The Sign of the Stranger

Chapter Thirty Two

Weston Expresses Certain Fears

On reference to the checker-board which my friend had sent me, I found that the word “Lolita” read 31. 34. 31. 24. 44. 11.

These numbers I began to subtract from the first six numbers of the secret message, but the letters represented by the remaining numbers were a mere unintelligible jumble. At last, however, after considerable thought, I tried taking the numbers down the columns: – namely 63. 49. 46. 68. Subtracted by the keyword there remained 32. 15. 15. 44., which I found on reference to my checker-board was the word “meet.”

At last the secret was mine! Very soon I had deciphered the numerals into this message: —

“Meet me in the avenue on Monday. Fear nothing. Marie betrayed to police. – Lol.”

Lolita herself had therefore enticed the unfortunate young man to his doom.

The very signature “Lol,” combined with the fact of the portrait in the ring, confirmed my suspicion that there was affection between them.

I paced the room still utterly mystified.

At four o’clock I heard the horn of the motor in the avenue, and rushed forth to meet my love. She descended in dust-cloak and veil, and took my hand in silent greeting, but Keene, who was also at the door, whispered to her, and she walked away with him. I knew that he was telling her of all that had happened to me – and of the real reason of Marigold’s absence.

She went to her room, and though I waited for an hour or more, she did not descend.

I sent a message up to Weston, and the reply was —

“Her ladyship has a very bad headache after the dust.”

This I told Keene, who shrugged his shoulders.

At tea in the hall, where the guests were nearly all assembled – as gay and well-dressed a crowd as could be found in all England – the Countess approached me quite calmly, and said in a loud voice —

“George has just said that you’ve hurt your head, Mr Woodhouse. I’m so very sorry. How did you manage it?”

The woman’s imperturbable daring was simply marvellous. Her question took me utterly aback.

“I – well, I slipped in the street, and fell,” I stammered. “I gave my skull a nasty knock. I suppose it would have been fractured if I had not had such a thick head,” I laughed, endeavouring to turn the conversation into a joke.

“Ah! You’re inviting compliments now!” exclaimed the brilliant vivacious woman, whom surely none would suspect of associating with those two men of the type of Belotto and Ostini.

“Any compliment from your ladyship is a compliment indeed,” I declared, bowing with mock gravity, whereupon the party laughed, and I saw that she bit her lips in vexation. She knew that I was her enemy; and yet she dare not openly quarrel.

She feared lest I might announce to her husband and her guests her visit to Milan, and its tragic sequel.

Keene stood by, stroking his beard in wonder, half-fearing that she might burst forth in fury at my sneer and dreading the result of hot words between us.

Fortunately, however, she was discreet and laughed it off, while the Earl remarked as he passed Lady Maud her cup —

“I like to hear Willoughby and Marigold quarrel. They slang each other so very gracefully. Willoughby, you’d make a splendid ambassador. You’re so very diplomatic.”

“I’m a good liar, if that’s any qualification,” I laughed openly. “Somebody has said that the two essentials for success as an ambassador are to have a lie ever ready on the lips, and a good coloured ribbon and cross at the throat.”

“Ah! and that’s pretty near the mark too,” observed Lord Cotterstock, who had himself been in the diplomatic service. “It is said of Lord Barmouth that when he was Ambassador at the Porte, he, for a joke, wore the Blue Ribbon, and the Turkish Court thought it the highest of British distinctions. He told the unspeakable ones that it was the Order of Saint Schweppe!”

Whereupon there was a general laugh.

Tea concluded, and the guests dispersed. I was surprised at the non-appearance of my beloved, for I longed to speak with her alone – to learn what had occurred during my enforced absence.

Keene accompanied the Earl and some others across to the kennels after tea, but by no amount of manoeuvring could I obtain an interview with the Countess alone. She walked in the garden with old Lady Cotterstock, in order that I should have no chance of speaking with her.

The house-party assembled in the white drawing-room prior to dinner, yet Lolita did not put in an appearance. I therefore sent one of the under-servants for the faithful Weston, who came to me at the top of the grand staircase.

“Her ladyship has a very bad headache, sir. She’s been lying down. But she’s now in her boudoir writing, and has told me that I am not to disturb her this evening.”

“But isn’t she going to dine?” I inquired in surprise.

“She hasn’t dressed, sir. She said she, had no appetite.”

“She’s not well, I believe, Weston,” I said.

“No, sir,” replied the maid anxiously. “I’ve noticed this last week or two a very great change in her. She seems highly nervous, and when alone always thinking very deeply, and – and – ”

“And what?” I asked, seeing the excellent servant’s hesitation.

“Well, sir, I don’t know whether I really ought to mention it, but one thing worries me very much. You know, sir, I’ve been her ladyship’s maid ever since she came back from school, and I’m much attached to her.”

“I know, Weston. I know quite well,” I said. “You are most devoted to her. But what is this you fear?”

“I really don’t know, sir,” was the young woman’s answer. “But of late the young mistress’s mind seems constantly filled with morbid thoughts. She’s always talking of her death – and only a few days ago she actually gave me some of her trinkets, saying that she would never require them again.”

“That’s strange,” I said, sighing, for I, alas! knew the reason. “You must try and prevent her giving way to such thoughts. Go to her boudoir, and tell her that after dinner I desire to see her. I’ll come up here later and see you – at nine o’clock.”

“Very well, sir,” was the maid’s reply, and then I descended to the long meal, where the chatter was gay, and the serving of the most ceremonious character.

The brilliant women on either side of me interested me not a jot. My only thought was for my absent well-beloved.

After dinner I eagerly sought Weston, who said – “No, sir. She has not rung.”

“Then take me to her,” I said, “I wish to see her at once.”

“But – ”

“I will take the responsibility upon myself,” I said. “Go and announce me.”

Reluctantly the maid went along the corridor and tapped at the door. There was no response. I stood behind her as she tapped twice, then opened the door. But the room was empty. The candles were burning upon the writing-table, and in the room was a smell of burnt paper, while in the grate lay a quantity of tinder. She had been destroying some letters or papers. Weston was aghast to find that her mistress was absent.

I went to the grate and saw that every particle of paper had been consumed.

The maid went along to my love’s room, but emerged quickly, saying —

“I think her ladyship must have gone out. Her cape and motor-cap have gone.”

In an instant it was evident that having destroyed her private papers she had slipped out into the park unseen.

I rushed downstairs, and finding Keene in the smoking-room took him quickly out into the hall, and told him of my grave apprehensions, whereupon he was in an instant on the alert.

“She surely cannot have carried out her threat!” he gasped. “We must try to find her at once. Not an instant must be lost! The burning of her papers is sufficient proof of the fatal step she contemplated. Come, let’s go in search at once.”

And breathlessly, fearing the worst, we took our caps and hurried out into the chill windy night.

Chapter Thirty Three

Reveals some Secrets

For some time we rushed hither and thither in breathless anxiety, convinced that having burned all her letters, her intentions were those of self-destruction.

Some untoward event had evidently occurred of which we knew nothing, and she had been forced to the last extremity. We had explored all my love’s favourite walks, but in that gusty storm that swept across the park we could hear nothing. It was not exactly dark, but the moon was overcast by heavy rain-clouds, and passing through that portion of the grounds known as “the wilderness,” a wild tangle of rhododendrons and laurels, with big old trees from which the leaves fell in showers upon us, we at length approached the lake, a large sheet of water in the centre of the wild uncultivated spot, where the moorhen nested undisturbed and the lordly heron roosted high above. The spot was lonely and unfrequented – the place, no doubt, she would select if she really intended to take her own life.

We both approached it, fearing the worst. The shrill cries of the night-birds sounded above the moaning of the wind, while before us lay the broad sheet of water grey and mysterious in the clouded moon.

We had walked some distance along its edge, when Keene suddenly gripped my arm, and whispered —

“Look! – look ahead! can’t you see her? – with a man!”

I strained my eyes, and there, sure enough, wearing a dark cloak, she stood erect, statuesque, with the pale light falling upon her white face, while the man had apparently gripped her arm and dragged her from the water’s edge.

Next moment I was beside the pair, and to my dismay recognised that her companion was the fellow Logan, whom I had last seen entering that dark unlit house outside Milan.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I cried in quick anger. “Release that lady, and tell me why I find you here with her.”

“I am here to save her,” was his calm reply. “I have already prevented her taking a fatal step, and if you will accompany me to the Hall I think you will find that, instead of proving myself her enemy, I shall show her that I am her friend. You think evil of me, I know – both of you. But an innocent woman’s life shall not be sacrificed. I came here from London to-night, in order to meet another lady, the Countess of Stanchester, but by good fortune I met Lady Lolita, and she has told me the truth.”

“Of what?” inquired Keene.

“Of what I will reveal on our return to the Hall,” was the man’s answer. “You know much that you have not told, but to save her ladyship here, I will now make the whole thing plain.”

“But why have you not spoken before? You had plenty of opportunity,” Keene remarked.

“Because something that Lady Lolita has just told me makes it plain how cleverly her enemies succeeded in closing my lips. Come, it is cold. Her ladyship is shivering.”

“Come with me, Lolita,” I said, and linking my arm in hers led her back along the path through the wilderness and across her Saints’ Garden to the Hall.

The four of us were silent, all too occupied with own our thoughts to discuss the matter with each other. The sudden determination of the man Logan showed me that he meant at last to tell all that he knew.

“Lolita,” I whispered into her ear, just as we were about to enter the house, “whatever caused you to contemplate such a terrible step to-night?”

A shudder ran through her as she answered —

“Because – because of the letter Marigold sent to me by Weston. She told me that to-night, because I refused to give you up, she would tell George the truth!”

The man Logan overheard her answer, and urged her to remain patient.

“Take us at once to Lady Stanchester, Mr Woodhouse,” he urged, as we went in by a side entrance to avoid any guests who might be playing bridge in the large hall.

Thereupon I rang for Slater, and told him to make inquiries where her ladyship was, and to take us straight to her.

Ten minutes later the old butler returned saying —

“Her ladyship is with the Earl in the blue boudoir, sir.” And eyeing Logan with some surprise, he added, “Will you step this way?”

We followed him upstairs, along a corridor on the first floor, until he opened a door, and bowing said —

“Mr Woodhouse desires to see you urgently, m’lady.”

Next second the four of us were in the small elegantly furnished room upholstered in pale blue damask and gold, where the Earl and his wife were in consultation.

“You!” he cried in fury, when his eyes fell upon Lolita. “Leave this place at once, woman! Marigold has just told me everything – that it was you who killed your lover in the park – that it was you who – ”

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Logan, coming forward, whereupon at sight of him the Countess fell back with a loud cry of dismay – a deathly pallor overspreading her countenance.

Her hand went to her throat convulsively and she gasped as though she were being strangled. Then, next instant, her teeth were set hard, her nails were clenched into the palms, her shoulders were elevated, and she stood rigid as a statue, and yet magnificent in her dinner-gown of pale pink and shimmering silver.

She tried to face Lolita, the woman whom she had hounded to her death, but her gaze wavered, and I saw that her effort to regain her self-composure was an utterly vain one. She trembled visibly from head to foot, while the expression in her eyes was sufficient to show the terror now consuming her.

The Earl noticing the change in her, and how she shrank from us, looked from Keene to the stranger, and asked —

“Well, sir? I have not the pleasure of knowing you. Who are you?”

“My name is Alfred Logan, architect by profession and – well, adventurer by inclination,” he replied. “I presume from your words that your wife has denounced your sister, Lady Lolita, as the murderess of young Hugh Wingfield in your park, and has also laid certain other charges against that lady? Fortunately, however, I am in a position to reveal to you the other side of the question, and reveal facts which I believe you will find both startling and remarkable.”

“Tell me?” exclaimed George hoarsely. “I suppose you intend to retaliate by making charges against my wife – eh?”

“Yes!” cried the unhappy woman, clinging to her husband. “That man is my worst enemy, George – save me from him – save me if you love me!”

“Your husband has no power to save you, madam,” exclaimed Logan in a cold distinct voice, while we all stood rooted to the spot. “It is my duty, knowing the truth as I do, to tell it, and to leave your husband to form his own conclusions. To-night, knowing that Lady Lolita, driven to desperation by you, had threatened to commit suicide, rather than a scandal should rest upon her noble house, you have written to her, telling her of your intention of making these charges, with the sole object of causing her death by her own hand, and thus placing yourself in a position of safety. Heaven, however, is just, and I am here to reveal those things that you have hidden from your husband – to tell the world what I know regarding your past.”

“Ah! no!” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “No! Enough! Spare me!”

“You have not spared Lady Lolita, therefore you must hear the hard and bitter truth.” Then, disregarding the terrible effect his words had upon her, he faced the Earl, and said, “What I am about to say will be borne out partially by our friend here, Mr Richard Keene – whom you know by the name of Smeeton – partly by Mr Woodhouse, and partly by your sister herself.”

“Go on,” said the Earl in a low voice. “I am all attention.”

“Then, in order to understand events in their true sequence, I must begin at the very beginning,” he said. “You will recollect that two years before your marriage you, with Lady Lolita, spent the spring at the Villa Aurora at San Remo, while Lady Marigold was staying with her mother at the Hotel Royal, close by. At the same hotel was staying Richard Keene, the man you afterwards met out in Africa under the name of Smeeton, together with his valet, a good-looking young fellow named Hugh Wingfield. The latter had very foolishly given a promise of marriage to a rather pretty young French lady’s maid named Marie Lejeune, but on sight of Lady Lolita, he forsook the young woman and fell madly in love with her ladyship. The latter, of course, had no idea at the time that he was a valet. They first met casually when walking in one of the olive woods behind the town, and he rendered her some little service in arranging the easel upon which she was sketching. He spoke well, dressed well, and as he mentioned he was staying at the Royal, the best hotel, she naturally concluded that he was a gentleman. She had, of course, no suspicion of the passion for her which had been aroused within his heart. The young Frenchwoman, however, quickly discovered the truth, and her intense jealousy was at once aroused. She was a woman of rather questionable character, being in association with two Italian adventurers named Belotto and Ostini, who lived over at Mentone, and at once set to work to intrigue against Lady Lolita and Lady Marigold Gordon. The two being great friends, in consequence of your engagement to Lady Marigold, revenge did not present any very great difficulty to that interesting trio who lived by their wits. I admit that I, myself, was living upon what I could win at the tables, and being at that time very hard-up had been induced to join them in various nefarious schemes which, although they brought us the wherewithal to live, caused us to be wanted by the police for helping ourselves to other people’s property.”

“To put it plainly,” remarked the Earl, “you were thieves.”

“Exactly,” Logan replied. “But our recent schemes had met with little success and we were at our wits’ end for money, when Marie Lejeune, who was a born adventuress, suggested a scheme whereby, in addition to revenging herself upon the woman who had robbed her of her lover, we could blackmail both Lady Marigold and Lady Lolita. Therefore, after considerable forethought and much ingenious intrigue, the scheme was put into practice. A watch was placed upon Lady Marigold, and it was found that she was in the habit of meeting clandestinely on the sea-road towards Bordighera an old friend, a certain Major Atherton, and that she one day went over to Monte Carlo with him in secret, where she was seen by the valet Wingfield, who told his master. It was found that Atherton was an old lover of her ladyship’s, and a letter of hers was secured in which Lady Marigold wrote, ‘I am only accepting George for his money. You know my heart is yours alone.’ Having secured that, the intriguers turned their attention to young Wingfield and Lady Lolita. Marie, with the Frenchwoman’s keen jealousy, discovered that she had met the young man once or twice, and that he had copied his master’s checker-board cipher, and with her own name as the keyword, corresponded with her by its means. Lady Lolita had already discovered, to her great surprise, that the prepossessing young man was desperately in love with her, and his affection rather amused her than otherwise, for every woman is flattered by attention. At last, however, the adventurers, of whom I myself was one, contrived to effect a coup that was about as ingenious as any devised by a gang of evildoers. The love-sick valet – still concealing his real avocation – had arranged to meet her ladyship after dinner one evening in the olive wood at the back of your villa, but his master gaining possession of a cipher message which Lady Lolita had sent him, was, of course, able to read it and resolved upon watching the pair. What he saw he will, perhaps, relate with his own lips.” And then the speaker paused and turned to Richard Keene.

“Yes,” he said, “as far as I know, all that Mr Logan says is absolutely correct. Young Wingfield was my valet. He copied my checker-board cipher, and by its means had the audacity to correspond with her ladyship. When I realised what was going on I felt impelled to go to her and tell her. Yet she being a perfect stranger to me, it was really no affair of mine, so I hesitated until the evening in question, when I watched my valet meet her and walk with her in the olive grove about half a mile from the villa. It was one of those brilliant moonlight nights of early spring on the Mediterranean, and it seemed to me that her ladyship was in no way averse to the young fellow’s attention. They walked together for half an hour or so, in earnest conversation, when he at length took leave of her and, apparently at her desire, left her to return home alone. I followed her in secret, but she had not, however, gone far before I heard her utter a cry of surprise and dismay. ‘Help! help!’ she cried, and in the darkness I saw black figures scuffling, the report of a revolver, followed by a man’s loud groan. I rushed forward, but ere I reached the spot the men’s figures I had seen distinctly had disappeared, but in their place stood the woman Marie Lejeune. Upon the ground lay a man dying, and just as Wingfield, attracted by the shot returned, the woman, who had bent tenderly over the prostrate man rose, and in her voluble French accused Lady Lolita of murder. At first her ladyship was too startled and too utterly dumbfounded to deny this astounding allegation, but when she did the Frenchwoman declared to Wingfield that she had been witness of the crime, and taking up the revolver lying at the poor fellow’s side pointed out that the weapon belonged to Lady Lolita’s brother, the young Earl of Stanchester – that his name was engraved upon it. Denials were useless, but the crafty Marie, determined to await her opportunity to levy blackmail, urged her ladyship to take back the revolver, and return to the villa at once, which she did. But as she turned away I addressed her, offering to walk home with her, told her my name and escorted her to her own gate. My own opinion was that she had met the man there and deliberately shot him, an opinion which I have held till quite recently, for it was strengthened by the fact that the dead man, when discovered next day by the police, was found to be one of her most intimate friends and admirers, Lieutenant Randolph Glover, a wealthy young man who had, after distinguishing himself at Ladysmith, been invalided to the Riviera.”

“I recollect the tragedy quite well,” declared the Earl. “And also what a great sensation it caused. The police theory was that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who had robbed him at roulette and afterwards made away with him, fearing his revelations.”

“Exactly. And the police theory was right,” Keene said. “Marie, who had fascinated him, while her accomplices had extracted from him almost his last penny, shot him herself, without a doubt. But this did not prevent her levying blackmail upon poor Lady Lolita by threatening to denounce her as the actual assassin. She had also convinced Wingfield of her ladyship’s guilt, pointing out their intimate friendship previously, and insinuating that the tragedy was owing to jealousy. I must admit that I believed her ladyship guilty, even though, when we met on the following day and she spoke to me on the promenade, asking me to preserve silence, she again denied her guilt. I promised her to remain silent, hence the police of San Remo were in ignorance of her alleged connexion with the crime, and believed it, as it really was, a case of robbery and murder. Yet Lady Lolita was held in bondage by that woman.”