“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.”