Countess as wellas myself, ingeniously placing us in such a position as to make itappear that I was the actual murderer. No doubt they were under thebelief that I had died from the effects of the blow.
I expressed anxiety to visit the scene of the assassination, to whichthe man replied--
"By all means. Indeed, we shall be compelled to take you there as soonas 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 beingtranslated."
"Letters in English. May I see them?"
"At the trial," he said. "Instead of gloating over your crime as youseem to be doing, would it not be better to try and establish yourinnocence?" he suggested.
"Why should I? I'm not guilty. Therefore I fear nothing. Only take meto the scene of the crime."
"To-morrow you shall go. I promise you," was his reply, and then heleft, 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 _denouement_ of themystery, and increased it rather than threw any light upon theextraordinary circumstances. It was evident that she had beendeliberately enticed there to her doom, and had I not fortunatelyfollowed her, her end would have remained a complete enigma.
The police had discovered certain letters. What, I wondered, did theycontain? Would they at last throw any light upon the affair which, whenit got into the papers, must startle English society.
At present her name was, of course, unknown, unless perchance any of theenvelopes 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 ofthat scrubby-bearded little Italian sitting near me reading a newspaperidly, or gossiping with the men who lay in the neighbouring beds, wasparticularly 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 bytwo other police officials, arrived, and feeling sufficiently well Idressed and accompanied them downstairs, where a closed cab was inwaiting. After a short drive we turned into the half-finished street sofamiliar to me, and pulled up before the house over the threshold ofwhich I had seen, carried by the assassin, the lifeless body of one ofthe most admired women in England.
They conducted me up a flight of stairs to a landing at the back, andthere entered one of the flats with a key. I noticed that the door hadbeen sealed, for the _delegato_ broke the seal before inserting the key.
Inside, the place was rather barely furnished, the home of a man withsmall means; but as we walked into the little dining-room the sight thatmet 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 halftorn 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 onethe corner of the table-cloth had draggled, staining it with a mark ofhideous ugliness.
On the ground, just as they had been found, lay a heavy hatchet withblood upon it, the instrument with which my unknown assailant had struckme down. While at a little distance lay a long very thin knife, with afinely tempered three-edged blade.
To the astonishment of my three guards I took it in my hand and felt itsedge. The curious thought occurred to me that with such a weapon, thinand triangular, Hugh Wingfield had been so mysteriously done to death.
"Then this is where they enticed the woman--to an apartment that was nottheir own, and which they evidently entered by a false key! Theyinvited her to supper, and then--well, they murdered her," I saidreflectively. "Where is the body? May I see it?"
The confronting of a murderer with his victim is part of the procedureof the Continental police, therefore the detectives were not adverse inthe 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 thesmall bedroom adjoining, and there, stretched upon the bed, lay thebody, covered with a sheet.
I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had beenso terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police hadsecured in those letters found upon her.
"God!" I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watchingmy face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white deadcountenance.
I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.
"Ah!" exclaimed the _delegato_ in satisfaction. "It is a test that fewcan withstand. You recognise her as your victim--good!"
I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory heliked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.
The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe myown 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 attable that the Frenchwoman must have already been in the flat awaitingthe arrival of Marigold and her companions, and, further, that Logan andher ladyship had remained behind after the unfortunate woman had beencarried to the cab.
These and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my bewildered mindas I stood aghast, my eyes riveted upon the dead white face of the womanwhose 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 whenwe had met on the Chelsea Embankment, and how I had made a compact withher, one which it was now impossible for her to fulfil. She had hidfrom the police, first at Hayes's Farm, where a dastardly attempt hadbeen made upon her, and here, in that unoccupied flat, she had fallenthe victim of her enemies. Why? What motive could Marigold and herfriends have in her assassination?
That there was a motive, and a very strong one, was quite plain, but itcertainly was in no way apparent to me. The mystery was maddening. Ifelt, indeed, that my weakened brain could not much longer stand thestrain.
"You recognise her, I see!" exclaimed the _delegato_, with satisfaction.He had been watching me narrowly, and believed that the start I gavewhen the ghastly face was revealed was proof of my guilt.
"Yes, I recognise her," was my answer. And glancing round the room Isaw that it was dirty and neglected, having been unoccupied for sometime. The assassins, I supposed, had cleaned the dining-room and_salon_ in order that the victim should not suspect that she was in anapartment that had been so long closed. It was certainly bold andingenious of them to enter a stranger's house and use it for theirnefarious purpose.
My captors led me back to the room in which I had been found, where oneof them pointed to a dark stain upon the floor--the stain of my ownblood. Beside it I saw my handkerchief cast aside. It had, no doubt,been used by my discoverers to staunch the blood. Again I took theheavy axe in my hand, and realised what a deadly weapon it was.
Then when the men had concluded making some other investigations theyled me away, driving me back to the hospital in the cab, evidentlyentirely satisfied with their effort to fix the crime upon myself. Thedoctors had not yet discharged me, therefore I was put to bed again, anda 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 personto whom I at once took an intense dislike. Happily he is nowtransferred, and his office is now occu
pied by a very courteous andpleasant-mannered member of His Majesty's Consular Service. I had,however, the misfortune to call Mr Johnson without knowing thecharacter of the man. He was one of those precious persons of whomthere are far too many in the British Consular Service; men who objectto be disturbed by the Englishman in distress, whose hours are from onetill three, and whose duties in an inland city like Milan are almost_nil_. Mr Martin Johnson, something of a fop, believed himself anornament of the Service, hence his annoyance when the police called himto my bedside at the hospital. He regarded me with combined pity andcontempt, at the same time drawing himself up and speaking in aha-don't-you-know tone, supposed to be impressive.
I had heard of this superior person long ago, and as I lay in bed wasamused 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 Iwas entirely innocent of the crime alleged against me,