The Sign of the Stranger

by William Le Queux

good-looking--fair-haired,grey-eyed, with handsome regular features and a clear pink complexiondevoid of any artificial "make-up."

  Her dress was magnificent, the latest Paquin creation for which I hadsent a cheque only the week before for one hundred and ten guineas. Itwas a study in cream, and trimmed with sparkling sequins which causedthe gauze to shimmer and sparkle with every movement. The curves of herfigure were graceful in every line, and at her throat she wore themagnificent collar of rubies which Queen Anne had given to the beautifulCountess of Stanchester, wife of Her Majesty's Ambassador to France.

  With careless abandon she threw herself into an armchair opposite whereI sat, stretched out her tiny shoes upon the rug, gazing steadily at me,and blew a cloud of blue smoke from her lips. Yes, as I gazed upon herI really did not wonder how completely Lord Sibberton had beenfascinated. Magnificent was the only word that described her.

  "I've only just heard about this awful affair in the park," shecommenced. "George says he knows nothing very much about it. He saysyou found a man murdered. Tell me all about it--I'm interested." Andshe placed the cigarette to her lips and gazed lazily at me through thehaze of smoke. Knowing the strong bond of friendship existing betweenher husband and myself, she always treated me with a flippant equalitythat would be viewed with some surprise in any other circle of society.But to-day it seems that the more daring a wealthy woman is in words andactions, the greater is her popularity.

  "Yes," I answered, turning towards her upon my revolving writing-chair."It is a mystery--an entire mystery." And then I briefly related thecurious facts, omitting, of course, all mention of the connexion betweenthe murdered man and her sister-in-law, whom, be it said, she secretlyridiculed as a pious stay-at-home.

  Lolita did not care for the ultra-gay set who formed the shootingparties, therefore was absent from them when she could escape. Shehated bridge and baccarat, and had nothing in common with those womenabout whom scandalous tales were told in boudoirs and smoking-rooms.

  "I suppose Doctor Pink has been exercising his talents in trying todiscover the assassin?" she remarked.

  "Yes. But the young man has remained unidentified," I answered. "Andfor my own part, I believe the affair will remain an absolute mystery."

  "Why? What causes you to anticipate that?"

  "Because there are certain features which are utterly incomprehensible.The young man came along the avenue that night to keep a secretappointment--that's very certain. And the person who met him coollymurdered him."

  "Yes. But it really isn't very nice to have a tragedy at one's verydoor, and yet be unaware of the identity of the assassin! Who was themurderer? Who is suspected?"

  "A woman," I responded, whereupon, to my great surprise, I noticed inher eyes a strange expression, but whether of fear or of surprise Icould not determine.

  "A woman!" she repeated. "How is it that the police suspect a woman?"

  I told her how Redway had discovered certain footmarks, and how at leasttwo of the prints were those of a woman's shoe.

  "That's very strange! Most interesting!" she remarked. "Sounds almostlike what you see in a drama on the stage--a dark wood, man meets awoman who stabs him, then rushes away full of remorse--green lights, andall that sort of thing. You know what I mean."

  "But this is no theatrical effect," I said. "It is a hard solid tragicfact that an unknown man has been murdered in the park here nothalf-a-mile away, and the affair is still a complete mystery except, asI have said, a woman was certainly present."

  "Exactly. She might have been present--and yet innocent," she said,with a slightly triumphant ring in her argument, I thought. Was itpossible that she, too, knew something of Lolita's secret and,suspecting her, sought to divert suspicion from her?

  Her beautiful face was sphinx-like. She continued to discuss thestartling affair, and I somehow felt convinced that she knew rather moreof its details than she would admit. Yet probably she had read somereport of it in the papers. Nevertheless, certain remarks of hers weredistinctly curious, especially her eagerness to know exactly whatsuspicions the police entertained, and in what direction their inquirieswere at present directed.

  As to the latter, I could tell her nothing, for I had not met Redway forseveral days. Indeed I had not heard of his presence in theneighbourhood, and I had begun to believe that he and his men weregiving up the matter as a mystery that would never be solved save byconfession or by mere chance. They were evidently pursuing that policyof masterly inactivity of which local police officers are past-masters.Gossips all of them, they are full of pretended activity on falsescents, and prone to discover clues wherever beer chances to bedeposited.

  "I hear that Warr, the innkeeper, was with you when you found the man,"the Countess presently remarked. "If the dead man were not an absolutestranger surely he, of all men, would have recognised him!"

  "But he was an entire stranger--and apparently a gentleman," I said."From his clothes, his appearance was that of a foreigner--but of coursethat's only mere surmise. He may have been abroad and purchased foreignclothes there."

  "A foreigner! And who in Sibberton could possibly have any businesswith a foreigner?" she laughed. "Why, half the villagers haven't beenas far away from their houses as Northampton, and I don't believe, withthe exception perhaps of our studsman James, that any one has crossedthe Channel."

  "Yes," I admitted, "the whole affair is a profound puzzle. All that isknown is that a certain young man who, from his exterior appearance andclothes, was well-bred, met in the park a certain woman, and thatafterwards, he was found stabbed in the back with some long, thin andvery sharp instrument. That's all!"

  "And the police are utterly confounded?"

  "Utterly. They photographed the unfortunate man."

  "Did they? Where can I see a copy?" asked the Countess quickly, bendingforward to me in her eagerness. "I would so very much like to see one.Could you get one?"

  "I have one here," I replied. "The police sent it to me a week ago, inresponse to my request." And unlocking a drawer, I took out theinartistic picture of the dead man.

  So keenly interested was she that she sprang from her chair, and camequickly to the edge of my writing-table in order to examine the picture.

  "God!" she gasped, the colour of her cheeks fading pale as death as hereyes glared at it. "The woman has killed him, then--just as I thought!Poor fellow--poor fellow! The police don't even know his name! It is amystery--then let it remain so. They regard it, you say, as a strangeaffair. Yet if the real truth were known, the remarkable romance ofwhich this is the tragic _denouement_ would be found to be moststartling--one so curious and mysterious indeed as to be almost beyondhuman credence. Yes, Mr Woodhouse," she added in a low voice as shestraightened herself and looked at me, "I know the truth--I know whythis man was sent to his grave--and I know by whom!"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  CONCERNS A GAY WOMAN.

  The open declaration of the Countess held me in weak indecision. Nodoubt she was well aware of the motive of the crime, and thereforeguessed who had struck the fatal blow. Yet she boldly expressed herintention of concealing her knowledge, which seemed strange on the faceof it. A murder had been committed, therefore if she really had noreason to defeat the ends of justice she might surely reveal the deadman's identity and explain all she knew concerning him. I argued thiswith her, but she shook her head and remained firm in her decision ofsilence.

  Did she entertain, as I did, a grave suspicion of Lady Lolita?

  This vague suggestion occurred to me as I sat staring straight up intothe grey eyes of that brilliant woman before me. She knew the truth.She had told me so, yet next instant she seemed to regret the words hadescaped her and sought lamely to modify her assertion.

  She appeared to regard her statement as an error of judgment, and withall the tact of a clever woman ingeniously endeavoured to mislead me.

  "One person could, I believe, tell us something," I remarked presently,in order to
show her that I was in possession of other facts that I hadnot revealed.

  "Who's that, pray?"

  "A certain man named Richard Keene." It was quite a haphazard shot,only made in order to ascertain whether the name really conveyedanything to her.

  "Richard Keene!" she echoed, her brows knit in quick apprehension. "Didyou know him?"

  "I do know him," was my calm response. "I have seen him down inSibberton, if I am not very much mistaken."

  "Seen him!" she cried hoarsely. "Why, if you've seen him you've met anapparition. He died long ago."

  "No," I declared. "I have seen