflicting thoughts, and wasbusy replying to the pile of letters before me, when the Earl, in ridingbreeches, 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 lookin each morning to see whether I wished for any directions upon matterswhich I could not decide myself.
"Nothing of urgent importance," was my reply. "Benwell, the agent atBrockhurst, suggests buying about a thousand acres that adjoin theestate 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 ManorHouse 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 beautifulterraces and gardens, one of the prettiest places in all Shropshire.
"What about visitors? Who's coming?" he asked. "Has Marigold given youanother list?"
"Yes," I responded, taking out a slip of paper the Countess had handedme on the previous day, giving the names of some thirty persons, withthe dates of their arrival and departure.
Having scanned them down quickly he gave a grunt of distinctdissatisfaction, for certain of the names were of persons of whom I knewhe did not approve.
"I see she's asked Goffe, after all--hang the fellow. You must put himoff, Willoughby. I won't have such a blackguard under my roof--and Itold her I wouldn't! I'm no saint myself, but I'm not going to ask myguests 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 thepapers talk about him. To-day you read he is staying with Lord This,and to-morrow he is at the Duchess of That's house-party, and the nextday he meets the King at Doncaster. People must really think he's themost 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 shepays two hundred a year to some poor devil of a journalist up in town topuff her every other day in the papers, and scatter her portraits aboutin the ladies' journals. That's why you see `Lady Laxton at Home,'`Lady Laxton on her motor,' `Lady Laxton and her Chow,' `Lady Laxtonwalking,' `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 adraper's wife, for it's put her into a good set where she wouldn'totherwise have been."
I joined in his laughter, for like all his class he hated cheapnotoriety, and was far too conservative to discern that no success,social or commercial, is achieved in these modern days without judiciousadvertising.
"Oh, by the way!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I see she hasn't put Smeetonon the list--write it down, David Smeeton. You've never met him, Ithink. He's a good fellow. I asked him down for a fortnight'sshooting. 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, andcan't be back till late."
"Very well," I said, for it usually fell to me to put guests in the waysof that enormous house.
That day, and the following, passed uneventfully, and I heard nothing ofany tragic discovery being made beyond Brigstock, therefore thesuspicion that a second crime had been committed seemed negatived. Ihad driven over to Gretton in the afternoon to give instructions to oneof the keepers, and returning about seven o'clock, was walking along thecorridor to my room when, at the further end, in the fading light, I sawtwo figures, one a guest, and the other Slater, the butler.
"This is Mr Smeeton, sir," the old servant explained. "He's justarrived, and been shown his room. His lordship said you would entertainhim until he and her ladyship returned."
The newly-arrived guest came forward from the shadow to greet me, and ashe did so the light fell straight across his face.
I stood open-mouthed, unable to utter a word in response.
The guest was none other than Richard Keene himself!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
WHICH TEACHES THE VALUE OF SILENCE.
The man's audacity in coming there openly and boldly as LordStanchester's guest so utterly astounded me that my very words frozeupon my lips. Was this some further development of the intrigue inwhich one man had already lost his life?
Yet the visitor, bluff and hearty of speech, stood smiling at me with acalmness that was absolutely amazing. In the first instant, I wonderedwhether the dim light of the corridor had deceived me, or whether hisface only resembled in a marked degree the dusty wayfarer who hadrefreshed himself with such gusto at the _Stanchester Arms_. Suddenly Irecollected that although I had watched him on that hot afternoon, hehad been unable to see me where I remained in the publican's backparlour. There was a screen on purpose to hide any person seated in thelittle low inner room from the vulgar gaze of those in the tap-room, andat the moment he had faced me I had been peeping round the cornerwatching him. As I crossed the room he had seen my back, of course, buthis self-assurance at the moment of our meeting made it quite plain thathe did not recognise me.
The dim light having concealed my surprise, I quickly regained myself-possession, and with effusive greeting asked him into my room.
"Lord Stanchester, her ladyship, and most of the party are still out," Iexplained. "There's been a big shoot to-day. He asked me to entertainyou until he returned," I said, when he had seated himself in anarmchair.
His tall figure seemed somewhat accentuated; his dark face, however, nolonger wore that expression of weariness, but on the other hand heseemed hale and hearty, and had it not been for his rather rough speech,he might, in his well-cut suit of grey tweed, have passed for agentleman.
"Oh! her ladyship is at home, then?" exclaimed the man who calledhimself Smeeton. "I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting her. Infact I haven't been in England since the Earl's marriage."
"You're a big-game hunter, I hear," I remarked.
"I shoot a little," was his modest rejoinder. "I shot with LordStanchester in Africa, one season, and we had fair sport. I notice thathe has some of his trophies in the hall. By Jove!" he added. "He's asplendid sportsman--doesn't know what fear is. When we were together hegot in some very tight corners. More than once it was only by merechance that there was an heir left to the title. It wasn't throughrecklessness either, but sheer pluck."
He at any rate seemed to possess an unbounded admiration for my friend.
"You spend most of your time abroad?" I remarked, hoping to be able togather some further facts.
"Well, yes. I have a house abroad," he answered. "I find England anice place to visit occasionally. There's no place in the world likeLondon, and no street like Piccadilly. But I'm a born wanderer, and amconstantly on the wing in one or other of the five continents, yet atinfrequent intervals I return to London, stand for a moment beside thelions in Trafalgar Square, and thank my lucky planet that I'm born anEnglishman." He laughed in his own bluff hearty way.
And this was the man of whom both Lolita and Lady Stanchester lived insuch mortal terror!
He took a cigarette, lit it, and leaned back in the chair with an easyair of comfort, watching the smoke ascend.
"Pretty country about here, it seems," he remarked presently. "Thedrive from Kettering station is a typical bit of rural English scenery.The green of the fields is refreshing after the scorched lands near theEquator. What's the partridge season like? It seems an age since Ishot a bird in England."
"Oh! They're fairly strong," I replied. "The spell of wet was againstthem in the early season, but I believe the bags are quit
e up to theaverage."
"And who's here just now?"
I enumerated a list of his fellow-guests, in which I saw he was greatlyinterested.
"There's Lord and Lady Cotterstock, Sir Henry Kipton, General Bryan,Captain Harper, the Honourable Violet Middleton, Count Bernheim, theGerman Ambassador, Lady Barford, Mr Samuel Woodford--"
"Sammy Woodford!" he exclaimed, interrupting me. "How long has he beenhere?"
"Ever since the opening of the season. Are you acquainted?"
"Well--not exactly," he responded evasively. "I've heard a good dealabout him from mutual friends. I'll be glad to meet him. He's the manwho was in the Chitral affair. They swear by him in India."
"So I believe," I remarked, puzzled at the strange expression whichcrossed his features when I mentioned the name of the Earl's veryintimate friend. Mr Samuel Woodford, or "Sammy" to his intimates, wasa district superintendent of Bengal Police, who was home on two years'leave, a short well-preserved fair-headed man, a splendid athlete, asplendid shot, a splendid tennis and polo player. At Sibberton, wherehe had been a guest on several occasions, he was a great favourite, forhe was always the merriest