The Sign of the Stranger

by William Le Queux

For a few moments she remained pale and silent. Her great blue eyes met mine, and then looking me straight in the face she said—

“What Mr Logan has told you is perfectly correct. The poor young man was working in my interests, and I had written him a cipher letter making an appointment to meet me in the park at a spot where we had met several times previously, as I knew, secretly watching the Frenchwoman and her accomplices in London as he was, he had something to report to me. That afternoon, however, as I drove through the village I saw at the window of the Stanchester Arms the one man whom I feared would denounce me—the man who had been witness of the affair at San Remo, and who had openly expressed belief in my guilt—Richard Keene. He had come to Sibberton evidently to make inquiries about me. By his presence there, I knew he meant mischief.

“That same evening I also received a secret visit from Marie Lejeune. Still I kept the appointment and walked across the park by a circuitous route, in order that none of the servants should recognise me. I knew I had plenty of time by the chiming of the stable clock, therefore I did not hurry. But when I reached the hollow I found he was not there, and had waited for a moment in expectation, when of a sudden I saw something in the darkness lying close to me. I bent and to my horror discovered that it was the young man Wingfield—dead! I screamed and rushed away, not knowing whither I went, but scarcely had I gone a few yards when I ran right into the arms of Mr Logan. I had, in my horror, picked up the knife lying at the dead man’s side, a long, thin Italian dagger, and when he met me I still held it in my hand. That very fact, of which I was unconscious at the moment, convinced him of my guilt. Thus on a second occasion was I suspected of a crime of which I was innocent. Of what occurred afterwards I have little recollection. I only know that Mr Logan took the knife from my hand, and that for hours we wandered, he trying to obtain from me the true facts against Marigold which the dead man had alleged. Then at dawn we parted, and I was met by Mr Woodhouse, who set about swiftly to remove every piece of evidence that might convict me of the mysterious crime. Ah!” she cried, “God alone knows how much I have suffered—how Marie Lejeune and her accomplices have tortured me.”

“I admit,” declared Logan frankly, “that I believed Lady Lolita to be guilty. The horror at finding the dead man and the knowledge that the great intrigue was still in progress produced upon her an effect which I unfortunately mistook for guilt. You must first know that on the night in question, being again associated with Marie Lejeune, I had accompanied her to Sibberton, whither she went at Lady Lolita’s request. Her ladyship saw her privately, while I awaited her in the ‘Mermaid’ over at Geddington. Marie had, by secret means, learnt of Lolita’s intention to meet Hugh Wingfield in the park that night, therefore on leaving the Hall she awaited in order to watch and obtain knowledge of the negotiations against her which she knew were in progress between the valet and her ladyship, while I, surprised at her long absence, strolled across to the park in order to meet her on her return, as the way was dark and lonely.

“According to the statement she afterwards made to me, it appears that she watched the young valet’s arrival. He stood listening for about five minutes, when suddenly a woman, whom by her ermine cloak she knew was Lady Lolita, approached in the gloom, but as the young man uttered her name and put his hand out to welcome her, she stepped nimbly past him and struck him full in the back—a fatal blow. It was but the work of a single instant. ‘Ah! my lady!’ he gasped, clutching at her cloak. ‘You—you’ve killed me!’ And he sank upon the ground and expired. At that instant Marie Lejeune stepped from her hiding-place and the two women met face to face. Then Marie was staggered to discover that the woman who wore Lady Lolita’s cloak was not Lady Lolita herself—but that woman standing there!” he exclaimed, pointing to the Countess, “Lady Stanchester!”

“Lady Stanchester!” we all gasped in one breath, while the wretched woman thus denounced stood before us, swaying and shrinking from our gaze.

“But surely she was still at Aix-les-Bains!” I cried.

“No,” he declared. “She had returned to London on the previous day, and was living at Burton’s boarding-house, in Hereford Road, Bayswater, under the name of Mrs Frith. That very morning she had seen the young valet in Westbourne Grove, and had followed him down to Sibberton. As soon as she saw him take a ticket for Kettering she knew of his intention to meet Lady Lolita clandestinely, therefore she saw in that her opportunity to deal him a fatal blow, and thus prevent any ugly revelation regarding her past.”

“But the cloak?” I asked.

“Lady Lolita had lent it to her just before her departure for Aix, and she wore it on that night.” Then I saw how, by my neglecting to tell Lolita of the finding of the cloak by the gamekeeper Jacobs, I had myself withheld the truth from her! Had she known that the cloak she had lent Marigold had been found torn and cast aside, she would of course have suspected the identity of the assassin.