happy--that I knew--andLolita was usually his adviser regarding his purely domestic affairs.
Therefore, as she hurriedly put the finishing-touches to her countenancewith that dexterity which a woman only possesses, she turned to me andagain grasped my hand, saying--
"What I have said to-night, Willoughby, you will regard as strictlyconfidential. Act as I have suggested, and," she added with a catch inher voice, "remember that you alone stand between myself--and death?"
"I promise," I said. And opening the door, I bowed before her as sheswept out, her silks swishing down the long corridor.
I closed the door again and flung myself back into my chair, utterlymystified by those fateful words. She had a secret, one that she wasprepared to keep even at cost of her own life. To me, although she hadnot admitted that she reciprocated my love, she had entrusted her life.
Yes. I would force the mysterious Frenchwoman into confession, whoevershe was. The thought of my love's peril roused me to action, and Iseated myself at my table and set to work clearing off those lettersthat lay heaped up unanswered.
The clock on the stables had chimed midnight before I threw down my pen,locked my drawers, and slipping on my overcoat strolled through thesilent house along to the great hall, where a footman in the bright blueand gold Stanchester livery let me out into the still, balmy night.
After the warmth of my room, the air was refreshing, and as I walked ondown the dark avenue towards the village, the silence was complete savefor the cry of an owl and the distant barking of the hounds in theEarl's celebrated kennels situated about a mile away. Where the treesmet overhead the darkness was intense, but so often did I return homeafter nightfall that I knew every inch of the way.
Still pondering deeply upon my strange conversation with Lolita, Istrode forward without any thought of time or place, and utterlyoblivious to everything, until of a sudden I was aroused by hearing awoman's loud, piercing shriek.
I halted on the instant and listened. I judged the sound to be about ahundred yards to the left, in the darkness. After a few seconds it wasrepeated.
The cry was Lolita's! Of that I felt absolutely convinced.
Without a moment's hesitation I rushed forward, but in the cavernousblackness could discern nothing. I halted and listened, but beyond thehooting of the owl could discern no sound of any movement among thattreble row of giant beeches.
At first I tried to convince myself that those cries of distress weremerely heard in my imagination, yet they were, alas! too tangible anddistinct. For a full quarter of an hour I lingered there, strainingeyes and ears, but all in vain.
Then, with a resolve to take the man Warr into my confidence and invokehis aid to make a search, I rushed forward to the village, awakened him,and we both returned with lanterns as quickly as we could, and began tomake a methodical examination of the spot whence I had believed thesounds emanated.
I learned from Warr one very curious fact, namely, that he had beenunable to go up to the Hall to deliver the letter, and it was still inhis possession. It therefore seemed as though Lolita had caught sightof the stranger's face as he peered forth from the tap-room window, andby that means knew of his unwelcome return.
For an hour we searched diligently both within the avenue and outsideit, until of a sudden a cry from Warr caused my heart to leap.
"Good Heavens! Mr Woodhouse!" he gasped, bending to a clump of longgrass in a deep hollow behind the huge gnarled trunk of one of the greatoaks. "Come and look here!"
I dashed forward to the spot over which he held his hurricane lantern,saw what he had discovered, and stood appalled, dumbfounded, absolutelyrooted to the spot.
The sight presented there rendered the mystery of that evening even morebewildering and inscrutable.
CHAPTER FOUR.
WHEREIN A STRANGE STORY IS TOLD.
For the moment we were both too aghast to speak.
The clump of rank high grass in the hollow had been beaten down, and inthe centre, revealed by the uncertain light of our lanterns, lay a youngman, whose white face and wide-open, sightless eyes told us both theterrible truth.
He had been murdered!
As I bent to examine him as he lay slightly on his side, I saw that froman ugly knife-wound in his back blood was still oozing, and had soakedinto the ground around him. Both hands were tightly clenched, as thoughthe unfortunate fellow had died in a spasm of agony, while upon onefinger something shone, which I discovered to be a gold ring of curious,foreign workmanship, shaped like a large scarab, or sacred beetle, abouthalf an inch long, and nearly as broad--an unusual ring which attractedmy curiosity.
The grass around bore distinct marks of a desperate struggle, and fromthe position in which the young man was lying, it seemed as though,being struck suddenly, he had stumbled, fallen forward, and expired.
"He's been murdered, sir, without a doubt," exclaimed Warr, at lastbreaking the silence. "I thought you said you heard a woman's voice?"
"So I did," I replied, much puzzled at the discovery, for, to tell thetruth, I had half-expected to find Lolita herself. Even at that momentI could have sworn that the cry was hers. "It seems, however, that Imust have been mistaken."
"But who can he be?" exclaimed the innkeeper. "He's an utter strangerto me. I've certainly never seen him in Sibberton."
"Neither have I," was my response. "There's some deep mystery here,depend upon it," I added, recollecting all that Lolita had so strangelytold me earlier in the evening.
"And my own opinion is that the fellow who called at my house thisevening--Mr Richard Keene, as he said his name was--has had a hand init," Warr declared as he looked across at me, still kneeling by theyoung man's body.
"Well, it certainly seems suspiciously like it. Both men are entirestrangers, that's evident."
In order to ascertain whether there was not a spark of life still left,I undid the poor fellow's vest and placed my hand upon his heart. Therewas, however, no movement. The blow had been struck with an unerringhand, while the weapon had been withdrawn and carried away by theassassin.
He was well-dressed, dark-haired, with an aquiline and somewhat refinedcountenance. He wore a slight, dark moustache, and I judged his age tobe about twenty-three. His blue serge suit was of fine quality, but wasevidently of foreign cut, and his boots were also of foreign shape andmake. His hands, I felt, were soft, as though unused to work, yet wherehe lay, in that damp hollow, I was unable to search his clothes properlyto discover a clue to his identity.
The spot where he had been attacked had certainly been chosen by someone well acquainted with the park. The hollow, once an old gravel-pit,but now overgrown with grass, was screened by the trees of the avenue,so that any one in it would be entirely hidden from view, even in broaddaylight. Therefore it struck me that the unfortunate victim had beenenticed there by the assassin, and foully done to death.
Yet after hearing those cries I had certainly detected no movement. Themurderer must have crept silently out of the grassy hollow, and struckstraight across the park to the woods half a mile away. Had any otherdirection been taken, I must certainly have heard his footsteps.
But the woman who had screamed. What of her?
I had, at the moment, little time for reflection. Acting upon theinnkeeper's suggestion I went off to fetch Knight, the constable, and myfriend Pink, the doctor, while he remained with his lantern beside thevictim of the tragedy.
As soon as the doctor saw him he shook his head, declaring that thewound had proved fatal a few minutes after he had been struck, while theconstable, alive to the importance of the occasion, commenced suggestingall sorts of wild theories regarding the dead stranger. Disregardingthem all, however, we obtained a hurdle, and Warr and Knight carried thebody down the dark avenue, a strange and weird procession, our way lituncertainly by the swing lanterns, our voices awed and hushed in thepresence of the unknown dead.
The men deposited their inanimate burden in an outhouse at the back ofthe village inn to a
wait the inquest which Pink declared would benecessary, and then, with a better light and the door closed against anyprying intruder, we examined the dead man's pockets to see whether theycontained anything that might throw light on the tragic affair or leadto his identification.
The constable, with the officiousness of his class, took out a ponderousnote-book and with a stubby piece of pencil commenced to make aninventory of what we found--a pocket-knife, about three pounds ten inmoney, a gold French piece of twenty francs, a gun-metal watch andplated chain, a few loose cigarettes a box of matches, a pawn-ticketshewing that a lady's necklet had been pledged in the name of Bond, witha pawnbroker in the Westminster Bridge Road, about a year ago. Beyondthat there was no clue to the dead man's name. We were alldisappointed, for the mystery surrounding him was heightened by theabsence of any letter in his pocket or name upon his underclothing. Menwho go to a pawnshop