The Sign of the Stranger

Chapter One

The Advent of the Stranger

The shabby stranger seated himself familiarly in a nook beside the wide-open chimney of the tap-room, and stretched out his long thin legs with a sigh.

“I want something to eat; a bit of cold meat, or bread and cheese – anything you have handy – and a glass of beer. I’m very tired.”

The village publican, scanning the stranger’s features keenly, moved slowly to execute the command and lingered over the cutting of the meat. The other seemed to read the signs like a flash, for he roughly drew out a handful of money, saying in his bluff outspoken way —

“Be quick, mister! Here’s money to pay for it.” The meal was very nimbly and swiftly placed before him; and then the landlord, with a glance back at me seated in his own little den beyond, turned off the suspicion with a remark about the warmth of the weather.

“Yes, it is a bit hot,” said the stranger, a tall, thin, weary-looking man of about forty, from whose frayed clothes and peaked hat I put down to be a seafarer. “Phew! I’ve felt it to-day – and I’m not so strong, either.”

“Have you come far, sir?” deferentially inquired the innkeeper who, having taken down his long clay, had also taken measure of his customer and decided that he was no ordinary tramp.

The other stopped his eating, looked Warr, the publican, full in the face in a curious, dreamy fashion, and then sighed —

“Yes, a fair distance – a matter of ten or eleven thousand miles.”

The landlord caught his breath, and I noticed that he looked still more earnestly into the stranger’s weather-beaten face.

“Ah! maybe you’ve been abroad – to America?” he remarked, striking a match and holding it in his fingers before lighting his pipe.

“I have, and a good many other places as well,” answered the tramp thoughtfully, resting and trying the point of the knife on the hard deal table before him. “I’m a wanderer – I am, but, by Jove!” he added, “it is real good to see these green English fields once again. When I was out yonder I never thought I’d see them any more – these old thatched houses, the old church, and the windmill that generally wants a sail.”

“You speak as though you know Sibberton – ” the landlord said, and then he stopped uneasily.

The customer, who saw in an instant that his slip of the tongue had nearly betrayed him, answered —

“No, unfortunately I don’t. I – well, I’ve never been in these parts before.” And from where I stood I detected by the man’s keen, dark eyes that he was not speaking the truth. The innkeeper, too, was puzzled.

“This place seems a pretty spot,” the shabby wayfarer went on. “How far is it to Northampton?”

“Twelve miles.”

The stranger sighed, glanced across at the old grandfather clock, and went on eating. There was silence after this, broken only by the buzzing of the flies against the window close to him, and the placing or adjusting of the tumblers which Warr had gravely begun to polish.

“Let’s see,” remarked the stranger reflectively at last, “if this is Sibberton, the old Earl of Stanchester lives here, I suppose?”

“He did live here, but he died a year ago.”

“And young Lord Sibberton has come into the property – eh? Why, he must be one of the richest men in England,” the fellow remarked with something of a sneer.

“They say he is,” was Warr’s reply.

Mention of the name of Stanchester caused me to prick my ears, for I had been private secretary to the old Earl and was now acting in that same capacity to the young man who had recently succeeded to the estates.

“And his sister, the fair one – Lady Lolita they call her – is she married yet?” inquired the half-famished man.

“No. She still lives with her brother and his wife up at the Hall.”

The stranger grunted, and I noticed that he smiled faintly for the first time, but just at that moment he turned and catching sight of my back through the half-opened door, started slightly and appeared to be somewhat embarrassed.

Why did he make that inquiry regarding Lolita, I wondered? My father, Sir George Woodhouse, having been an intimate friend of the old Earl’s, and his aide-de-camp when he was Viceroy of India, I had been taken into the latter’s confidential service as soon as I came down from Cambridge, and for the past ten years had lived as a careless bachelor in a pleasant old ivy-covered house at the end of the village, being treated more as one of the Stanchester family than as the millionaire landowner’s confidential secretary. The present Earl had been at Cambridge with me, and there was a strong bond of friendship between us.

“Yours has been a strange life,” said the publican at last, in order to obtain more details of the stranger and his motive for inquiring after the people at the Hall.

“It has; I’ve drifted half over the world, but the passion for wandering is now pretty well worn out of me,” wearily responded the other, taking a sip at his beer. “They say there’s no place like home. I used to think so when the ship was steaming over the blue sea at nights with all asleep below and the clear stars shining over me. I don’t think I shall live long; that’s why I’m back again once more in England. But,” he added, “we were talking of Lol – er, I mean Lady Lolita. Isn’t she even engaged?”

“Not that I know of,” answered the innkeeper. “If she were, some of the servants would be sure to chatter. There ain’t much as goes on up at the Hall without me knowing it.”

The estimable Warr was right. The tap-room of the Stanchester Arms was the village forum where the footmen, stablemen, kennel-hands and others employed in the Earl’s great establishment assembled nightly to drink beer and discuss the gossip of the day.

“Ah! I suppose she’s just as beautiful as ever?” remarked the stranger reflectively. His voice quivered oddly, and he rose wearily, brushing the knees of his frayed and shiny trousers. “She’s one of the prettiest women in all England,” added the ragged wayfarer, whose inquiries seemed to me to be made with some distinct purpose.

“She’s lovely,” declared Warr. “The papers often have portraits of her. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”

“Yes, I have,” he answered, and the words came out with something like a groan.

At that instant there reached our ears the familiar jingle of harness bells, and Warr, turning quickly, cried —

“Why, she’s just coming along! You’ll see her in a moment!” And they both dashed to the small diamond-paned window which looked out upon the village street.

The stranger stood with his dark eyes peering out, his body drawn back as though fearing recognition, until a few moments later, when a smart victoria and pair of chestnuts dashed passed, and lolling within, beneath a pale blue sunshade, was the sweet-faced woman in white returning to the Hall after making afternoon calls.

“Ah!” he gasped as the marvellous beauty of that countenance burst upon him, and was next instant lost to view as the jingling bells receded. “You’re right!” he said, turning from the window sadly, his face blanched. “She’s more beautiful than ever – she’s absolutely lovely!”

The man was a mystery. He attracted me.

The publican remained gravely silent, utterly at a loss to understand the stranger’s meaning, while at that moment the latter apparently recollected my proximity, for he looked across towards where I, having had business with the innkeeper, still stood awaiting his return.

Suddenly turning to Warr, he said —

“I notice you have a gentleman in the parlour, there. I wonder whether you would give me just a couple of minutes alone? I want to ask you a question.”

The landlord again glanced suspiciously at the mysterious stranger, but seeing the earnest, determined look upon his grizzled face, rather reluctantly consented, and conducted his customer across the low entrance-hall to a room on the opposite side, the door of which he closed behind them.

What transpired therein was in secret, but about five minutes later I heard the door open again, and the stranger, with heavy tread, walk firmly to the door.

“You won’t forget the name,” he called back to Warr in a strange hard voice just before he went forth. “Richard Keene – K-e-e-n-e.”

“I’ve promised. Trust me,” was the innkeeper’s response, while a moment later the shabby stranger’s form cast a long shadow across the sanded tap-room and vanished.

“That’s a queer customer?” I remarked to Warr when he returned to me, for I had come down to pay him an account. “I don’t like the look of him somehow.”

“Neither do I,” the landlord answered. “At first I took him for a burglar spying around to ascertain who was at home up at the Hall, but I’ve formed a very different conclusion during the past five minutes. He isn’t a burglar, but he’s somebody who evidently knows Lady Lolita.”

“Knows her?” I exclaimed, surprised. “What do you mean? What did he tell you in private?”

“Nothing. He asked me to render him a service by giving a letter in secret to her ladyship, and as recompense gave me this.” And opening his hand, Warr showed me a sovereign. “Something fresh, this!” he added. “A tramp who gives sovereign tips;” and he laughed very heartily to himself.

I did not join in his laughter, for on being handed the letter I saw it was inscribed to her ladyship and marked “Private” in a neat educated hand, and sealed with black wax with an unfamiliar coat-of-arms bearing a coronet and many quarterings.

“He told me also to tell her that Richard Keene has returned, and said that she would understand. Strange, ain’t it?” observed the landlord, with a long pull at his clay.

“Very. If you wish, I’ll undertake the responsibility of giving Lady Lolita this letter and delivering the message,” I said.

“No. I’ll have to come up to the Hall myself,” was the innkeeper’s reply. “The chap actually compelled me to take a solemn oath to deliver it into no other hands but her own!”

“Then it must contain something of supreme importance, otherwise it might surely have been sent by post,” I remarked suspiciously.

“Yes, I feel sure it does. Did you notice how the fellow’s face changed when he saw her drive past? He went as white as a ghost. He’s a mystery – that he is.”

“He is, without a doubt,” I said. His announcement that Richard Keene had returned seemed to convey some covert threat. I recollected the tone in which he had uttered the name as he had crossed the threshold, and it caused me to ponder deeply – very deeply.

Little, however, did I dream of the terrible significance of that name; little did I at that moment anticipate the strange events that were to follow – that remarkable mystery of real life which proved so tantalising, so bewildering and so inscrutable.

Chapter Two

Concerns Lady Lolita

I strolled back up the long beech avenue to the Hall, apprehensive and puzzled. The stranger’s manner, his curious expression when he had spoken of Lolita, and the bold way in which he had sent her the announcement of the return of Richard Keene were ominous. What, I wondered, did the letter contain, sealed as it was with the arms of some noble house?

I scented mystery in it all; mystery that somehow concerned myself. Why? Well, I will confess to you now – at the very outset. I, although but a paid servant of the Stanchesters, like any of that army of footmen and grooms, loved Lady Lolita in secret, and although no word of affection had ever passed between us, I nevertheless felt that her interests were my own.

My position was, I admit, a unique one. Lolita and I had been friends ever since our childhood days in India, when her father held the highest official position in the East and mine was his confidential assistant, and now, her brother having succeeded, she seemed to regard me as a harmless and necessary director of things in general. Very frequently I was invited to luncheon or to dinner, and treated always as one of the family, even though I was but a paid dependant. Yes, both the young Earl and his sister were extremely kind and considerate, and surely I had no cause for complaint, either in matter of salary, which was a handsome one, or in that of social standing.

So thoroughly had I mastered all the details of the great estate during the haughty old Earl’s lifetime that I suppose my existence was necessary for the well-being of my college friend who had so suddenly found himself a millionaire. Indeed, he had admitted to me that he had never met several of his estate agents in various parts of the country, therefore I had the absolute control of them and generally superintended the revenue and expenditure, an office which entailed considerable work, inasmuch as besides Sibberton, the family possessed Stanchester House, that big white mansion in Park Lane, Stanchester Castle in Warwickshire, Dildawn and its great deer-forest in Argyllshire, Chelmorton Towers in Sussex, and the Villa Aurora on the olive-clad hill above San Remo.

Sibberton Hall was, however, the seat which the young Earl preferred, and where he usually spent the few weeks of summer between the season at Cowes and that of the moors. As I came up the straight shady avenue of ancient beeches which met overhead for more than a mile, the magnificent façade of the splendid old place with its countless windows, its towers and high twisted chimneys stood in the soft crimson haze of the brilliant afterglow, its delicate traceries and marvellous architecture giving it almost the appearance of an illustration from some fairy tale. Built in the early days of Elizabeth by the first Earl of Stanchester, her celebrated minister, it was in the form of a quadrangle with wings abutting from the sides and ending at the extremities in towers, while its princely proportions were such as to place it among the largest and most notable family mansions in the country.

The last rays of sunset flashed upon its many windows as I emerged from the avenue, and then passing across the level lawns and ancient bowling-green, I entered the great hall with its wonderful ornamental fireplace and stands of armour, and proceeded along one corridor after another to the cosy room in the west wing which served me as study.

From the window where I stood for a moment in deep reflection I commanded a view for several miles across the great level park which was some ten miles in extent, and where, in the distance, rose another low, old-fashioned Jacobean building with clock-tower, the kennels of the Earl’s famous foxhounds. My room was an old-fashioned one, like everything else in that fine mansion. Lined from floor to ceiling with books and in the centre a big writing-table, it had been given over to me by the old Earl when I had first entered upon my duties ten years before. The floor was of oak, polished like a mirror, and over the arched chimney was carved in stone the greyhound courant of the Stanchesters, with the date 1571.

I glanced at severed notes that had been dropped into the rack in my absence, and then casting myself into an easy chair lit a cigarette and continued my apprehensive reflections.

The summer dusk darkened into night, and having a quantity of correspondence to attend to, I went to the room I sometimes occupied, changed, dined alone, and then about nine o’clock returned to my study to finish my work.

Not a sound penetrated there. That wing was but little used, for above was the long picture-gallery with the dark old family portraits by Vandyke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Kneller, and others, as well as priceless examples of Gainsborough, Turner, Hobbema, and the world-famous Madonna of Raphael. The room had been given to me so that I should not be disturbed by visitors who, owing to the enormous proportions of the place, usually wandered about hopelessly lost in their attempt to reach their rooms without a servant as guide.

The name of Keene was puzzling me. Somehow I had a distinct and vivid recollection of having heard it before, but in what connexion I could not recollect, although I had been racking my brains ever since I had left the village inn. I took down the old address-book used by my predecessor, but there was no entry there. No, I felt somehow that I had heard the name outside my connexion with the family, but where, or in what circumstances, I could not for the life of me remember.

My hands were clasped behind my head, and with my work cast aside, I was smoking vigorously, when there came a low tap at the door, and in response to my permission to enter, Lady Lolita came forward gaily, a sweet almost girlish figure in her cream dinner-gown girdled with turquoise blue, exclaiming —

“Mr Woodhouse, I do wish you would do me a favour, would you?”

“Most certainly,” I exclaimed, springing quickly to my feet. “What is it?”

“I want you to copy out something for me, will you?” And seating herself at my writing-table, she took up a pen and scribbled some lines.

Her gown suited her to perfection, the low-cut bodice revealing her white throat, around which sparkled a splendid necklet of diamonds that flashed beneath my lamp with a thousand fires. Upon her white wrist was a quaint Chinese bracelet cut from a solid piece of bright green stone.

Her face was perfect in its symmetry, and her finely-chiselled features were almost an exact reproduction of those of Lady Mary Sibberton in Sir Joshua’s picture in the gallery above. The loveliness of the Sibberton women had been proverbial back in the Jacobean and Georgian days, and assuredly Lady Lolita inherited the distinctive beauty of the female members of the family. The delicately-moulded cheeks, the pointed chin, the sweet, well-formed mouth, the even set of pearly teeth, the wealth of auburn hair and the laughing blue eyes so full of mischief and merriment rendered her peerless among women, while her wit and easy-going good-humour endeared her to all, rich and poor alike.

As I stood by, watching her bent head beneath the lamplight, I saw that although she tried to write, her small white hand trembled so that the attempt was by no means successful. She seemed nervous and upset, for I now noticed for the first time that her breast rose and fell quickly beneath her laces, and that she was trying in vain to repress a wild tumult of agitation that raged within her.

“No,” she cried, throwing down the pen and looking up at me, “I can’t write. I – ” And she stopped without concluding her sentence, fixing her beautiful eyes upon me. She was magnificent. That look of hers was surely sufficient to make any man’s head reel.

“Do you know,” she exclaimed suddenly, bursting into a nervous laugh, “I didn’t really want you to write a letter at all! I only wanted an excuse to come into this den of yours – to speak to you.”

Her laugh somehow sounded unnatural. With her woman’s subtle tact she was, I knew, trying to conceal her agitation.

“To speak to me? What about?”

She grew grave again in an instant, and rising, crossed towards me. I saw that all the colour had died from her face and that she grasped the edge of the table to steady herself.

“I wanted to ask you – I wanted to see if you would do something for me,” she said in a low tremulous voice, very harsh and intense.

Was it possible that Warr had already seen her and delivered the note and message from that mysterious stranger?

“What do you wish me to do?” I inquired eagerly.

“I want you to help me, Willoughby,” she said. “I am in peril – deadly peril. You can save me if you will.”

“Peril? Peril of what?”

“Ah! That I cannot tell you,” she answered; then suddenly losing all control of herself she exclaimed wildly, “The past has risen against me, to torment me, to hound me down to the very depths of hell. Ah! Willoughby, save me – you will, won’t you? You are my friend. Say you are – say you will help me,” she implored with clasped hands.

“But what do you fear, Lady Lolita?” I asked in the hope of learning her secret.

“I fear death,” she cried hoarsely. “The blow has fallen, and I am lost – lost.”

“No, no,” I said, taking her soft hand gently in mine and finding it cold, trembling in fear. “Do not anticipate the worst, whatever may be your danger.”

“Ah! if I could tell you all – if I only dared to tell you,” she sighed. “But even then you wouldn’t believe it – you couldn’t.”

“But may I not know something of this peril of yours?” I urged. “If you tell me, I shall then know how to deal with it.”

“You can only serve me at great risk to yourself,” was her quick reply.

“In any way I can serve you, Lolita, do not hesitate to command me,” I said, deeply in earnest and still holding her trembling hand in mine. By that wild look in her beautiful eyes I saw that her heart was gripped by some nameless terror, and that she was in desperation. Then, in a moment of deep sympathy, recollecting the stranger’s ominous words, I added: “I love you now, Lolita, with the deepest devotion with which any man has loved.”

And before she was aware of it, I had raised those thin white fingers reverently to my lips and imprinted upon them a tender lingering kiss.

Chapter Three

Which is a Mystery

In my hot passionate declaration I repeated my readiness to serve her, at the same time acknowledging the difference in our stations and the fear that my dream of happiness must be a vain one.

She smiled very sweetly upon me, and I saw her eyes were dimmed with tears. Her lips moved, but in the first moments no sound escaped them. I had taken her by surprise, I think, for she had always regarded me as friend, and not as lover.

“I thank you for your kind promise to assist me in this hour of my need,” she answered at last in a voice that seemed to have strangely altered. “I know now that I enjoy your regard, although I – well, I must confess that I had no idea that, good friends that we have been all these years, you would end by really falling in love with me. You have, however, told me the truth, and a woman always respects a man for that. I know now that I have at least one firm and devoted friend.” And as she spoke her fingers closed upon my hand.

As I feared, I had presumed too far. I had no right to love her, I, a mere paid servant of the family, yet she had treated my confession with sweet dignity and womanly tact that so well became her, and cleverly turned my declaration of love into one of friendship.

“To serve me in this matter would be to imperil yourself,” she went on in deep seriousness after a moment’s pause. “My enemies hold my future in their hands. To me it is a matter of life or death.”

“I am prepared to undertake any risk for your sake,” I declared. “Only suggest a course, and I will adopt it instantly.”

“Ah, you are very good!” she cried. “How can I sufficiently thank you? In all the world you are the only friend I can really trust. Well, what I want you to do is this. Take the first train to London to-morrow and go to 98, Britten Street, Chelsea, where you will find a certain Frenchwoman named Lejeune. Tell her that I have sent you to implore her to tell me the truth; that if she fears to approach me direct you will act as intermediary; that if she withholds the secret it must result in my death – my death – you understand.”

“In your death!” I gasped, puzzled.

“Yes. I cannot face exposure. I would prefer death!” was her hoarse reply. “Tell that woman that Richard Keene has returned! She will know.” I watched her face and recognised how desperate she was. I had never before seen such a look in any woman’s eyes.

“And what else?” I asked mechanically.

“Nothing. All you have to do in order to save me is to get a written confession from that woman. If she refuses, as I fear she will, then my fate is sealed. The blow I have been dreading these past years will fall. I shall be crushed, and Lolita Sibberton will be but the memory of an unhappy woman who fell the victim of as foul and ingenious a plot as was ever conceived by the mind of man.” Her hands were clasped before her, and she shivered from head to foot. I saw that she was cold, and without a word wound about her bare neck my scarf that lay upon a chair.

“I will do my utmost in your interests,” I assured her. “This woman – is she one of the conspirators?”

“Beware of her. She is treacherous, unscrupulous, and possessed of a cunning that is almost beyond comprehension. Act with discretion, and exercise every care of your own personal safety.”