“Ah!” she sighed, and the light died out of her countenance again. “But are you really certain that it was Richard Keene?—does Lolita know this?”
“Yes. He wrote to her.”
“Wrote to her! Then there is no mistake that the fellow is still alive?” she cried, dismayed.
“None. He told Warr that he had only just arrived home from abroad. And he looked very travel-stained and weary. He seemed to be on tramp.”
“Without money?”
“On the contrary, he appeared to have plenty. It struck me that his penurious exterior was assumed for some purpose of his own.”
“Then if he really has returned, he means mischief—serious mischief,” exclaimed the Countess, still very pale. “The fact that he is not dead, as we had all supposed, alters entirely my theory regarding the crime and its motive.”
“You believe then that he is the guilty one?”
“No. That could not be,” was her quick reply.
“There are strong reasons—very strong reasons—why there can be no suspicion against him.”