Chapter Thirty One. Gives the Keyword.

Still very unwell, my head gave me excruciating pain when next morning I joyfully took my discharge from the hospital. My first destination was the telegraph-office, whence I sent a message to Lolita, and afterwards I went to the Cavour, where I found that, in consequence of my protracted absence, my bag had been taken from my room.

However, I soon had another apartment, although the hotel people looked askance at my bandaged head, and after a wash and a change of clothes, I went forth to the Questore, as I had arranged to meet my friend the delegato to whom I had so fortunately spoken in Biffi’s.

In his upstairs room he explained how he had circulated the description of the two men, Belotto and Ostini, to the various cities and to the frontiers, and how, owing to the pair being so well-known as bad characters, he felt certain of their arrest. That day I attended the official inquiry regarding the death of the woman Lejeune, and after giving some formal evidence, was allowed to leave.

My great fear had been that Marigold and Logan might be arrested. If so the arrest of the former must produce a terrible scandal, and if the latter the result, I feared, must reflect upon my love’s good name. My only hope, therefore, was that they had already passed the frontier police at Modane, Ventimiglia or Chiasso, and had escaped from Italy.

The chief of police was very emphatic in his order that I must remain in Milan for an indefinite period, as perhaps my evidence would be wanted against the men, but after consultation with Mr Martin Johnson, now most active on my behalf, because he hoped to obtain the good-will of my cousin, his chief, I resolved to disobey the mandate of the Questore and slip away from Italy in secret. I was not under arrest, hence the police had no power to detain me.

Therefore, travelling by Turin, Modane and Paris, I arrived at Charing Cross at dawn three days later, and took train at once to Sibberton.

What had happened during my absence I feared to guess. On entering my room at the Hall at noon, I found my table piled with the accumulated correspondence. I had before my departure from London telegraphed to the Earl my intention of taking a fortnight’s holiday, therefore my absence had not been remarked. Only Keene and Lolita knew the truth.

I rang the bell, and old Slater appeared.

“Is his lordship hunting this morning?” I inquired.

“No, sir,” responded the aged retainer, surely a model servant. “He’s across with her ladyship at the stables looking at some new horses.”

“How long has her ladyship been back?”

“She returned from London yesterday, sir.”

“And Lady Lolita?”

“Her ladyship has gone in the motor to luncheon at Deene, sir. Lady Maud Dallas, and one of the other visitors, a lady, are with her.”

With that I dismissed the servant, and walking down the corridor went out into the wide courtyard, through the servants’ quarters and round to the left wing of the house to the great stables where there were stalls for a hundred horses.

The stablemen and grooms in their jerseys of hunting red always gave a picturesque touch of colour to the huge grey old place, and I saw in a corner of the great paved yard, the Earl with a small group of his visitors watching a fine bay mare being paraded by a groom.

One of the traditions of the Stanchesters was to keep good horses, and George spared no expense to maintain the high standard of his forefathers. He had three motors, but Marigold used them more than he did because they were the fashion.

She had learnt to drive herself, and would often drive up to London, eighty-five miles, accompanied by Jacques, the French chauffeur. In town, too, she had an electric brougham in which she paid afternoon calls and did her shopping. Indeed her motor brougham with yellow wheels was a common object in Regent Street in the season.

“Hulloa, Willoughby!” cried the Earl as I approached. “Didn’t know you were back?”

“I’m a day or so earlier than I expected,” I laughed, at the same time saluting the woman whose adventure in Milan had undoubtedly been a strangely tragic one, as well as Keene and the other guests.

“Why, what’s the matter with your head?” asked old Lord Cotterstock, noticing a bandage upon it as I raised my straw hat.

“Oh, nothing very much,” I answered then. “I slipped on the kerb in the Strand, fell back, and struck it rather badly. But it’s getting better. The unsightliness of the plaster is its worst part.”

I dared not glance at Marigold as I uttered this excuse. I felt sure that she was aware of the attack made upon me—whether it had been by Logan or any one else.

The colour had left her cheeks when her startled eyes encountered me, and she glared at me as though I were a ghost. By that alone I knew that my re-appearance there was utterly unexpected—in truth, that she believed that I was dead!

She had turned away from the party at once, to speak with the stud-groom in order to conceal her dismay. Her face had, in an instant, assumed a death-like pallor, and I saw how anxious she was to escape me. Though she made a desperate effort to remain calm and to face me, she was unable, for her attitude in itself betrayed her guilty knowledge.

I saw in her face sufficient to convince me of the truth. She managed to move away, still giving instructions to the man, while I remained with the party watching the cantering of the horse on show. Every man or woman present there was a judge of a horse, for all were hunting people and knew what, in stable parlance in the Midlands, is known as “a good bit of stuff” when they saw it.

Presently when the decision was given, I moved away with Keene, and as soon as we were alone in the pleasure-garden I told him quickly of my startling adventure. He stood open-mouthed.

“Then the woman Lejeune is actually dead,” he gasped, his brows knit thoughtfully. “The Italians must have murdered her!”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, recollecting that he was acquainted with them, for had not one of them, if not both, been in concealment at Hayes’s Farm.

“Well,” he sighed. “This means, I’m afraid, the worst to Lolita.”

“Ah! no!” I cried. “Don’t say that. We must save her! We must! If I could only know the truth I feel sure I could devise some means by which she could be extricated from this perilous position.”

“No,” he answered sadly. “I think not. The assassination of that woman tells me that the conspiracy is a more daring and formidable one than I had even imagined.”

“But what connexion could Marigold or Logan have had with the affair?” I asked. “What is your theory? Why did they travel there in secret? If Marigold was to be their victim, then I could understand it; but she was not.”

“It seems evident she was taken out to Milan by Logan in order to meet Marie in secret,” he said.

“But if the murder was not pre-arranged, why should they have taken possession of a dwelling that was not their own? That fact, in itself, shows that their object was a sinister one,” I argued.

“Stanchester believes that his wife has been at Bray with her sister Sibyl. He has no idea she’s been abroad.”

“And Logan? What of him?”

“I know nothing,” he declared. “He is probably still abroad. My own idea is that he crossed the Channel in order to meet Marigold and escort her to Italy.”

“Then the affair is as great a mystery as it ever was?” I remarked with dissatisfaction. I had risked my life and narrowly escaped being placed on trial for murder—all to no purpose.

“Greater,” he said. “For my own part I cannot see what they’ve gained by sealing Marie’s lips. I know,” he added, “that Belotto made an attempt upon her during her stay at the farm in this vicinity, but they were prevented.”

“Who prevented them?” I inquired eagerly, as this was the first time he had admitted knowledge of their concealment at the farm to which Pink had been called on that fateful night.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” he answered, looking me straight in the face, “I did.”

“You!” I cried.

“Yes,” he responded. “Belotto, who was madly jealous of her, took her for a walk in the wood on purpose, I believe, to get rid of her. Fortunately, however, I had suspicion of his intention, and followed him. Just as she was struck, I emerged and denounced him, but too late. He then attacked me, but I defended myself. Then fearing the girl would die, the others did all they could to succour her, as they dreaded that by her death they would all be arrested for murder.”

“Then the reason they left Hayes’s Farm so suddenly was because they were in fear of you?”

“Exactly. Marie Lejeune was equally afraid of me, and escaped with them—abroad, it seems.”

I related how the doctor, Pink, had been called to the girl, and of the investigations he and I made afterwards, whereupon he said, smiling—

“Yes, I know. I remained in the vicinity, and watched you both ride up to the house that afternoon.”

“And now you have told me so much, Mr Keene,” I said. “Have you no theory regarding the murder of Hugh Wingfield?”

“Ah! That’s quite another matter,” he said as a strange expression crossed his bearded features. “That’s a question which it is best for us not to discuss.”

“Why?”

“Because I can say nothing.”

“But you have a theory?”

“It may not be the right one,” he answered in a hard, strained voice.

“At least you know who the man was?” I said. “You have already mentioned his name.”

“Can you tell me why he, a perfect stranger, wore upon his finger the portrait of Lady Lolita?” I asked.

“For the same reason, I suppose, that a woman wears in a locket a portrait of a man.”

“You imply that he was Lolita’s lover?”

“I imply nothing,” he said vaguely. “I make no statement at all. I have indeed told you that the matter is one which it is wiser not to discuss.”

“But can’t you see how, in my position, that terrible affair is of greatest moment to my happiness and peace of mind?” I pointed out. “Who was he? What brought him to the park on that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lolita went forth to meet him, that I know,” I said.

“Yes,” he remarked. “That was proved by the marks of her heels at the spot where the body was found. She must therefore have met him.”

“If so, then she must know the truth, Mr Keene,” I said in a hard voice, watching his dark face. “What I want to discover is the reason he came here in secret that night.”

He paused a moment his eyes fixed upon me, as though he were debating within himself whether he should betray my love’s secret. Then at length he said—

“You mentioned, I think, to Lady Lolita that you had secured from the dead man’s pocket a scrap of paper bearing a message in cipher—did you not?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed eagerly. “It is the checker-board cipher, I know, but I am unable to read it because I am ignorant of the keyword.”

“If you really desire to decipher it, and think it will help you to a knowledge of the real facts, why not try the single and very unusual word—her own name!”

“Lolita!” I gasped quickly in eagerness. “Then the keyword is Lolita!”

To which he made no response, but nodded gravely in the affirmative.

Then, without further ado, I rushed back to my room took out the folded scrap of paper that had brought Hugh Wingfield to his doom, and spread it before me together with the checker-board.

In a quarter of an hour I had reduced the numerals to letters, subtracted my love’s name, and deciphered it—yes, the fatal message stood revealed.