The Sign of the Stranger

“Oh, that’s enough,” laughed the guest, modestly. “I can’t shoot partridges – that you’ll see.”

The Earl walked to the mantelshelf, took a cigarette, and lit it, saying —

“I see Woodhouse has been making you at home. This is Willoughby Woodhouse, my friend as well as my secretary,” he exclaimed. “I spoke of him, I believe.”

“You did, on several occasions,” and turning, Smeeton added, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Woodhouse. His lordship said all sorts of kind things about you.”

But I scarcely heeded the newcomer’s remarks. I was wondering what would occur when he met her ladyship face to face.

“I want you to have a good time, my dear fellow,” exclaimed the Earl to his guest. “Just make yourself at home. You’ll find the house a big barrack of a place, too big in fact – but with the aid of the servants you’ll very soon discover the proper trails. If you don’t, just go into the nearest room, ring the bell and wait. That’s what most people do. My wife was fully six months before she could find her way about properly – it’s a fact! She wanted to shut up the place and live in the new wing. But,” he added, “the old guv’nor always kept it up properly, and I feel it my duty to do just as he did.”

That a cordial friendship existed between the pair was plain, and yet I had only once heard his lordship mention him, and that was in the smoking-room when daring feats of big-game hunting and the achievements of Selous and others were being discussed. Then he had declared that he knew a man that held his own with them all – a man named Smeeton, who had spent the greater part of his life exploring and hunting, some of whose trophies, sold to well-known dealers, were the finest in the world.

His lordship was never a boastful man, and had not referred at all to his acquaintance with this renowned hunter, nor to his own African exploits, which were in no way a mean achievement.

He had just ordered Slater to bring in whiskies-and-sodas, as it was his habit to have a “peg” before dressing, when there sounded out in the corridor a light quick footstep, and the scamper of a dog, and the next instant the door opened, and the Countess of Stanchester halted on the threshold, facing the man she held in such deadly fear – Richard Keene!

Chapter Nineteen

Face to Face

“My friend Smeeton – Lady Stanchester,” exclaimed the Earl, introducing them.

Their gaze met, and I saw that in a moment her heart became gripped by a nameless terror, her countenance blanched, and she halted rigid, as utterly dumbfounded as I had been; while the mysterious guest bowed, expressing his pleasure at making her acquaintance, and thus allowing her a chance to recover her self-possession.

I saw that he had darted a meaning look at her – a glance which she apparently understood, for next second she held her breath, stifling down her apprehension, and then managed to stammer out the usual expression of gratification at meeting any of her husband’s friends.

“We have only a moment ago, Lady Stanchester, been recalling memories of our days on the Zambesi. We were both, I think, a little more reckless then than we are now,” he said laughing.

“You’re right, Smeeton,” declared the Earl. “Playing the fool as I did, I narrowly escaped with my life half-a-dozen times over. But I’ve profited by your advice and experience.”

“George is quite a steady-going old fogey nowadays, you must know, Mr Smeeton,” exclaimed her ladyship. “He’s a member of all sorts of committees for this and for that, and sits on the bench of magistrates with the row of fat butchers and bakers.”

“And is pretty hard on poachers, I suppose?” he laughed. “In the eyes of county magistrates the snaring of a hare is, I’ve heard, regarded as one of the worst crimes in the calendar.”

“Of course. Because it is generally the only crime that personally concerns the bench,” remarked his lordship, while his wife had crossed to the fireplace and stood slightly behind her husband, in order, I noticed, to conceal the agitation now consuming her. Why had the man come there in the guise of her husband’s friend? That they had shot together in Africa was certain, for she had heard of this man’s prowess as a big-game hunter, but it was a revelation to her, as to me, that Smeeton and Richard Keene were one and the same person.

Old Slater returned with the “pegs” and the men drank them while her ladyship busied herself pretending to try and find a book in the large bookcase behind me. She chatted to them all the time, but managed to keep her face concealed.

At last the dressing-bell sounded, and the Earl accompanied his guest to his room, exclaiming with a laugh —

“I’d better show you the way, old chap, or you’ll be wandering about like one of the lost tribes.” Then, the instant the door had closed and their footsteps retreated, the Countess turned quickly to me, her face white and drawn, her eyes terrified, whispering —

“What does this mean, Mr Woodhouse? What can it mean?”

“Well, it seems as though the fellow had some object in coming to stay here as a guest,” I said. “What that object is you yourself know best.”

“Of course he has a motive,” she cried in despair. “But what am I to do? Why didn’t you warn me that you had recognised him?”

I explained briefly how to warn her had been impossible.

“Do you think George noticed my confusion when I opened the door and saw him here?” she asked anxiously.

“I think not,” was my reply. “You so quickly recovered yourself.”

“Ah! But you don’t know how sharp his eyes are. He’s really absurdly jealous sometimes.”

I smiled within myself to think that a woman so fond of admiration and flattery should complain of her husband’s jealousy.

“At any rate, in this affair, you’ll have to act with the greatest caution and discretion, Lady Stanchester,” I said. “The man is here for some sinister purpose – of that I feel quite sure. He arrived in Sibberton a little while ago, tramping along the highway, tired and hungry, a shabby wayfarer, upon whom Warr looked with suspicion. To-day he is your husband’s welcomed guest, to whom he expects you to act with kindness and attention.”

“Kindness!” she ejaculated. “Kindness to that man!”

“Is he such an enemy of yours?” I asked in a low tone. “Why don’t you take me further into your confidence, Lady Stanchester? Surely you can rely upon my discretion?”

“I have taken you into my confidence as far as I dare,” was her answer, uttered in a tone of desperation. “I want you now to assist me in combating this man’s intentions, whatever they are.”

“I promise to render you what assistance I can, but on one condition, recollect,” I said. “The condition is that what I do is in order that you shall be afforded opportunity to convince George of your true affection.”

“I know, I know,” she cried quickly. “I will adhere to my part of the compact. Believe me, I will,” and she stood before me a pale apprehensive figure in her Norfolk jacket and short tweed skirt – a woman whose attitude showed me that Keene’s presence there held her terrified.

The truth of it all I could not guess. A vague suspicion arose of some curious romance in the days prior to her marriage; of some skeleton in her cupboard, which she feared must now be brought out to the light of day before her husband’s eyes. I saw written in her countenance, as she stood before me, an all-consuming fear which seemed to hold her there immovable.

“I’m wondering whether I ought not to make some excuse to go away on a visit somewhere,” she suggested after a pause. “I can’t really stay under the same roof with him, meet him each day at table, and be compelled to chat with him. It’s utterly impossible.”

“But how can you leave all these people?” I asked. “Besides, if you did, he might perhaps revenge himself – that is, if you are wholly in his hands. Are you?”

“Utterly,” she answered hoarsely, as though that confession were wrung from her.

“You fear him, while he has no need to fear you. Is that so?”

She answered in the affirmative in the same hoarse unnatural tone.

“Then you must not run further risk by attempting to escape him,” I said decisively. “You must remain, act diplomatically, and endeavour to maintain a bold front. Recollect that he is here in order to take advantage of the first sign of apprehension on your part. Show no fear of him,” I urged. “Disclaim all knowledge of him if necessary. Assert to his face that you have never met before, should he speak to you alone and endeavour to recall the past. We live for the present or the future, Lady Stanchester, not for the past – whatever it may have been. Courage!” I said. “If you really love George and are now hounded by this man, I will help you in every way.”

“Ah!” she said gratefully. “I know you will, Mr Woodhouse. Believe me, I am at this moment sorely in need of a friend. I know, alas! what evil tongues have said of me, and what a reputation I have for giddiness and flirtation. Yet every action of a woman of my age and position is magnified and exaggerated in order that it may furnish food for gossips and hints for scandal. But I tell you I am not so black as I am painted. I still have a heart – and that heart is my husband’s. He is your friend, and if you assist me to defeat this man you will be rendering him the greatest service one man can render to another – and you will save me.”

“I have promised,” I answered. “You must go now and meet the man on perfect equality, with perfect friendship. Your mind is blank regarding the past, and you have never met him before in all your life. No matter what he threatens to reveal, or what he tells you his revenge will be, you must not admit that you have been previously acquainted.”

“It will be difficult – terribly difficult,” she said. “He can unfortunately recall certain facts which – well, which I fear I cannot deny.”

“But you must,” I urged. “Deny everything. Then he will expose his hand, and we shall know how to deal with him in order to checkmate his plans.”

“Very well,” answered the desperate woman. “I’ll do my best. But if I fail you must not blame me.”

“You are clever, Lady Stanchester, and with your woman’s diplomacy and quick inventiveness I am sure you can face the difficulty and overcome it. Go,” I urged. “You must appear at dinner gay and merry, as though you had not a serious thought in the world. Your careless attitude will then puzzle him from the very outset. Act as I tell you, and if you want advice at any moment, come to me.”

She thanked me, and turning slowly went out to dress for the terrible ordeal which she knew too well was before her. And when she had gone I sat in my chair for a long time, plunged in thought.

The mystery was assuming even greater and more remarkable proportions. The chief problem at the moment was the motive of the mysterious guest.

Who was this man Keene of whom both Lolita and Lady Stanchester were in such deadly fear? What power did he possess over them?

Times without number had I asked myself that self-same question, but no solution of the enigma presented itself. The mystery was now even more dark and inscrutable than it had been at the outset. The puzzle was maddening. So I rose with a sigh, and went up to my room to dress with a distinct feeling precursory of some untoward event about to occur in the Stanchester household, and a fervent hope that the young Countess would hold her own successfully in the desperate fight with this man whom she declared to be her very worst enemy.

The situation was surely a most grave and remarkable one, and her position was certainly unenviable. Knowing her abject terror of the man I felt apprehensive of the result, for I felt confident that one single sign of weakness would give the desperate game entirely into his own unscrupulous hands.

In the big white drawing-room where the visitors assembled before dinner, the Countess appeared in a marvellous gown of pale turquoise and cream, and wearing the diamond collar and bodice-ornament which was her husband’s wedding gift, and which cost a sum which to many a man would have represented a fortune. Her coiffure was beautifully arranged without a hair awry, and her white neck and arms seemed like alabaster. Truly she was a magnificent woman, and well merited the description a certain royal prince had once uttered of her – “Taking face and figure, the prettiest woman who ever came to Court during the present reign.”

She was laughing gaily with old Lord Cotterstock as she entered, chaffing him about his sleepiness after luncheon and missing several birds, and as her gaze met mine I saw that the manner she had reassumed, that nonchalant air that she usually wore, was little short of marvellous. One would hardly have recognised in her the white-faced, terrified and despondent woman of half-an-hour before.

In the corner of the room stood Smeeton, a tall, commanding figure in faultless dress clothes, and a small but fine diamond in his shirt, chatting to two women, Lady Barford and the Honourable Violet Middleton, to whom he had just been introduced. Her ladyship was of that middle-aged type of stiff-backed lion-hunter who sought London through to get the latest poet, painter or littérateur to go to her weekly “At Homes,” and had already, it seemed, buttonholed the renowned hunter of big game.

Old Slater appeared at the door, bowing with that formality acquired by long service in that noble family, and announced in a voice loud enough to be heard by all —

“Dinner is served, m’lady.”

Then the Countess walked boldly up to Smeeton and asked to be taken in by him, while I linked myself up with a rather angular girl in a pale rose gown that had seen long service, the daughter of a Squire from a neighbouring village who was this evening eating his annual dinner at the Hall.

Through dinner her ladyship preserved an outward calm that was remarkable. She chatted and laughed amiably with her guest seated at her right hand, and as I watched narrowly I detected that he was already amazed at her self-possession. That night she was even more brilliant than ever. Her conversation sparkled with wit, and her remarks and criticisms caused her guests in her vicinity to roar with laughter at frequent intervals.

From where I sat little escaped my watchful eyes. Once or twice she turned her gaze upon me, as though to ask whether she were acting her part sufficiently well, then fired off some epigrammatic remark to one or other of the gay crowd of well-dressed people around her.

Dinner ended, the ladies retired, the cloth was removed, the port was circulated in decanters in silver stands along the bare table of polished oak, in accordance with the custom that had obtained at Sibberton ever since the Jacobean days. The Stanchester cellars had always been celebrated, and assuredly there was not a finer port in the whole country than that which they contained. Among the men, as they drank their wine, the newly-arrived visitor became the centre of attraction. Sportsmen all of them, Lord Stanchester had told them of Smeeton’s keenness after big game, and many questions were being put to him regarding the practicability of shooting expeditions in East Africa.

At last an adjournment was made into the huge vaulted hall, the stained glass and architecture of which reminded me of a church, where there was music every evening. In the high roof hung those faded and tattered banners carried by the Stanchesters in various battles historic in English history, and around the walls stands of armour in long and imposing rows.

Her ladyship was an excellent musician, and although in these days of mechanical piano-playing music will, it is feared, soon be a neglected art, she always played on the grand piano for the entertainment of her guests. Some songs were sung – mainly from the comic operas, San Toy, The Geisha, The Country Girl– and some even with a chorus heartily joined in by those lords and ladies of illustrious name. It was Liberty Hall, and in the evening the fun always grew fast and furious.

Presently the bridge tables were set, parties were made up, cards were dealt and played, money rattled and very soon there were high stakes in various quarters and a good deal of money began to change hands.

With two or three exceptions the whole party played bridge. Myself, I could not afford to lose, and therefore never played. While among those who declined the invitation was Smeeton, who remained an interested onlooker at his hostess’s table.

Only by the slight trembling of her bejewelled hands could I detect in her any sign of fear, but when she rose as midnight chimed out from the turret clock over the stables, as a signal for the ladies to retire to their rooms, he had, I noticed, disappeared. Perhaps he wished to obtain a secret interview with her, therefore I was quickly on the alert, and succeeded in gaining a point at the junction of two corridors that ran at right angles, and down which I knew she must pass. In order to escape notice I slipped into one of the rooms and stood in the dark with the door slightly ajar.

She came at last alone, her silken skirts sweeping with loud frou-frou, her diamonds glistening in the light as she advanced. Her guests had passed out into the new wing, but she habitually reached her room by this corridor, which was a short cut and ran through a portion of the vast mansion not generally used.

She had almost gained the doorway wherein I stood, when I heard hurrying steps behind her, and next moment Smeeton caught her roughly by the wrist, exclaiming in a quick determined whisper as he bent to her —

“Marigold! Marigold! Have I so changed that you don’t know me? I told you that I should return and here I am! You thought you could escape by marrying this man – but you can’t! The awkward little matter outstanding between us still remains to be arranged, and I think you know Dick Keene well enough to be aware that in an affair of this sort he’s not a man to be trifled with. So you know well enough what I’m here for, and what a word from me to these fine friends of yours will mean to you. Do you hear me?” he added, with a hard ring in his voice. “What have you to say?”

Chapter Twenty

Richard Keene Makes a Revelation

The Countess, unconscious of my presence, halted quickly, and turning upon him with a start exclaimed —

“I – I really don’t understand what you mean, Mr Smeeton!”

“Understand what I mean!” he echoed with a short dry laugh. “I suppose you’ll deny acquaintance with me next!”

“I certainly do not recollect having met you before,” she answered with admirable hauteur.

“What?” he exclaimed, in undisguised surprise at her bold attempt to disclaim any previous acquaintance. “Do you actually affirm that we have never previously known each other?”

“Never until this evening,” was her response. “That is why I don’t understand what you mean in addressing me in this manner.”

He burst out laughing, treating her bold denial with derision. Yet she remained firm, and in indignation exclaimed —

“Let me pass. I think, Mr Smeeton, you have forgotten yourself this evening.”

“No,” he said. “I never forget a debt that is owing me. I am here for repayment.”

“I really don’t understand you. It’s late, and one of the servants may pass this way and overhear you. Let us resume this highly interesting discussion in the morning,” she suggested. “This must no doubt be a case of mistaken identity. I can only suppose I resemble somebody you know.”

“There was but one Marigold Gordon,” he replied, in a hard firm voice. “There was but one Marigold who wrecked one man’s happiness, and who afterwards married another because of his wealth and position – yourself.”

“Oh! this is insupportable!” she cried indignantly. “I shall tell my husband that I’m insulted by his guest – a man from nowhere. Let me pass – I say!”

“Yes, a man from nowhere,” he sneered. “Richard Keene is always from nowhere, because he has no fixed home. He comes to-day from nowhere and goes to nowhere. But before he goes he means that his account with you shall be settled. Understand that!”

“Well, you’ve said so already,” she laughed. “Is it the action of a gentleman to utter all kinds of vague threats like this?”

“Vague threats! You’ll find that they are more than vague. What I say I mean. You think,” he added, “to escape by denying all previous acquaintance with me. But you’ll discover your mistake when too late.”

“I have no reason to escape,” she declared with a nonchalant air that amazed me, knowing how at heart she feared him. “I shall merely tell my husband of this indignity, and leave him to act as he thinks best.”

“Ah!” he remarked, “you are a clever woman, Marigold – you always were. Is it really necessary to remind you of those ugly events of three years ago in which you and Lolita were so intimately concerned, or that there still exists a certain woman named Lejeune?”

“I desire no reminder of any matters which concern me,” she replied coldly. “This does not.”

“But it concerns Lolita – and what concerns her concerns you. She fled to the north the instant she heard that I had returned, for she feared to meet me.”

“Her affairs are not mine,” declared the Countess unmoved. “You are speaking of something of which I am in utter ignorance. Why don’t you explain your meaning?”

“Shall I speak openly?” he said. “Very well, if you prefer it, I will. If you recollect nothing else, perhaps you will remember that a young man named Hugh Wingfield was found dead in the park here quite recently – murdered.”

“I heard of it. I was at Aix-les-Bains,” she replied.

“You saw his photograph – your husband showed it to you after your return, and you recognised who the dead man was who had remained unidentified.”

“How could I recognise a person whom I had never seen before?”

“Then you also deny acquaintance with Hugh Wingfield, the poor young fellow who fell into the trap so cunningly set for him?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“Well, because you are a more wonderful woman, Marigold, than even I believed,” he answered in his deep rather rough voice. “You’re a perfect marvel.”

“Not at all,” she answered quite calmly. “First, I do not see what gives you permission to call me by my Christian name; and secondly, I don’t see the motive you have in endeavouring to fix upon me knowledge of certain matters of which I am in entire ignorance. Perhaps you’ll explain why, being my husband’s guest and only a few hours in this house, you arrest me like this, and commence all these extraordinary insinuations? You claim acquaintanceship with me, while I declare that I didn’t know you from Adam until my husband introduced us just before dinner.”

“Then what I have to reply is the reverse of complimentary. If you had been a man I should have told you to your face that you were a liar.”

“You may disbelieve me as you will,” she responded still unruffled. “But I merely tell you that I have no further desire to stand here and be insulted,” and although she tried to pass him he again clutched her wrist fiercely and prevented her.

“You shall answer me!” he whispered angrily. “You are Marigold Gordon, now Countess of Stanchester; you are the woman I am here to meet, to speak with calmly, and to come to an amicable settlement – if possible. You know, as well as I do, that Lolita’s future in is your hands, just as it is in mine. A word from either of us can ruin her. It would mean for her arrest, disgrace, condemnation. Now, do you intend to speak and to save her; or will you still deny previous acquaintance with me and consequently all knowledge of the affair? Lolita is in peril. If you will you can save her, although she is your enemy – although I know how you hate her.”

I stood aghast at this fresh development of the mystery. I had actually urged this woman to disclaim all that the man Keene might allege, yet in utter ignorance that, by so doing, she was bringing ruin upon my love! My ears were open to catch every word. The Countess was Lolita’s enemy! Could that be the actual truth? Did this woman whose beauty was so remarkable so mask her real feelings towards her husband’s sister that, while outwardly showing great affection for her, she had secretly plotted her ruin and disgrace?

“I know nothing,” was her persistent reply.

“Then you prefer that Lolita shall suffer,” he said in a calm hard voice. “Remember that her enemies are unscrupulous, relentless. The word once spoken can never be recalled. Do you intend that her life shall actually be sacrificed?”