The Sign of the Stranger

by William Le Queux

Stephen Layard, the Home Secretary--theEarl's request that the Criminal Investigation Department should hounddown the woman I adored?

  My duty was to go at once to Pont Street and deliver the Earl's note,but my loyalty to my love demanded that I should find some excuse forwithholding it.

  I stood on the club steps in Northumberland Avenue watching the arrivalsand departures from the _Hotel Victoria_ opposite, hesitating inindecision. If I did not call upon Sir Stephen, then some suspicionmight be aroused, therefore I resolved to see him and during theinterview nullify by some means the urgency of the Earl's request.

  The Cabinet Minister, a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with keen eyes andvery pronounced aquiline features, entered the library a few minutesafter I had sent in my card. He was in evening clothes, having, itappeared, just dined with several guests, but was nevertheless eager toserve such a powerful supporter of his party as the Earl of Stanchester.

  We had met before, therefore I needed no introduction, but instead ofdelivering the letter I deemed it best to explain matters in my own way.

  "I must apologise for intruding at this hour, Sir Stephen," I commenced,"but the fact is that a very curious and tragic affair has happened inthe Earl of Stanchester's park down at Sibberton, and he has sent me toask your opinion as to the best course to pursue in order to get thepolice at Scotland Yard to take up the matter."

  "What, is it a mystery or something?" inquired the well-known statesman,quickly alert.

  I described how the body of the unknown man had been discovered, butadded purposely that the inquest had not yet been held, and there thatwere several clues furnished by articles discovered in the dead man'spockets.

  "Well, the Northampton police are surely able to take up such a plain,straightforward case as that!" he remarked. "If not, they are not worthvery much, I should say."

  "But his lordship has not much faith in the intelligence of the localconstabulary," I ventured to remark with a smile.

  "Local constables are not usually remarkable for shrewdness orinventiveness," he laughed. "But surely at the headquarters of thecounty constabulary they have several very experienced and cleverofficers. With such clues there can surely be little difficulty inestablishing the man's identity."

  "Then you think it unnecessary to place the matter in the hands of theCriminal Investigation Department?" I remarked.

  "Quite--at least for the present," was his reply, which instantly lifteda great weight from my mind. "We must allow the coroner's jury to givetheir verdict, and, at any rate, give the local police an opportunity ofmaking proper inquiries before we take the matter out of their hands. Imuch regret being unable to assist the Earl of Stanchester in thematter, but at present I am really unable to order Scotland Yard to takethe matter up. If, however, the local police fail, then perhaps youwill kindly tell him that I shall be very pleased to reconsider therequest, and, if possible, grant it." This was exactly the reply Idesired. Indeed, I had put my case lamely on purpose, and had graduallyled him to this decision.

  "Of course," I said, "I will explain to his lordship the exact positionand your readiness to order expert assistance as soon as such becomesabsolutely imperative. By the way," I added, "he gave me a note toyou." And I then produced it, as though an after-thought.

  He glanced over it and laid it upon his table, repeating his readinessto render the Earl all the assistance he could when the proper timecame--the usual evasive reply of the Cabinet Minister.

  Then he shook hands with me, and I left him, reassured that I had atleast prevented the introduction of any of those clever experts incriminal investigation. The suspicions against Lolita grew darker everyhour, yet even though they were well-grounded I was determined to saveher.

  That broad-shouldered man with whom I had seen her strolling in theearly morning after the tragedy puzzled me greatly. Had I only obtainedsight of him, I should, perhaps, have learnt the truth. Yet when Ireviewed the whole of the mysterious circumstances my brain becameawhirl. They were bewildering, for the mystery had become even moreinscrutable than it at first appeared.

  That my love had some connexion with the affair, I could not for amoment disguise. Her manner, her very admissions in themselvesconvicted her. Therefore I felt that with the facts of which I wasalready in possession I had greater chance than the most expertdetective of pursuing my own inquiries to a successful issue.

  On leaving Sir Stephen Layard's about nine o'clock, I resolved toascertain what kind of house was number ninety-eight in Britten Street,Chelsea, the place where lived the Frenchwoman, Lejeune. I recollectedthe desperate words of my love on the previous night and wonderedwhether the death of the unknown man might not have altered thecircumstances. Somehow I had a distinct suspicion that it might, henceI resolved not to reveal my presence at the place until I had againconsulted Lolita.

  The darkness was complete when I alighted from the cab in the King'sRoad, Chelsea, and turned down the rather dark but respectable street ofeven two-storied, deep-basemented houses that ran down towards theEmbankment. It was one of those thoroughfares like Walpole Street andWellington Square, where that rapacious genus, the London landlady,flourishes and grows sleek upon the tea, sugar and bottled beer oflodgers. In the night the houses seemed most grimy and depressing, someof them half-covered by sickly creepers, and others putting forward anattempt at colour with their stunted geraniums in window-boxes.

  The double rap of the postman on his last round sounded time after time,by which I knew he was approaching me, therefore I retraced my stepsinto the King's Road and awaited him.

  He had, I noticed, finished his round, therefore a cheery word and aninvitation to have a drink at the flaring public-house opposite soonrendered us friendly, and without many preliminaries I explained myreason for stopping him.

  "Oh!" laughed the man, "we're often stopped by people who make inquiriesabout those who live on our walks. Number ninety-eight Britten Street--a Frenchwoman? Oh, yes. Name of Lejeune. She doesn't have manyletters, but they're mostly foreign ones."

  "What kind of people live there?" I inquired, whereupon he eyed merather strangely, I thought, and asked--

  "You're not a friend of theirs, I suppose?"

  "Not at all. I don't know them."

  "Well, I'll tell you in confidence. Mind, however, you don't let it outto a single soul--but the fact is that the house is under theobservation of the police, and has been for some time. Sergeant Bullen,the detective, is on duty up there at the end of the road," and hejerked his thumb in that direction. "He said good-night to me only aminute ago."

  "The place is being watched, then?" I gasped in surprise.

  "Yes. They've been keeping it under observation night and day for aweek or more. Bullen told me one day that they expect to make an arrestwhich will cause a great sensation."

  "For whom are they lying in wait?"

  "Oh, that I'm sure I can't tell you! The 'tecs, although I know 'emwell, don't talk very much, you know." And then, after some furtherquestions to which I received entirely unsatisfactory answers, weparted.

  CHAPTER NINE.

  TELLS SOME STRANGE TRUTHS.

  Along the dark street, quiet after the glare and bustle of the King'sRoad, I retraced my steps, when, about half-way up, I met a man dressedas a mechanic, idly smoking a pipe. He glanced quickly at me as Ipassed beneath the light of a street-lamp, and I guessed from hissearching look that he was the detective Bullen.

  Without apparently taking notice of him I went along almost to the endof the street, until I discovered that the house which Lolita hadindicated differed little from its neighbours save that it was rendereda trifle more dingy perhaps by the London smoke. And yet the largeprinted numerals on the fanlight over the door gave it a bold appearancethat the others did not seem to possess. The area was a deep one, butthe shutters of the kitchen window were tightly closed. With theexception of the light in the hall the place seemed in darkness,presenting to me a strange, mysterious appearance, kn
owing all that Idid. Why, I wondered, was that police officer lounging up and downkeeping such a vigilant surveillance upon the place? Surely it was withsome distinct motive that a plain-clothes man watched the house day andnight, and to me that motive seemed that they expected that some person,now absent, might return.

  There is often much mystery in those rows of smoke-blackened uniformhouses that form the side-streets of London's great thoroughfares, andthe presence of the police here caused me to ponder deeply.

  My first impulse had been to try and get sight of the mysteriousFrenchwoman and her associates, but to escape the observation of thatvigilant watcher was, I knew, impossible. So I passed along down to theEmbankment, where the river flowed darkly on and the lights cast