“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.