The old fellow's recognition of the name made it clear that the
mysterious Mademoiselle, on her escape from Chelsea, had taken refuge in
that house, together with certain other persons who were either
accomplices, or who had formed some conspiracy in which she was
implicated.
To the doctor, of course, this declaration of the man Hayes conveyed but
little, but to me it threw an entirely fresh light upon the
extraordinary affair. To Pink I gave a false explanation of the reason
of my question. Some cunning plot seemed to be in progress, until the
attack upon the young Frenchwoman and its subsequent exposure had, it
appeared, 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 with
the old people, in order, it seemed, to obtain a safe retreat for
Mademoiselle, the man Logan and his two companions.
For what reason? Was this man Logan the same person who had walked with
Lolita when I had discovered her after the tragedy?
I endeavoured to obtain a minute description of him from both the doctor
and the farmer, but somehow his appearance, as described by my friend,
was not as I had met him in those exciting moments on the Chelsea
Embankment. Yet, perhaps, on that night, when he was secretly returning
to Britten Street, his countenance might have been disguised. If he
suspected that the police were watching, he would, no doubt, try and
alter his personal appearance.
We both questioned old Mrs Hayes, a white-faced old woman in a silk cap
with faded ribbon, but we could get nothing very intelligible from her,
for she seemed upset and nervous regarding the hurried departure of the
mysterious 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 friends
of 'is'n must be just so nice. He'd been at sea, and told us a lot
about places abroad."
"Oh! he'd been at sea, had he?" I remarked, as that statement confirmed
the suspicion that the man called Dick was actually Richard Keene--the
person whose return had struck terror in the heart of both Lolita and
the Countess.
"He said so," was her answer. "'E also said that he knew something of
these parts, and made a lot of inquiries about the death of old Lord
Stanchester, the present Earl's marriage and all that. In fact it
somehow struck me that he had known the family long ago, and was anxious
to hear about the recent happenings over at the Hall."
"He made no remark about the man found dead in the park?" asked the
doctor.
"No. Not to my recollection. But Mr Logan did. He seemed very
concerned about it, and I believe he went over to Sibberton one evening
to see the spot. Only he didn't tell us. We knew from the ostler at
the _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 had
already seen. Indeed, he would, no doubt, have kept away from it as far
as 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 me
so in his plain blunt fashion.
"There's one thing quite certain," he remarked as we cantered home
together in the crimson sundown, "there's a lot of mystery connected
with those people. I wonder if there really has been a tragedy, and if
the man Logan actually made an attempt upon the young fellow, as the
girl had declared. It's a great pity," he added, "that we don't know
their surnames."
"Yes," I agreed. "If we did, we might perhaps establish their connexion
with 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 promise
to Mademoiselle, therefore I expressed myself entirely against such a
course, saying--
"My own idea is that if we conduct our inquiries carefully and in
secret, 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 our
own counsel, and find out all we can further."
To me the enigma had assumed utterly bewildering proportions. The
mystery of it all, combined with the distinct suspicion resting upon the
woman 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 this
problem 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 escaped
me, and I still remained powerless and in ignorance of the truth, which
proved afterwards to be so utterly astounding.
We passed through Brigstock, and cantering on set out along the long
white highway. Both of us were silent, deep in thought. From the west
poured an infinite volume of yellow-gold light. A wonderful
transfiguring softness covered the earth. Far above the transfiguring
gold in the west was a calm clear-shining blue, and into the blue softly
blended colour into colour so artistically that any painter's brush
would be defied.
Suddenly, the rays of the sun stretched up from behind the dark
hill-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 was
mirrored upon my heart.
The life of the day was nearing its end, and in the hush of silence we
went onward, onward--towards home. And as we rode on I reflected that
life was like an April day of alternate showers and sunshine, laughter
and tears, flashes of woe and spasms of pain. One sun alone can
brighten our gloom, and that sun is love. Without it, we have only the
darkness of desolation.
Lolita! Lolita! The pale troubled refined face arose ever before me,
haunting me sleeping or waking; that terrified look that had settled
upon her matchless countenance at the moment when she had told me in her
desperation that Keene's return meant death to her, I could by no means
efface from my mind. It had been photographed indelibly upon my memory.
I received a letter from her next morning, a brief friendly note
containing, as usual, no words of affection, only an expression of
intimate 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's
correspondence before me. The letter-bag always contained a strange
assortment of communications; some pathetic, many amusing, and at rare
intervals notes on coloured paper in a feminine hand which, not being
for 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; he
had driven a coach, given wonderful luncheons at the Bachelors', kept a
house-boat up at Bray, was a well-known man about town, and an equally
well-known figure at the tables at Monte Carlo. He had shot big game on
the Zambesi, caught tarpon in Florida, potted tiger in the Himalayas,
and had otherwise run the whole gamut of the pleasures of life as are
opened to the wealthy young Englishman. On the day of his marriage with
Marigold, he became a changed man, and now having assumed the
responsibilities of an enormous estate, he declared himself to be
gradually developing into an old fogey.
I had at last managed to stifle down my conflicting thoughts, and was
busy replying to the pile of letters before me, when the Earl, in riding
breeches, 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 look
in each morning to see whether I wished for any directions upon matters
which I could not decide myself.
"Nothing of urgent importance," was my reply. "Benwell, the agent at
Brockhurst, suggests buying about a thousand acres that adjoin the
estate and are in the market."
"He means Haughmond Manor, I suppose?"