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diff --git a/5164-h/5164-h.htm b/5164-h/5164-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e4559a --- /dev/null +++ b/5164-h/5164-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20820 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" version="-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" xml:lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"/> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Beetle, by Richard Marsh</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + + h1, h2, h3 {margin:2em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + + div.tp {text-align:center;} /* title page */ + + p {text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + p.center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + p.noindent {text-indent:0em;} + p.sign2 {margin:0em 2em 0em 0em; text-align:right; text-indent:0em;} + p.spacer {margin:0.5em 0em 0.5em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + p.end {margin:1em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + + p.toc_1 {margin:1em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + p.toc_2 {margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + div.letter {padding:1em 0em 1em 3em;} + + span.font70 {font-size:70%;} + + span.sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + + span.book_sub {font-size:80%;} + span.chap_sub {font-size:80%;} + +/* images and captions */ + + div.fig {margin:auto; padding:1em 1em 1em 1em; text-align:center;} + div.caption {font-size:80%; padding:0 2em 0 2em; text-align:center;} + img {height:50%; width:auto;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Beetle, by Richard Marsh</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Beetle<br /> + A Mystery</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Richard Marsh</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 27, 2002 [eBook #5164]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 30, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEETLE ***</div> + +<div class="tp"> +<h1 title="THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY"> +THE BEETLE<br/> +<span class="font70">A MYSTERY</span> +</h1> + +BY +RICHARD MARSH +<br/><br/> +<i>WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN WILLIAMSON</i> +</div> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS. +</h2> + +<p class="toc_1"> +<a href="#b1">BOOK I.</a><br/> +The House with the Open Window +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch01">CHAPTER I. OUTSIDE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch02">CHAPTER II. INSIDE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch03">CHAPTER III. THE MAN IN THE BED</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch04">CHAPTER IV. A LONELY VIGIL</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch05">CHAPTER V. AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch06">CHAPTER VI. A SINGULAR FELONY</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch07">CHAPTER VII. THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch08">CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN IN THE STREET</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch09">CHAPTER IX. THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_1"> +<a href="#b2">BOOK II.</a><br/> +The Haunted Man +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch10">CHAPTER X. REJECTED</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch11">CHAPTER XI. A MIDNIGHT EPISODE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch12">CHAPTER XII. A MORNING VISITOR</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch13">CHAPTER XIII. THE PICTURE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch14">CHAPTER XIV. THE DUCHESS’ BALL</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch15">CHAPTER XV. MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch16">CHAPTER XVI. ATHERTON’S MAGIC VAPOUR</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch17">CHAPTER XVII. MAGIC?—OR MIRACLE?</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch18">CHAPTER XVIII. THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch19">CHAPTER XIX. THE LADY RAGES</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch20">CHAPTER XX. A HEAVY FATHER</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch21">CHAPTER XXI. THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch22">CHAPTER XXII. THE HAUNTED MAN</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_1"> +<a href="#b3">BOOK III.</a><br/> +The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch23">CHAPTER XXIII. THE WAY HE TOLD HER</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch24">CHAPTER XXIV. A WOMAN’S VIEW</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch25">CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN IN THE STREET</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch26">CHAPTER XXVI. A FATHER’S NO</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch27">CHAPTER XXVII. THE TERROR BY NIGHT</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch28">CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch29">CHAPTER XXIX. THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch30">CHAPTER XXX. THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch31">CHAPTER XXXI. THE TERROR BY DAY</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_1"> +<a href="#b4">BOOK IV.</a><br/> +In Pursuit +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch32">CHAPTER XXXII. A NEW CLIENT</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch33">CHAPTER XXXIII. WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch34">CHAPTER XXXIV. AFTER TWENTY YEARS</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch35">CHAPTER XXXV. A BRINGER OF TIDINGS</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch36">CHAPTER XXXVI. WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch37">CHAPTER XXXVII. WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE REST OF THE FIND</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch39">CHAPTER XXXIX. MISS LOUISA COLEMAN</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch40">CHAPTER XL. WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch41">CHAPTER XLI. THE CONSTABLE,—HIS CLUE,—AND THE CAB</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch42">CHAPTER XLII. THE QUARRY DOUBLES</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch43">CHAPTER XLIII. THE MURDER AT MRS ’ENDERSON’S</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch44">CHAPTER XLIV. THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch45">CHAPTER XLV. ALL THAT MRS ’ENDERSON KNEW</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch46">CHAPTER XLVI. THE SUDDEN STOPPING</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch47">CHAPTER XLVII. THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_2"> +<a href="#ch48">CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER</a> +</p> + + +<h2 id="b1"> +BOOK I.<br/> +<span class="book_sub">The House with the Open Window</span> +</h2> + + +<p class="center"> +<i>The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt</i> +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch01"> +CHAPTER I.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">OUTSIDE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +‘<span class="sc">No</span> room!—Full up!’ +</p> + +<p> +He banged the door in my face. +</p> + +<p> +That was the final blow. +</p> + +<p> +To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged even for +a job which would give me money enough to buy a little food; and to +have tramped and to have begged in vain,—that was bad. But, sick at +heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, +to have been compelled to pocket any little pride I might have left, +and solicit, as the penniless, homeless tramp which indeed I was, a +night’s lodging in the casual ward,—and to solicit it in vain!—that +was worse. Much worse. About as bad as bad could be. +</p> + +<p> +I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my face. +I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had hardly +expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable that I +could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to that abode +of all ignominy, the tramp’s ward, was to have attained a depth of +misery of which never even in nightmares I had dreamed. +</p> + +<p> +As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me out +of the shadow of the wall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t ’e let yer in?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He says it’s full.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Says it’s full, does ’e? That’s the lay at Fulham,—they always says +it’s full. They wants to keep the number down.’ +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands were in +his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was husky. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you mean that they say it’s full when it isn’t,—that they won’t +let me in although there’s room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s it,—bloke’s a-kiddin’ yer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, if there’s room, aren’t they bound to let me in?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Course they are,—and, blimey, if I was you I’d make ’em. Blimey I +would!’ +</p> + +<p> +He broke into a volley of execrations. +</p> + +<p> +‘But what am I to do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, give ’em another rouser—let ’em know as you won’t be kidded!’ +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I rang +the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled pauper, who +had previously responded to my summons, stood in the open doorway. Had +he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians himself he could not +have addressed me with greater scorn. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, here again! What’s your little game? Think I’ve nothing better +to do than to wait upon the likes of you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to be admitted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you won’t be admitted!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to see someone in authority.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ain’t yer seein’ someone in authority?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to see someone besides you,—I want to see the master.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you won’t see the master!’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre, I +thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I +continued to address him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure that the ward is full?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Full two hours ago!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But what am I to do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what you’re to do!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Which is the next nearest workhouse?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Kensington.’ +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his arm he +thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was closed. The +man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the scene. Now he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nice bloke, ain’t he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s only one of the paupers,—has he any right to act as one of the +officials?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,—a long +sight wuss! They thinks they owns the ’ouses, blimey they do. Oh it’s +a——fine world, this is!’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion of +rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking +drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to overflowing. My +companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ain’t you got no money?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a farthing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Done much of this sort of thing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the first time I’ve been to a casual ward,—and it doesn’t seem +as if I’m going to get in now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.—What are yer goin’ to +do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How far is it to Kensington?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Work’us?—about three mile;—but, if I was you, I’d try St George’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the Fulham Road. Kensington’s only a small place, they do you well +there, and it’s always full as soon as the door’s opened;—you’d ’ave +more chawnce at St George’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as little +disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he began again. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve travelled from Reading this——day, I ’ave,—tramped +every——foot!—and all the way as I come along, I’ll ’ave a shakedown +at ’Ammersmith, I says,—and now I’m as fur off from it as ever! This +is a——fine country, this is,—I wish every——soul in it was swept +into the——sea, blimey I do! But I ain’t goin’ to go no further,—I’ll +’ave a bed in ’Ammersmith or I’ll know the reason why.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How are you going to manage it,—have you got any money?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Got any money?—My crikey!—I look as though I ’ad,—I sound as though +I ’ad too! I ain’t ’ad no brads, ’cept now and then a brown, this larst +six months.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How are you going to get a bed then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’Ow am I going to?—why, like this way.’ He picked up two stones, one +in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass which was +over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it, and through +the lamp beyond. ‘That’s ’ow I’m goin’ to get a bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He +shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness, +</p> + +<p> +‘Who done that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I done it, guvnor,—and, if you like, you can see me do the other. It +might do your eyesight good.’ +</p> + +<p> +Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the stone in +his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me to +go. He was earning a night’s rest at a price which, even in my +extremity, I was not disposed to pay. +</p> + +<p> +When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the scene, and +the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of frankness, which, +in that direction, left little to be desired. I slunk away unnoticed. +But had not gone far before I had almost decided that I might as well +have thrown in my fortune with the bolder wretch, and smashed a window +too. Indeed, more than once my feet faltered, as I all but returned to +do the feat which I had left undone. +</p> + +<p> +A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly have +chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching me to the +skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than a little +distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted. It was +one in which I was a stranger. I had come to Hammersmith as a last +resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find some occupation +which would enable me to keep body and soul together in every other +part of London, and that now only Hammersmith was left. And, at +Hammersmith, even the workhouse would have none of me! +</p> + +<p> +Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had taken +the first turning to the left,—and, at the moment, had been glad to +take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which I was +entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation +behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if it +had never been properly made. Houses were few and far between. Those +which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect light, amid the general +desolation, to be cottages which were crumbling to decay. +</p> + +<p> +Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that, if I +only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham Green. +How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a creature +seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was as if I was +in a land of desolation. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose it was between eleven o’clock and midnight. I had not given +up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,—and in +Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers. Then +I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next thing I +could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted to spend the +night in the open air, without food, when the morning came I should be +broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a night’s free board and +lodging. It was really hunger which drove me to the workhouse door. +That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night preceding nothing had passed +my lips save water from the public fountains,—with the exception of a +crust of bread which a man had given me whom I had found crouching at +the root of a tree in Holland Park. For three days I had been +fasting,—practically all the time upon my feet. It seemed to me that +if I had to go hungry till the morning I should collapse—there would +be an end. Yet, in that strange and inhospitable place, where was I to +get food at that time of night, and how? +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet dragged +more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither strength nor +courage left. And within there was that frightful craving, which was as +though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings, dazed and +giddy. If only death had come upon me quickly, painlessly, how true a +friend I should have thought it! It was the agony of dying inch by inch +which was so hard to bear. +</p> + +<p> +It was some minutes before I could collect myself sufficiently to +withdraw from the support of the railings, and to start afresh. I +stumbled blindly over the uneven road. Once, like a drunken man, I +lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless state +that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed to let +things slide, accept the good the gods had sent me, and make a night of +it just there. A long night, I fancy, it would have been, stretching +from time unto eternity. +</p> + +<p> +Having regained my feet, I had gone perhaps another couple of hundred +yards along the road—Heaven knows that it seemed to me just then a +couple of miles!—when there came over me again that overpowering +giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of hunger. I +staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just there, was at the +side of the path. Without it I should have fallen in a heap. The attack +appeared to last for hours; I suppose it was only seconds; and, when I +came to myself, it was as though I had been aroused from a swoon of +sleep,—aroused, to an extremity of pain. I exclaimed aloud, +</p> + +<p> +‘For a loaf of bread what wouldn’t I do!’ +</p> + +<p> +I looked about me, in a kind of frenzy. As I did so I for the first +time became conscious that behind me was a house. It was not a large +one. It was one of those so-called villas which are springing up in +multitudes all round London, and which are let at rentals of from +twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was detached. So far as I could +see, in the imperfect light, there was not another building within +twenty or thirty yards of either side of it. It was in two storeys. +There were three windows in the upper storey. Behind each the blinds +were closely drawn. The hall door was on my right. It was approached by +a little wooden gate. +</p> + +<p> +The house itself was so close to the public road that by leaning over +the wall I could have touched either of the windows on the lower floor. +There were two of them. One of them was a bow window. The bow window +was open. The bottom centre sash was raised about six inches. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch02"> +CHAPTER II.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">INSIDE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I realised</span>, and, so to speak, mentally photographed all the little +details of the house in front of which I was standing with what almost +amounted to a gleam of preternatural perception. An instant before, the +world swam before my eyes. I saw nothing. Now I saw everything, with a +clearness which, as it were, was shocking. +</p> + +<p> +Above all, I saw the open window. I stared at it, conscious, as I did +so, of a curious catching of the breath. It was so near to me; so very +near. I had but to stretch out my hand to thrust it through the +aperture. Once inside, my hand would at least be dry. How it rained out +there! My scanty clothing was soaked; I was wet to the skin! I was +shivering. And, each second, it seemed to rain still faster. My teeth +were chattering. The damp was liquefying the very marrow in my bones. +</p> + +<p> +And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry! +</p> + +<p> +There was not a soul in sight. Not a human being anywhere near. I +listened; there was not a sound. I alone was at the mercy of the sodden +night. Of all God’s creatures the only one unsheltered from the +fountains of Heaven which He had opened. There was not one to see what +I might do; not one to care. I need fear no spy. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the house was empty; nay, probably. It was my plain duty to +knock at the door, rouse the inmates, and call attention to their +oversight,—the open window. The least they could do would be to reward +me for my pains. But, suppose the place was empty, what would be the use +of knocking? It would be to make a useless clatter. Possibly to disturb +the neighbourhood, for nothing. And, even if the people were at home, I +might go unrewarded. I had learned, in a hard school, the world’s +ingratitude. To have caused the window to be closed—the inviting +window, the tempting window, the convenient window!—and then to be no +better for it after all, but still to be penniless, hopeless, hungry, +out in the cold and the rain—better anything than that. In such a +situation, too late, I should say to myself that mine had been the +conduct of a fool. And I should say it justly too. To be sure. +</p> + +<p> +Leaning over the low wall I found that I could very easily put my hand +inside the room. How warm it was in there! I could feel the difference +of temperature in my fingertips. Very quietly I stepped right over the +wall. There was just room to stand in comfort between the window and +the wall. The ground felt to the foot as if it were cemented. Stooping +down, I peered through the opening. I could see nothing. It was black +as pitch inside. The blind was drawn right up; it seemed incredible +that anyone could be at home, and have gone to bed, leaving the blind +up, and the window open. I placed my ear to the crevice. How still it +was! Beyond doubt, the place was empty. +</p> + +<p> +I decided to push the window up another inch or two, so as to enable me +to reconnoitre. If anyone caught me in the act, then there would be an +opportunity to describe the circumstances, and to explain how I was +just on the point of giving the alarm. Only, I must go carefully. In +such damp weather it was probable that the sash would creak. +</p> + +<p> +Not a bit of it. It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it had +been oiled. This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I raised it +more than I intended. In fact, as far as it would go. Not by a sound +did it betray me. Bending over the sill I put my head and half my body +into the room. But I was no forwarder. I could see nothing. Not a +thing. For all I could tell the room might be unfurnished. Indeed, the +likelihood of such an explanation began to occur to me. I might have +chanced upon an empty house. In the darkness there was nothing to +suggest the contrary. What was I to do? +</p> + +<p> +Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be said +to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter. Who, with +a heart in his bosom, would deny it me? Hardly the most punctilious +landlord. Raising myself by means of the sill I slipped my legs into +the room. +</p> + +<p> +The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room was +not entirely unfurnished. The floor was carpeted. I have had my feet on +some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I +stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me, somehow, even then, +of the turf in Richmond Park,—it caressed my instep, and sprang +beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the +puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had ascertained that the room +was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat? Or should I push my +researches further? It would have been rapture to have thrown off my +clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to +sleep. But,—I was so hungry, so famine-goaded; what would I not have +given to have lighted on something good to eat! +</p> + +<p> +I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my hands, +lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing. When I had taken +three or four such steps, without encountering an obstacle, or, indeed, +anything at all, I began, all at once, to wish I had not seen the +house; that I had passed it by; that I had not come through the window; +that I were safely out of it again. I became, on a sudden, aware, that +something was with me in the room. There was nothing, ostensible, to +lead me to such a conviction; it may be that my faculties were +unnaturally keen; but, all at once, I knew that there was something +there. What was more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though +unseeing, I was seen; that my every movement was being watched. +</p> + +<p> +What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even guess. +It was as though something in my mental organisation had been stricken +by a sudden paralysis. It may seem childish to use such language; but I +was overwrought, played out; physically speaking, at my last counter; +and, in an instant, without the slightest warning, I was conscious of a +very curious sensation, the like of which I had never felt before, and +the like of which I pray that I never may feel again,—a sensation of +panic fear. I remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring +to move, fearing to draw my breath. I felt that the presence with me in +the room was something strange, something evil. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how long I stood there, spell-bound, but certainly for +some considerable space of time. By degrees, as nothing moved, nothing +was seen, nothing was heard, and nothing happened, I made an effort to +better play the man. I knew that, at the moment, I played the cur. And +endeavoured to ask myself of what it was I was afraid. I was shivering +at my own imaginings. What could be in the room, to have suffered me to +open the window and to enter unopposed? Whatever it was, was surely to +the full as great a coward as I was, or why permit, unchecked, my +burglarious entry. Since I had been allowed to enter, the probability +was that I should be at liberty to retreat,—and I was sensible of a +much keener desire to retreat than I had ever had to enter. +</p> + +<p> +I had to put the greatest amount of pressure upon myself before I could +summon up sufficient courage to enable me to even turn my head upon my +shoulders,—and the moment I did so I turned it back again. What +constrained me, to save my soul I could not have said,—but I was +constrained. My heart was palpitating in my bosom; I could hear it +beat. I was trembling so that I could scarcely stand. I was overwhelmed +by a fresh flood of terror. I stared in front of me with eyes in which, +had it been light, would have been seen the frenzy of unreasoning fear. +My ears were strained so that I listened with an acuteness of tension +which was painful. +</p> + +<p> +Something moved. Slightly, with so slight a sound, that it would +scarcely have been audible to other ears save mine. But I heard. I was +looking in the direction from which the movement came, and, as I +looked, I saw in front of me two specks of light. They had not been +there a moment before, that I would swear. They were there now. They +were eyes,—I told myself they were eyes. I had heard how cats’ eyes +gleam in the dark, though I had never seen them, and I said to myself +that these were cats’ eyes; that the thing in front of me was nothing +but a cat. But I knew I lied. I knew that these were eyes, and I knew +they were not cats’ eyes, but what eyes they were I did not know,—nor +dared to think. +</p> + +<p> +They moved,—towards me. The creature to which the eyes belonged was +coming closer. So intense was my desire to fly that I would much rather +have died than stood there still; yet I could not control a limb; my +limbs were as if they were not mine. The eyes came on,—noiselessly. At +first they were between two and three feet from the ground; but, on a +sudden, there was a squelching sound, as if some yielding body had been +squashed upon the floor. The eyes vanished,—to reappear, a moment +afterwards, at what I judged to be a distance of some six inches from +the floor. And they again came on. +</p> + +<p> +So it seemed that the creature, whatever it was to which the eyes +belonged, was, after all, but small. Why I did not obey the frantic +longing which I had to flee from it, I cannot tell; I only know, I +could not. I take it that the stress and privations which I had lately +undergone, and which I was, even then, still undergoing, had much to do +with my conduct at that moment, and with the part I played in all that +followed. Ordinarily I believe that I have as high a spirit as the +average man, and as solid a resolution; but when one has been dragged +through the Valley of Humiliation, and plunged, again and again, into +the Waters of Bitterness and Privation, a man can be constrained to a +course of action of which, in his happier moments, he would have deemed +himself incapable. I know this of my own knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly the eyes came on, with a strange slowness, and as they came they +moved from side to side as if their owner walked unevenly. Nothing +could have exceeded the horror with which I awaited their +approach,—except my incapacity to escape them. Not for an instant did +my glance pass from them,—I could not have shut my eyes for all the +gold the world contains!—so that as they came closer I had to look +right down to what seemed to be almost the level of my feet. And, at +last, they reached my feet. They never paused. On a sudden I felt +something on my boot, and, with a sense of shrinking, horror, nausea, +rendering me momentarily more helpless, I realised that the creature +was beginning to ascend my legs, to climb my body. Even then what it +was I could not tell,—it mounted me, apparently, with as much ease as +if I had been horizontal instead of perpendicular. It was as though it +were some gigantic spider,—a spider of the nightmares; a monstrous +conception of some dreadful vision. It pressed lightly against my +clothing with what might, for all the world, have been spider’s legs. +There was an amazing host of them,—I felt the pressure of each +separate one. They embraced me softly, stickily, as if the creature +glued and unglued them, each time it moved. +</p> + +<p> +Higher and higher! It had gained my loins. It was moving towards the +pit of my stomach. The helplessness with which I suffered its invasion +was not the least part of my agony,—it was that helplessness which we +know in dreadful dreams. I understood, quite well, that if I did but +give myself a hearty shake, the creature would fall off; but I had not +a muscle at my command. +</p> + +<p> +As the creature mounted its eyes began to play the part of two small +lamps; they positively emitted rays of light. By their rays I began to +perceive faint outlines of its body. It seemed larger than I had +supposed. Either the body itself was slightly phosphorescent, or it was +of a peculiar yellow hue. It gleamed in the darkness. What it was there +was still nothing to positively show, but the impression grew upon me +that it was some member of the spider family, some monstrous member, of +the like of which I had never heard or read. It was heavy, so heavy +indeed, that I wondered how, with so slight a pressure, it managed to +retain its hold,—that it did so by the aid of some adhesive substance +at the end of its legs I was sure,—I could feel it stick. Its weight +increased as it ascended,—and it smelt! I had been for some time aware +that it emitted an unpleasant, foetid odour; as it neared my face it +became so intense as to be unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +It was at my chest. I became more and more conscious of an +uncomfortable wobbling motion, as if each time it breathed its body +heaved. Its forelegs touched the bare skin about the base of my neck; +they stuck to it,—shall I ever forget the feeling? I have it often in +my dreams. While it hung on with those in front it seemed to draw its +other legs up after it. It crawled up my neck, with hideous slowness, a +quarter of an inch at a time, its weight compelling me to brace the +muscles of my back. It reached my chin, it touched my lips,—and I +stood still and bore it all, while it enveloped my face with its huge, +slimy, evil-smelling body, and embraced me with its myriad legs. The +horror of it made me mad. I shook myself like one stricken by the +shaking ague. I shook the creature off. It squashed upon the floor. +Shrieking like some lost spirit, turning, I dashed towards the window. +As I went, my foot, catching in some obstacle, I fell headlong to the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +Picking myself up as quickly as I could I resumed my flight,—rain or +no rain, oh to get out of that room! I already had my hand upon the +sill, in another instant I should have been over it,—then, despite my +hunger, my fatigues, let anyone have stopped me if they could!—when +someone behind me struck a light. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch03"> +CHAPTER III.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MAN IN THE BED</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> illumination which instantly followed was unexpected. It startled +me, causing a moment’s check, from which I was just recovering when a +voice said, +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep still!’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a quality in the voice which I cannot describe. Not only an +accent of command, but a something malicious, a something saturnine. It +was a little guttural, though whether it was a man speaking I could not +have positively said; but I had no doubt it was a foreigner. It was the +most disagreeable voice I had ever heard, and it had on me the most +disagreeable effect; for when it said, ‘Keep still!’ I kept still. It +was as though there was nothing else for me to do. +</p> + +<p> +‘Turn round!’ +</p> + +<p> +I turned round, mechanically, like an automaton. Such passivity was +worse than undignified, it was galling; I knew that well. I resented it +with secret rage. But in that room, in that presence, I was +invertebrate. +</p> + +<p> +When I turned I found myself confronting someone who was lying in bed. +At the head of the bed was a shelf. On the shelf was a small lamp which +gave the most brilliant light I had ever seen. It caught me full in the +eyes, having on me such a blinding effect that for some seconds I could +see nothing. Throughout the whole of that strange interview I cannot +affirm that I saw clearly; the dazzling glare caused dancing specks to +obscure my vision. Yet, after an interval of time, I did see something; +and what I did see I had rather have left unseen. +</p> + +<div class="fig"> +<a href="images/img_017.jpg"> +<img alt="" src="images/img_017_th.jpg" /> +</a> +<div class="caption"> +FOR WHEN IT SAID, ‘KEEP STILL!’ I KEPT STILL. +</div></div> + +<p> +I saw someone in front of me lying in a bed. I could not at once decide +if it was a man or a woman. Indeed at first I doubted if it was +anything human. But, afterwards, I knew it to be a man,—for this +reason, if for no other, that it was impossible such a creature could +be feminine. The bedclothes were drawn up to his shoulders; only his +head was visible. He lay on his left side, his head resting on his left +hand; motionless, eyeing me as if he sought to read my inmost soul. +And, in very truth, I believe he read it. His age I could not guess; +such a look of age I had never imagined. Had he asserted that he had +been living through the ages, I should have been forced to admit that, +at least, he looked it. And yet I felt that it was quite within the +range of possibility that he was no older than myself,—there was a +vitality in his eyes which was startling. It might have been that he +had been afflicted by some terrible disease, and it was that which had +made him so supernaturally ugly. +</p> + +<p> +There was not a hair upon his face or head, but, to make up for it, the +skin, which was a saffron yellow, was an amazing mass of wrinkles. The +cranium, and, indeed, the whole skull, was so small as to be +disagreeably suggestive of something animal. The nose, on the other +hand, was abnormally large; so extravagant were its dimensions, and so +peculiar its shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. A +characteristic of the face—and an uncomfortable one!—was that, +practically, it stopped short at the mouth. The mouth, with its blubber +lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents +and purposes, there was none. This deformity—for the absence of chin +amounted to that—it was which gave to the face the appearance of +something not human,—that, and the eyes. For so marked a feature of +the man were his eyes, that, ere long, it seemed to me that he was +nothing but eyes. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his +face,—remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the +nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow +windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for +they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could +not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled +into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the +power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spell-bound. I felt +that they could do with me as they would; and they did. Their gaze was +unfaltering, having the bird-like trick of never blinking; this man +could have glared at me for hours and never moved an eyelid. +</p> + +<p> +It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shut the window.’ I did as he bade me. ‘Pull down the blind.’ I +obeyed. ‘Turn round again.’ I was still obedient. ‘What is your name?’ +</p> + +<p> +Then I spoke,—to answer him. There was this odd thing about the words +I uttered, that they came from me, not in response to my will power, +but in response to his. It was not I who willed that I should speak; it +was he. What he willed that I should say, I said. Just that, and +nothing more. For the time I was no longer a man; my manhood was merged +in his. I was, in the extremest sense, an example of passive obedience. +</p> + +<p> +‘Robert Holt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A clerk.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You look as if you were a clerk.’ There was a flame of scorn in his +voice which scorched me even then. ‘What sort of a clerk are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am out of a situation.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You look as if you were out of a situation.’ Again the scorn. ‘Are you +the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You are a thief.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not a thief.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do clerks come through the window?’ I was still,—he putting no +constraint on me to speak. ‘Why did you come through the window?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because it was open.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So!—Do you always come through a window which is open?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why through this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I was wet—and cold—and hungry—and tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,—which, in +fact, he did. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you no home?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Money?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Friends?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what sort of a clerk are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +I did not answer him,—I did not know what it was he wished me to say. +I was the victim of bad luck, nothing else,—I swear it. Misfortune had +followed hard upon misfortune. The firm by whom I had been employed for +years suspended payment. I obtained a situation with one of their +creditors, at a lower salary. They reduced their staff, which entailed +my going. After an interval I obtained a temporary engagement; the +occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After +another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment, the +pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find +nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a +penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting +tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over +London in search of work,—work of any kind would have been welcome, so +long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul together. And I +had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance as a +casual,—how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on +the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,—had he wished he would have +made me tell him. +</p> + +<p> +It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,—it is +conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly +their own,—that I know. +</p> + +<p> +‘Undress!’ +</p> + +<p> +When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of +his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed, +letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look +came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was +meant for a smile, was a satyr’s smile, and which filled me with a +sensation of shuddering repulsion. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a white skin you have,—how white! What would I not give for a +skin as white as that,—ah yes!’ He paused, devouring me with his +glances; then continued. ‘Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak; +put it on.’ +</p> + +<p> +I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes +following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,—garments which might +have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality was +providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a peg. My +hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it on, its +ample folds falling to my feet. +</p> + +<p> +‘In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and +drink.’ +</p> + +<p> +On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a +second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like +pressed beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and +some thin, sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to +criticise; I crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he +watching me, in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when +I had eaten and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his +face that satyr’s grin. +</p> + +<p> +‘I would that I could eat and drink like that,—ah yes!—Put back what +is left.’ I put it back,—which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there +was so little to put. ‘Look me in the face.’ +</p> + +<p> +I looked him in the face,—and immediately became conscious, as I did +so, that something was going from me,—the capacity, as it were, to be +myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all +space—till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing +something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air—cutting +the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to +the ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log. +</p> + +<p> +And the light went out. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch04"> +CHAPTER IV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A LONELY VIGIL</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I knew</span> that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor, +indeed, the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that, +to the best of my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness +during the long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of +the lamp, and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling +sound, as if the man in the bed was settling himself between the +sheets. Then all was still. And throughout that interminable night I +remained, my brain awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day. +What had happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of +the external evidences of death my instinct told me,—I knew I did. +Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had +actually died,—as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I +had imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far +from certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I +continually asked myself if I could be dead,—the inquiry pressed +itself on me with awful iteration. Does the body die, and the +brain—the I, the ego—still live on? God only knows. But, then! the +agony of the thought. +</p> + +<p> +The hours passed. By slow degrees, the silence was eclipsed. Sounds of +traffic, of hurrying footsteps,—life!—were ushers of the morn. +Outside the window sparrows twittered,—a cat mewed, a dog +barked—there was the clatter of a milk can. Shafts of light stole past +the blind, increasing in intensity. It still rained, now and again it +pattered against the pane. The wind must have shifted, because, for the +first time, there came, on a sudden, the clang of a distant clock +striking the hour,—seven. Then, with the interval of a lifetime +between each chiming, eight,—nine,—ten. +</p> + +<p> +So far, in the room itself there had not been a sound. When the clock +had struck ten, as it seemed to me, years ago, there came a rustling +noise, from the direction of the bed. Feet stepped upon the +floor,—moving towards where I was lying. It was, of course, now broad +day, and I, presently, perceived that a figure, clad in some queer +coloured garment, was standing at my side, looking down at me. It +stooped, then knelt. My only covering was unceremoniously thrown from +off me, so that I lay there in my nakedness. Fingers prodded me then +and there, as if I had been some beast ready for the butcher’s stall. A +face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes. +Then, whether I was dead or living, I said to myself that this could be +nothing human,—nothing fashioned in God’s image could wear such a +shape as that. Fingers were pressed into my cheeks, they were thrust +into my mouth, they touched my staring eyes, shut my eyelids, then +opened them again, and—horror of horrors!—the blubber lips were +pressed to mine—the soul of something evil entered into me in the +guise of a kiss. +</p> + +<p> +Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said, whether +speaking to me or to himself I could not tell, +</p> + +<p> +‘Dead!—dead!—as good as dead!—and better! We’ll have him buried.’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that he +was gone. +</p> + +<p> +And he continued gone throughout the day. I had no actual knowledge of +his issuing out into the street, but he must have done so, because the +house appeared deserted. What had become of the dreadful creature of +the night before I could not guess. My first fear was that he had left +it behind him in the room with me,—it might be, as a sort of watchdog. +But, as the minutes and the hours passed, and there was still no sign +or sound of anything living, I concluded that, if the thing was there, +it was, possibly, as helpless as myself, and that during its owner’s +absence, at any rate, I had nothing to fear from its too pressing +attentions. +</p> + +<p> +That, with the exception of myself, the house held nothing human, I had +strong presumptive proof more than once in the course of the day. +Several times, both in the morning and the afternoon, people without +endeavoured to attract the attention of whoever was within. +Vehicles—probably tradesmen’s carts—drew up in front, their stopping +being followed by more or less assiduous assaults upon the knocker and +the bell. But in every case their appeals remained unheeded. Whatever +it was they wanted, they had to go unsatisfied away. Lying there, +torpid, with nothing to do but listen, I was, possibly, struck by very +little, but it did occur to me that one among the callers was more +persistent than the rest. +</p> + +<p> +The distant clock had just struck noon when I heard the gate open, and +someone approached the front door. Since nothing but silence followed, +I supposed that the occupant of the place had returned, and had chosen +to do so as silently as he had gone. Presently, however, there came +from the doorstep a slight but peculiar call, as if a rat was +squeaking. It was repeated three times, and then there was the sound of +footsteps quietly retreating, and the gate re-closing. Between one and +two the caller came again; there was a repetition of the same +signal,—that it was a signal I did not doubt; followed by the same +retreat. About three the mysterious visitant returned. The signal was +repeated, and, when there was no response, fingers tapped softly +against the panels of the front door. When there was still no answer, +footsteps stole softly round the side of the house, and there came the +signal from the rear,—and then, again, tapping of fingers against what +was, apparently, the back door. No notice being taken of these various +proceedings, the footsteps returned the way they went, and, as before, +the gate was closed. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after darkness had fallen this assiduous caller returned, to +make a fourth and more resolute attempt to call attention to his +presence. From the peculiar character of his manoeuvres it seemed that +he suspected that whoever was within had particular reasons for +ignoring him without. He went through the familiar pantomime of the +three squeaky calls both at the front door and the back,—followed by +the tapping of the fingers on the panels. This time, however, he also +tried the window panes,—I could hear, quite distinctly, the clear, yet +distinct, noise of what seemed like knuckles rapping against the +windows behind. Disappointed there, he renewed his efforts at the +front. The curiously quiet footsteps came round the house, to pause +before the window of the room in which I lay,—and then something +singular occurred. +</p> + +<p> +While I waited for the tapping, there came, instead, the sound of +someone or something, scrambling on to the window-sill,—as if some +creature, unable to reach the window from the ground, was endeavouring +to gain the vantage of the sill. Some ungainly creature, unskilled in +surmounting such an obstacle as a perpendicular brick wall. There was +the noise of what seemed to be the scratching of claws, as if it +experienced considerable difficulty in obtaining a hold on the +unyielding surface. What kind of creature it was I could not think,—I +was astonished to find that it was a creature at all. I had taken it +for granted that the persevering visitor was either a woman or a man. +If, however, as now seemed likely, it was some sort of animal, the fact +explained the squeaking sounds,—though what, except a rat, did squeak +like that was more than I could say—and the absence of any knocking or +ringing. +</p> + +<p> +Whatever it was, it had gained the summit of its desires,—the +window-sill. It panted as if its efforts at climbing had made it short +of breath. Then began the tapping. In the light of my new discovery, I +perceived, clearly enough, that the tapping was hardly that which was +likely to be the product of human fingers,—it was sharp and definite, +rather resembling the striking of the point of a nail against the +glass. It was not loud, but in time—it continued with much +persistency—it became plainly vicious. It was accompanied by what I +can only describe as the most extraordinary noises. There were squeaks, +growing angrier and shriller as the minutes passed; what seemed like +gaspings for breath; and a peculiar buzzing sound like, yet unlike, the +purring of a cat. +</p> + +<p> +The creature’s resentment at its want of success in attracting +attention was unmistakable. The tapping became like the clattering of +hailstones; it kept up a continuous noise with its cries and pantings; +there was the sound as of some large body being rubbed against the +glass, as if it were extending itself against the window, and +endeavouring, by force of pressure, to gain an entrance through the +pane. So violent did its contortions become that I momentarily +anticipated the yielding of the glass, and the excited assailant coming +crashing through. Considerably to my relief the window proved more +impregnable than seemed at one time likely. The stolid resistance +proved, in the end, to be too much either for its endurance or its +patience. Just as I was looking for some fresh manifestation of fury, +it seemed rather to tumble than to spring off the sill; then came, once +more, the same sound of quietly retreating footsteps; and what, under +the circumstances, seemed odder still, the same closing of the gate. +</p> + +<p> +During the two or three hours which immediately ensued nothing happened +at all out of the way,—and then took place the most surprising +incident of all. The clock had struck ten some time before. Since +before the striking of the hour nothing and no one had passed along +what was evidently the little frequented road in front of that uncanny +house. On a sudden two sounds broke the stillness without,—of someone +running, and of cries. Judging from his hurrying steps someone seemed +to be flying for his life,—to the accompaniment of curious cries. It +was only when the runner reached the front of the house that, in the +cries, I recognised the squeaks of the persistent caller. I imagined +that he had returned, as before, alone, to renew his attacks upon the +window,—until it was made plain, as it quickly was, that, with him, +was some sort of a companion. Immediately there arose, from without, +the noise of battle. Two creatures, whose cries were, to me, of so +unusual a character, that I found it impossible to even guess at their +identity, seemed to be waging war to the knife upon the doorstep. After +a minute or two of furious contention, victory seemed to rest with one +of the combatants, for the other fled, squeaking as with pain. While I +listened, with strained attention, for the next episode in this queer +drama, expecting that now would come another assault upon the window, +to my unbounded surprise I heard a key thrust in the keyhole, the lock +turned, and the front door thrown open with a furious bang. It was +closed as loudly as it was opened. Then the door of the room in which I +was, was dashed open, with the same display of excitement, and of +clamour, footsteps came hurrying in, the door was slammed to with a +force which shook the house to its foundations, there was a rustling as +of bed-clothes, the brilliant illumination of the night before, and a +voice, which I had only too good reason to remember said, +</p> + +<p> +‘Stand up.’ +</p> + +<p> +I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards the +bed. +</p> + +<p> +There, between the sheets, with his head resting on his hand, in the +attitude in which I had seen him last, was the being I had made +acquaintance with under circumstances which I was never likely to +forget,—the same, yet not the same. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch05"> +CHAPTER V.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">That</span> the man in the bed was the one whom, to my cost, I had suffered +myself to stumble on the night before, there could, of course, not be +the faintest doubt. And yet, directly I saw him, I recognised that some +astonishing alteration had taken place in his appearance. To begin +with, he seemed younger,—the decrepitude of age had given place to +something very like the fire of youth. His features had undergone some +subtle change. His nose, for instance, was not by any means so +grotesque; its beak-like quality was less conspicuous. The most part of +his wrinkles had disappeared, as if by magic. And, though his skin was +still as yellow as saffron, his contours had rounded,—he had even come +into possession of a modest allowance of chin. But the most astounding +novelty was that about the face there was something which was +essentially feminine; so feminine, indeed, that I wondered if I could +by any possibility have blundered, and mistaken a woman for a man; some +ghoulish example of her sex, who had so yielded to her depraved +instincts as to have become nothing but a ghastly reminiscence of +womanhood. +</p> + +<p> +The effect of the changes which had come about in his appearance—for, +after all, I told myself that it was impossible that I could have been +such a simpleton as to have been mistaken on such a question as +gender—was heightened by the self-evident fact that, very recently, he +had been engaged in some pitched battle; some hand to hand, and, +probably, discreditable encounter, from which he had borne away +uncomfortable proofs of his opponent’s prowess. His antagonist could +hardly have been a chivalrous fighter, for his countenance was marked +by a dozen different scratches which seemed to suggest that the weapons +used had been someone’s finger-nails. It was, perhaps, because the heat +of the battle was still in his veins that he was in such a state of +excitement. He seemed to be almost overwhelmed by the strength of his +own feelings. His eyes seemed literally to flame with fire. The muscles +of his face were working as if they were wholly beyond his own control. +When he spoke his accent was markedly foreign; the words rushed from +his lips in an inarticulate torrent; he kept repeating the same thing +over and over again in a fashion which was not a little suggestive of +insanity. +</p> + +<p> +‘So you’re not dead!—you’re not dead:—you’re alive!—you’re alive! +Well,—how does it feel to be dead? I ask you!—Is it not good to be +dead? To keep dead is better,—it is the best of all! To have made an +end of all things, to cease to strive and to cease to weep, to cease to +want and to cease to have, to cease to annoy and to cease to long, to +no more care,—no!—not for anything, to put from you the curse of +life,—forever!—is that not the best? Oh yes!—I tell you!—do I not +know? But for you such knowledge is not yet. For you there is the +return to life, the coming out of death,—you shall live on!—for +me!—Live on!’ +</p> + +<p> +He made a movement with his hand, and, directly he did so, it happened +as on the previous evening, that a metamorphosis took place in the very +abysses of my being. I woke from my torpor, as he put it, I came out of +death, and was alive again. I was far, yet, from being my own man; I +realised that he exercised on me a degree of mesmeric force which I had +never dreamed that one creature could exercise on another; but, at +least, I was no longer in doubt as to whether I was or was not dead. I +knew I was alive. +</p> + +<p> +He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which occupied +my brain,—and, for all I know, he was. +</p> + +<p> +‘Robert Holt, you are a thief.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not.’ +</p> + +<p> +My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,—it was so long since it had +sounded in my ears. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are a thief! Only thieves come through windows,—did you not come +through the window?’ I was still,—what would my contradiction have +availed me? ‘But it is well that you came through the window,—well you +are a thief,—well for me! for me! It is you that I am wanting,—at the +happy moment you have dropped yourself into my hands,—in the nick of +time. For you are my slave,—at my beck and call,—my familiar spirit, +to do with as I will,—you know this,—eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I felt +that if I could only get away from him; only release myself from the +bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove myself from the +horrible glamour of his near neighbourhood; only get one or two square +meals and have an opportunity of recovering from the enervating stress +of mental and bodily fatigue;—I felt that then I might be something +like his match, and that, a second time, he would endeavour in vain to +bring me within the compass of his magic. But, as it was, I was +conscious that I was helpless, and the consciousness was agony. He +persisted in reiterating his former falsehood. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say you are a thief!—a thief, Robert Holt, a thief! You came +through a window for your own pleasure, now you will go through a +window for mine,—not this window, but another.’ Where the jest lay I +did not perceive; but it tickled him, for a grating sound came from his +throat which was meant for laughter. ‘This time it is as a thief that +you will go,—oh yes, be sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused, as it seemed, to transfix me with his gaze. His unblinking +eyes never for an instant quitted my face. With what a frightful +fascination they constrained me,—and how I loathed them! +</p> + +<p> +When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his +speech,—something bitter, cruel, unrelenting. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know Paul Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +He pronounced the name as if he hated it,—and yet as if he loved to +have it on his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +‘What Paul Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is only one Paul Lessingham! <i>The</i> Paul Lessingham,—the +<i>great</i> Paul Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +He shrieked, rather than said this, with an outburst of rage so +frenzied that I thought, for the moment, that he was going to spring on +me and rend me. I shook all over. I do not doubt that, as I replied, my +voice was sufficiently tremulous. +</p> + +<p> +‘All the world knows Paul Lessingham,—the politician,—the statesman.’ +</p> + +<p> +As he glared at me his eyes dilated. I still stood in expectation of a +physical assault. But, for the present, he contented himself with words. +</p> + +<p> +‘To-night you are going through his window like a thief!’ +</p> + +<p> +I had no inkling of his meaning,—and, apparently, judging from his +next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not understand?—no!—it is simple!—what could be simpler? I +say that to-night—to-night!—you are going through his window like a +thief. You came through my window,—why not through the window of Paul +Lessingham, the politician—the statesman.’ +</p> + +<p> +He repeated my words as if in mockery. I am—I make it my boast!—of +that great multitude which regards Paul Lessingham as the greatest +living force in practical politics; and which looks to him, with +confidence, to carry through that great work of constitutional and +social reform which he has set himself to do. I daresay that my tone, +in speaking of him, savoured of laudation,—which, plainly, the man in +the bed resented. What he meant by his wild words about my going +through Paul Lessingham’s window like a thief, I still had not the +faintest notion. They sounded like the ravings of a madman. +</p> + +<p> +As I continued silent, and he yet stared, there came into his tone +another note,—a note of tenderness,—a note of which I had not deemed +him capable. +</p> + +<p> +‘He is good to look at, Paul Lessingham,—is he not good to look at?’ +</p> + +<p> +I was aware that, physically, Mr Lessingham was a fine specimen of +manhood, but I was not prepared for the assertion of the fact in such a +quarter,—nor for the manner in which the temporary master of my fate +continued to harp and enlarge upon the theme. +</p> + +<p> +‘He is straight,—straight as the mast of a ship,—he is tall,—his +skin is white; he is strong—do I not know that he is strong—how +strong!—oh yes! Is there a better thing than to be his wife? his +well-beloved? the light of his eyes? Is there for a woman a happier +chance? Oh no, not one! His wife!—Paul Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +As, with soft cadences, he gave vent to these unlooked-for sentiments, +the fashion of his countenance was changed. A look of longing came into +his face—of savage, frantic longing—which, unalluring though it was, +for the moment transfigured him. But the mood was transient. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be his wife,—oh yes!—the wife of his scorn! the despised and +rejected!’ +</p> + +<p> +The return to the venom of his former bitterness was rapid,—I could +not but feel that this was the natural man. Though why a creature such +as he was should go out of his way to apostrophise, in such a manner, a +publicist of Mr Lessingham’s eminence, surpassed my comprehension. Yet +he stuck to his subject like a leech,—as if it had been one in which +he had an engrossing personal interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘He is a devil,—hard as the granite rock,—cold as the snows of +Ararat. In him there is none of life’s warm blood,—he is accursed! He +is false,—ay, false as the fables of those who lie for love of +lies,—he is all treachery. Her whom he has taken to his bosom he would +put away from him as if she had never been,—he would steal from her +like a thief in the night,—he would forget she ever was! But the +avenger follows after, lurking in the shadows, hiding among the rocks, +waiting, watching, till his time shall come. And it shall come!—the +day of the avenger!—ay, the day!’ +</p> + +<p> +Raising himself to a sitting posture, he threw his arms above his head, +and shrieked with a demoniac fury. Presently he became a trifle calmer. +Reverting to his recumbent position, resting his head upon his hand, he +eyed me steadily; then asked me a question which struck me as being, +under the circumstances, more than a little singular. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know his house,—the house of the great Paul Lessingham,—the +politician,—the statesman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You lie!—you do!’ +</p> + +<p> +The words came from him with a sort of snarl,—as if he would have +lashed me across the face with them. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not. Men in my position are not acquainted with the residences of +men in his. I may, at some time, have seen his address in print; but, +if so, I have forgotten it.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me intently, for some moments, as if to learn if I spoke +the truth; and apparently, at last, was satisfied that I did. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not know it?—Well!—I will show it you,—I will show the house +of the great Paul Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +What he meant I did not know; but I was soon to learn,—an astounding +revelation it proved to be. There was about his manner something hardly +human; something which, for want of a better phrase, I would call +vulpine. In his tone there was a mixture of mockery and bitterness, as +if he wished his words to have the effect of corrosive sublimate, and +to sear me as he uttered them. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen with all your ears. Give me your whole attention. Hearken to my +bidding, so that you may do as I bid you. Not that I fear your +obedience,—oh no!’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused,—as if to enable me to fully realise the picture of my +helplessness conjured up by his jibes. +</p> + +<p> +‘You came through my window, like a thief. You will go through my +window, like a fool. You will go to the house of the great Paul +Lessingham. You say you do not know it? Well, I will show it you. I +will be your guide. Unseen, in the darkness and the night, I will stalk +beside you, and will lead you to where I would have you go.—You will +go just as you are, with bare feet, and head uncovered, and with but a +single garment to hide your nakedness. You will be cold, your feet will +be cut and bleeding,—but what better does a thief deserve? If any see +you, at the least they will take you for a madman; there will be +trouble. But have no fear; bear a bold heart. None shall see you while +I stalk at your side. I will cover you with the cloak of +invisibility,—so that you may come in safety to the house of the great +Paul Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused again. What he said, wild and wanton though it was, was +beginning to fill me with a sense of the most extreme discomfort. His +sentences, in some strange, indescribable way, seemed, as they came +from his lips, to warp my limbs; to enwrap themselves about me; to +confine me, tighter and tighter, within, as it were, swaddling clothes; +to make me more and more helpless. I was already conscious that +whatever mad freak he chose to set me on, I should have no option but +to carry it through. +</p> + +<p> +‘When you come to the house, you will stand, and look, and seek for a +window convenient for entry. It may be that you will find one open, as +you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,—that is your affair, not +mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house.’ +</p> + +<p> +The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which he +again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,—endowed me with +the power to show that there still was in me something of a man; though +every second the strands of my manhood, as it seemed, were slipping +faster through the fingers which were strained to clutch them. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will not.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,—until +they seemed all pupil. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will.—Do you hear?—I say you will.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not a thief, I am an honest man,—why should I do this thing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I bid you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have mercy!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On whom—on you, or on Paul Lessingham?—Who, at any time, has shown +mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?’ +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, and then again went on,—reiterating his former incredible +suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and, +being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the +room he calls his study.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.’ +</p> + +<p> +The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing in +great drops upon my brow. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will show it you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall you go with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay,—I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You will +not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.’ +</p> + +<p> +His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to nothing +less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I was in no +condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued. +</p> + +<p> +‘When you have gained the study, you will go to a certain drawer, which +is in a certain bureau, in a corner of the room—I see it now; when you +are there you shall see it too—and you will open it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Should it be locked?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You still will open it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But how shall I open it if it is locked?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again that +that is your affair, not mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +I made no attempt to answer him. Even supposing that he forced me, by +the wicked, and unconscionable exercise of what, I presumed, were the +hypnotic powers with which nature had to such a dangerous degree +endowed him, to carry the adventure to a certain stage, since he could +hardly, at an instant’s notice, endow me with the knack of picking +locks, should the drawer he alluded to be locked—which might +Providence permit!—nothing serious might issue from it after all. He +read my thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will open it,—though it be doubly and trebly locked, I say that +you will open it.—In it you will find—’ he hesitated, as if to +reflect—‘some letters; it may be two or three,—I know not just how +many,—they are bound about by a silken ribbon. You will take them out +of the drawer, and, having taken them, you will make the best of your +way out of the house, and bear them back to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious +proceedings,—for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham himself, +what then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham?—You need have no fear if you encounter him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I need have no fear!—If he finds me, in his own house, at dead of +night, committing burglary!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You need have no fear of him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On your account, or on my own?—At least he will have me haled to +gaol.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How, then, shall I escape his righteous vengeance? He is not the man +to suffer a midnight robber to escape him scatheless,—shall I have to +kill him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You will not touch him with a finger,—nor will he touch you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By what spell shall I prevent him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By the spell of two words.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What words are they?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Should Paul Lessingham chance to come upon you, and find you in his +house, a thief, and should seek to stay you from whatever it is you may +be at, you will not flinch nor flee from him, but you will stand still, +and you will say—’ +</p> + +<p> +Something in the crescendo accents of his voice, something weird and +ominous, caused my heart to press against my ribs, so that when he +stopped, in my eagerness I cried out, +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘THE BEETLE!’ +</p> + +<p> +As the words came from him in a kind of screech, the lamp went out, and +the place was all in darkness, and I knew, so that the knowledge filled +me with a sense of loathing, that with me, in the room, was the evil +presence of the night before. Two bright specks gleamed in front of me; +something flopped from off the bed on to the ground; the thing was +coming towards me across the floor. It came slowly on, and on, and on. +I stood still, speechless in the sickness of my horror. Until, on my +bare feet, it touched me with slimy feelers, and my terror lest it +should creep up my naked body lent me voice, and I fell shrieking like +a soul in agony. +</p> + +<p> +It may be that my shrieking drove it from me. At least, it went. I knew +it went. And all was still. Until, on a sudden, the lamp flamed out +again, and there, lying, as before, in bed, glaring at me with his +baleful eyes, was the being whom, in my folly, or in my +wisdom,—whichever it was!—I was beginning to credit with the +possession of unhallowed, unlawful powers. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will say that to him; those two words; they only; no more. And you +will see what you will see. But Paul Lessingham is a man of resolution. +Should he still persist in interference, or seek to hinder you, you +will say those two words again. You need do no more. Twice will +suffice, I promise you.—Now go.—Draw up the blind; open the window; +climb through it. Hasten to do what I have bidden you. I wait here for +your return,—and all the way I shall be with you.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch06"> +CHAPTER VI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A SINGULAR FELONY</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I went</span> to the window; I drew up the blind, unlatching the sash, I threw +it open; and clad, or, rather, unclad as I was, I clambered through it +into the open air. I was not only incapable of resistance, I was +incapable of distinctly formulating the desire to offer resistance. +Some compelling influence moved me hither and hither, with completest +disregard of whether I would or would not. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, when I found myself without, I was conscious of a sense of +exultation at having escaped from the miasmic atmosphere of that room +of unholy memories. And a faint hope began to dawn within my bosom +that, as I increased the distance between myself and it, I might shake +off something of the nightmare helplessness which numbed and tortured +me. I lingered for a moment by the window; then stepped over the short +dividing wall into the street; and then again I lingered. +</p> + +<p> +My condition was one of dual personality,—while, physically, I was +bound, mentally, to a considerable extent, I was free. But this measure +of freedom on my mental side made my plight no better. For, among other +things, I realised what a ridiculous figure I must be cutting, +barefooted and bareheaded, abroad, at such an hour of the night, in +such a boisterous breeze,—for I quickly discovered that the wind +amounted to something like a gale. Apart from all other considerations, +the notion of parading the streets in such a condition filled me with +profound disgust. And I do believe that if my tyrannical oppressor had +only permitted me to attire myself in my own garments, I should have +started with a comparatively light heart on the felonious mission on +which he apparently was sending me. I believe, too, that the +consciousness of the incongruity of my attire increased my sense of +helplessness, and that, had I been dressed as Englishmen are wont to +be, who take their walks abroad, he would not have found in me, on that +occasion, the facile instrument which, in fact, he did. +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment, in which the gravelled pathway first made itself +known to my naked feet, and the cutting wind to my naked flesh, when I +think it possible that, had I gritted my teeth, and strained my every +nerve, I might have shaken myself free from the bonds which shackled +me, and bade defiance to the ancient sinner who, for all I knew, was +peeping at me through the window. But so depressed was I by the +knowledge of the ridiculous appearance I presented that, before I could +take advantage of it the moment passed,—not to return again that night. +</p> + +<p> +I did catch, as it were, at its fringe, as it was flying past me, +making a hurried movement to one side,—the first I had made, of my own +initiative, for hours. But it was too late. My tormentor,—as if, +though unseen, he saw—tightened his grip, I was whirled round, and +sped hastily onwards in a direction in which I certainly had no desire +of travelling. +</p> + +<p> +All the way I never met a soul. I have since wondered whether in that +respect my experience was not a normal one; whether it might not have +happened to any. If so, there are streets in London, long lines of +streets, which, at a certain period of the night, in a certain sort of +weather—probably the weather had something to do with it—are clean +deserted; in which there is neither foot-passenger nor vehicle,—not +even a policeman. The greater part of the route along which I was +driven—I know no juster word—was one with which I had some sort of +acquaintance. It led, at first, through what, I take it, was some part +of Walham Green; then along the Lillie Road, through Brompton, across +the Fulham Road, through the network of streets leading to Sloane +Street, across Sloane Street into Lowndes Square. Who goes that way +goes some distance, and goes through some important thoroughfares; yet +not a creature did I see, nor, I imagine, was there a creature who saw +me. As I crossed Sloane Street, I fancied that I heard the distant +rumbling of a vehicle along the Knightsbridge Road, but that was the +only sound I heard. +</p> + +<p> +It is painful even to recollect the plight in which I was when I was +stopped,—for stopped I was, as shortly and as sharply, as the beast of +burden, with a bridle in its mouth, whose driver puts a period to his +career. I was wet,—intermittent gusts of rain were borne on the +scurrying wind; in spite of the pace at which I had been brought, I was +chilled to the bone; and—worst of all!—my mud-stained feet, all cut +and bleeding, were so painful—for, unfortunately, I was still +susceptible enough to pain—that it was agony to have them come into +contact with the cold and the slime of the hard, unyielding pavement. +</p> + +<p> +I had been stopped on the opposite side of the square,—that nearest to +the hospital; in front of a house which struck me as being somewhat +smaller than the rest. It was a house with a portico; about the pillars +of this portico was trelliswork, and on the trelliswork was trained +some climbing plant. As I stood, shivering, wondering what would happen +next, some strange impulse mastered me, and, immediately, to my own +unbounded amazement, I found myself scrambling up the trellis towards +the verandah above. I am no gymnast, either by nature or by education; +I doubt whether, previously, I had ever attempted to climb anything +more difficult than a step ladder. The result was, that, though the +impulse might be given me, the skill could not, and I had only ascended +a yard or so when, losing my footing, I came slithering down upon my +back. Bruised and shaken though I was, I was not allowed to inquire +into my injuries. In a moment I was on my feet again, and again I was +impelled to climb,—only, however, again to come to grief. This time +the demon, or whatever it was, that had entered into me, seeming to +appreciate the impossibility of getting me to the top of that verandah, +directed me to try another way. I mounted the steps leading to the +front door, got on to the low parapet which was at one side, thence on +to the sill of the adjacent window,—had I slipped then I should have +fallen a sheer descent of at least twenty feet to the bottom of the +deep area down below. But the sill was broad, and—if it is proper to +use such language in connection with a transaction of the sort in which +I was engaged—fortune favoured me. I did not fall. In my clenched fist +I had a stone. With this I struck the pane of glass, as with a hammer. +Through the hole which resulted, I could just insert my hand, and reach +the latch within. In another minute the sash was raised, and I was in +the house,—I had committed burglary. +</p> + +<p> +As I look back and reflect upon the audacity of the whole proceeding, +even now I tremble. Hapless slave of another’s will although in very +truth I was, I cannot repeat too often that I realised to the full just +what it was that I was being compelled to do—a fact which was very far +from rendering my situation less distressful!—and every detail of my +involuntary actions was projected upon my brain in a series of +pictures, whose clear-cut outlines, so long as memory endures, will +never fade. Certainly no professional burglar, nor, indeed, any +creature in his senses, would have ventured to emulate my surprising +rashness. The process of smashing the pane of glass—it was plate +glass—was anything but a noiseless one. There was, first, the blow +itself, then the shivering of the glass, then the clattering of +fragments into the area beneath. One would have thought that the whole +thing would have made din enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers. +But, here, again the weather was on my side. About that time the wind +was howling wildly,—it came shrieking across the square. It is +possible that the tumult which it made deadened all other sounds. +</p> + +<p> +Anyhow, as I stood within the room which I had violated, listening for +signs of someone being on the alert, I could hear nothing. Within the +house there seemed to be the silence of the grave. I drew down the +window, and made for the door. +</p> + +<p> +It proved by no means easy to find. The windows were obscured by heavy +curtains, so that the room inside was dark as pitch. It appeared to be +unusually full of furniture,—an appearance due, perhaps, to my being a +stranger in the midst of such Cimmerian blackness. I had to feel my +way, very gingerly indeed, among the various impedimenta. As it was I +seemed to come into contact with most of the obstacles there were to +come into contact with, stumbling more than once over footstools, and +over what seemed to be dwarf chairs. It was a miracle that my movements +still continued to be unheard,—but I believe that the explanation was, +that the house was well built; that the servants were the only persons +in it at the time; that their bedrooms were on the top floor; that they +were fast asleep; and that they were little likely to be disturbed by +anything that might occur in the room which I had entered. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching the door at last, I opened it,—listening for any promise of +being interrupted—and—to adapt a hackneyed phrase—directed by the +power which shaped my end, I went across the hall and up the stairs. I +passed up the first landing, and, on the second, moved to a door upon +the right. I turned the handle, it yielded, the door opened, I entered, +closing it behind me. I went to the wall just inside the door, found a +handle, jerked it, and switched on the electric light,—doing, I make +no doubt, all these things, from a spectator’s point of view, so +naturally, that a judge and jury would have been with difficulty +persuaded that they were not the product of my own volition. +</p> + +<p> +In the brilliant glow of the electric light I took a leisurely survey +of the contents of the room. It was, as the man in the bed had said it +would be, a study,—a fine, spacious apartment, evidently intended +rather for work than for show. There were three separate +writing-tables, one very large and two smaller ones, all covered with +an orderly array of manuscripts and papers. A typewriter stood at the +side of one. On the floor, under and about them, were piles of books, +portfolios, and official-looking documents. Every available foot of +wall space on three sides of the room was lined with shelves, full as +they could hold with books. On the fourth side, facing the door, was a +large lock-up oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old +bureau. So soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an +arrow from a bow,—indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that +I was propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow. +</p> + +<p> +It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers and +the doors was a flap to let down. It was to this flap my attention was +directed. I put out my hand to open it; it was locked at the top. I +pulled at it with both hands; it refused to budge. +</p> + +<p> +So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of a +thief to open. I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that nothing, +and no one, could make me such a thing. Yet now that I found myself +confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that pressure, irresistible +pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by any and every means, access +to its interior. I had no option but to yield. I looked about me in +search of some convenient tool with which to ply the felon’s trade. I +found it close beside me. Leaning against the wall, within a yard of +where I stood, were examples of various kinds of weapons,—among them, +spear-heads. Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I +forced the point between the flap and the bureau. Using the leverage +thus obtained, I attempted to prise it open. The flap held fast; the +spear-head snapped in two. I tried another, with the same result; a +third, to fail again. There were no more. The most convenient thing +remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet. This I took, +brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon the refractory flap. +The hatchet went through,—before I had done with it, it was open with +a vengeance. +</p> + +<p> +But I was destined on the occasion of my first—and, I trust, +last—experience of the burglar’s calling, to carry the part completely +through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to find that at +the back were several small drawers, on one of which my observation was +brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite impossible to +disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and, once more, I had +to search for something which would serve as a rough-and-ready +substitute for the missing key. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,—I could hardly +for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question was such a +little one that to have done so would have been to shiver it to +splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather case, were a pair of +revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes stand in actual peril of +their lives. It is possible that Mr Lessingham, conscious of +continually threatened danger, carried them about with him as a +necessary protection. They were serviceable weapons, large, and +somewhat weighty,—of the type with which, I believe, upon occasion the +police are armed. Not only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the +case itself there was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to +charge them all again. +</p> + +<p> +I was handling the weapons, wondering—if, in my condition, the word +was applicable—what use I could make of them to enable me to gain +admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from the street +without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a whirring within +my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to explain to me to what +service to apply the revolvers, and I, perforce, strained every nerve +to grasp the meaning of my invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels +drew rapidly nearer, and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling +by, stopped,—in front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a +convulsion of frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied +moment, I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard, +from the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,—it was as +if I had been rooted to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was +turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If I +could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but gone at +once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings and goings were +not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear raging within, +outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood, turning the revolvers over +and over, asking myself what it could be that I was intended to do with +them. All at once it came to me in an illuminating flash,—I was to +fire at the lock of the drawer, and blow it open. +</p> + +<p> +A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The servants +had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly sleep through the +discharge of a revolver in a room below them,—not to speak of the +person who had just entered the premises, and whose footsteps were +already audible as he came up the stairs. I struggled to make a dumb +protest against the insensate folly which was hurrying me to infallible +destruction, without success. For me there was only obedience. With a +revolver in either hand I marched towards the bureau as unconcernedly +as if I would not have given my life to have escaped the dénouement +which I needed but a slight modicum of common sense to be aware was +close at hand. I placed the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the +keyhole of the drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed +me, and pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the +drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about which +a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me, immediately +following the report of the pistol, I glanced over my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the handle +in his hand. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch07"> +CHAPTER VII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">He</span> was in evening dress. He carried a small portfolio in his left hand. +If the discovery of my presence startled him, as it could scarcely have +failed to do, he allowed no sign of surprise to escape him. Paul +Lessingham’s impenetrability is proverbial. Whether on platforms +addressing excited crowds, or in the midst of heated discussion in the +House of Commons, all the world knows that his coolness remains +unruffled. It is generally understood that he owes his success in the +political arena in no slight measure to the adroitness which is born of +his invulnerable presence of mind. He gave me a taste of its quality +then. Standing in the attitude which has been familiarised to us by +caricaturists, his feet apart, his broad shoulders well set back, his +handsome head a little advanced, his keen blue eyes having in them +something suggestive of a bird of prey considering just when, where, +and how to pounce, he regarded me for some seconds in perfect +silence,—whether outwardly I flinched I cannot say; inwardly I know I +did. When he spoke, it was without moving from where he stood, and in +the calm, airy tones in which he might have addressed an acquaintance +who had just dropped in. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your +company?’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his +question in another form. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you here?’ +</p> + +<p> +As I still stood speechless, motionless, meeting his glance without a +twitching of an eyebrow, nor a tremor of the hand, I imagine that he +began to consider me with an even closer intentness than before. And +that the—to say the least of it—peculiarity of my appearance, caused +him to suspect that he was face to face with an adventure of a peculiar +kind. Whether he took me for a lunatic I cannot certainly say; but, +from his manner, I think it possible he did. He began to move towards +me from across the room, addressing me with the utmost suavity and +courtesy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are holding +in your hand.’ +</p> + +<p> +As he came on, something entered into me, and forced itself from +between my lips, so that I said, in a low, hissing voice, which I vow +was never mine, +</p> + +<p> +‘THE BEETLE!’ +</p> + +<p> +Whether it was, or was not, owing, in some degree, to a trick of my +imagination, I cannot determine, but, as the words were spoken, it +seemed to me that the lights went low, so that the place was all in +darkness, and I again was filled with the nauseous consciousness of the +presence of something evil in the room. But if, in that matter, my +abnormally strained imagination played me a trick, there could be no +doubt whatever as to the effect which the words had on Mr Lessingham. +When the mist of the blackness—real or supposititious—had passed from +before my eyes, I found that he had retreated to the extremest limits +of the room, and was crouching, his back against the bookshelves, +clutching at them, in the attitude of a man who has received a +staggering blow, from which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of +recovering. A most extraordinary change had taken place in the +expression of his face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror +seemed struggling for the mastery. I was filled with a most +discomforting qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of +me, and realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god +of my political idolatry. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who are you?—In God’s name, who are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would +hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who are you?—Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of God, I +bid you say!’ +</p> + +<p> +As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of +excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he +continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to stand +up straight. So far from exhibiting the impassivity for which he was +renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the limbs in his body +seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a man afflicted with the +shivering ague,—his very fingers were twitching aimlessly, as they +were stretched out on either side of him, as if seeking for support +from the shelves against which he leaned. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here? what +concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should come and play +these childish tricks with me? why? why?’ +</p> + +<p> +The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity. When he saw that +I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what sounded +to me like a stream of inchoate abuse. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,—it’s worse than +nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness! For that alone I could have you +punished, and I will!—and try to play the fool? Do you think I am a +boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may try to conjure up? +If so, you’re wrong, as whoever sent you might have had sense enough to +let you know. If you tell me who you are, and who sent you here, and +what it is you want, I will be merciful; if not, the police shall be +sent for, and the law shall take its course,—to the bitter end!—I +warn you.—Do you hear? You fool! tell me who you are?’ +</p> + +<p> +The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of childish +fury. He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that his passion +was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it. He drew himself +straight up. With a pocket-handkerchief which he took from an inner +pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips. Then, clutching it tightly in +his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness which, under any other +circumstances, I should have found unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the rôle +you have set yourself to play?’ +</p> + +<p> +His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his character. +</p> + +<p> +‘If it be so, I presume that I, at least have liberty to speak. When I +find a gentleman, even one gifted with your eloquence of silence, +playing the part of burglar, I think you will grant that a few words on +my part cannot justly be considered to be out of place.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again he paused. I could not but feel that he was employing the vehicle +of somewhat cumbrous sarcasm to gain time, and to give himself the +opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible, his pristine +courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me, the mysterious +utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest foundations, was made +plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole business with a sort of +cynical levity. +</p> + +<p> +‘To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or +through any portion of it, in that costume,—or, rather, in that want +of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street,—would it +not?—even in the Rue de Rabagas,—was it not the Rue de Rabagas?’ +</p> + +<p> +He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was wholly +lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what immediately +followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in the moon,—though +I should probably have found great difficulty in convincing him of my +ignorance. +</p> + +<p> +‘I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas,—that, of +course;—is it not of course? The little house with the blue-grey +venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is there still the +piano? with the tinny treble,—indeed, the whole atmosphere, was it not +tinny?—You agree with me?—I have not forgotten. I am not even afraid +to remember,—you perceive it?’ +</p> + +<p> +A new idea seemed to strike him,—born, perhaps, of my continued +silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘You look English,—is it possible that you are not English? What are +you then—French? We shall see!’ +</p> + +<p> +He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with +which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I +flatter myself that,—as the present narrative should show—I have not +made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to improve my, +originally, modest education, I regret that I have never had so much as +a ghost of a chance to acquire an even rudimentary knowledge of any +language except my own. Recognising, I suppose, from my looks, that he +was addressing me in a tongue to which I was a stranger, after a time +he stopped, added something with a smile, and then began to talk to me +in a lingo to which, in a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for +this time I had not the faintest notion what it was,—it might have +been gibberish for all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he +had succeeded no better than before, he returned to English. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not know French?—nor the <i>patois</i> of the Rue de Rabagas? Very +good,—then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow of +silence, or are you dumb,—except upon occasion? Your face is +English,—what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore, that +English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So listen, sir, +to what I have to say,—do me the favour to listen carefully.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear, modulated +tones there was a ring of something like a threat,—a something which +went very far beyond his words. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten,—that +is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still more. Go +back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I have +forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour to induce +me to remember,—be very sure upon that point, say that nothing will be +gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of delusion, of disease. +I was in a condition, mentally and bodily, in which pranks could have +been played upon me by any trickster. Such pranks were played. I know +that now quite well. I do not pretend to be proficient in the <i>modus +operandi</i> of the hankey-pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all +the same,—one susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your +friend, and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of +his old method,—nor of his new one either.—You hear me, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +I remained motionless and silent,—an attitude which, plainly, he +resented. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke to me +just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort to measures +which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.—You hear me, +sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,—to his increased +annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +‘So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the +bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it excellently +well, but that you do understand what is said to you is clear.—Come to +business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the packet of letters which +you have stolen from my desk.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince +himself as much as me,—and about his last words there was almost a +flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to +refuse?—in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will +quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me into +supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know better.—Once +more, are you going to give me that revolver and those letters?’ +</p> + +<p> +Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater,—and his +agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was not +destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of which the +world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed himself to be +as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and esteemed, as he easily +could have done. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think I stand in awe of you?—you!—of such a thing as you! Do +as I tell you, or I myself will make you,—and, at the same time, teach +you a much-needed lesson.’ +</p> + +<p> +He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance. He +might not have been aware of it, but the repetitions of the threats +were, in themselves, confessions of weakness. He came a step or two +forward,—then, stopping short, began to tremble. The perspiration +broke out upon his brow; he made spasmodic little dabs at it with his +crumpled-up handkerchief. His eyes wandered hither and thither, as if +searching for something which they feared to see yet were constrained +to seek. He began to talk to himself, out loud, in odd disconnected +sentences,—apparently ignoring me entirely. +</p> + +<p> +‘What was that?—It was nothing.—It was my imagination.—My nerves are +out of order.—I have been working too hard.—I am not well.—<i>What’s +that?</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +This last inquiry came from him in a half-stifled shriek,—as the door +opened to admit the head and body of an elderly man in a state of +considerable undress. He had the tousled appearance of one who had been +unexpectedly roused out of slumber, and unwillingly dragged from bed. +Mr Lessingham stared at him as if he had been a ghost, while he stared +back at Mr Lessingham as if he found a difficulty in crediting the +evidence of his own eyes. It was he who broke the +silence,—stutteringly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure I beg your pardon, sir, but one of the maids thought that +she heard the sound of a shot, and we came down to see if there was +anything the matter,—I had no idea, sir, that you were here.’ His eyes +travelled from Mr Lessingham towards me,—suddenly increasing, when +they saw me, to about twice their previous size. ‘God save us!—who is +that?’ +</p> + +<p> +The man’s self-evident cowardice possibly impressed Mr Lessingham with +the conviction that he himself was not cutting the most dignified of +figures. At any rate, he made a notable effort to, once more, assume a +bearing of greater determination. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite right, Matthews, quite right. I am obliged by your +watchfulness. At present you may leave the room—I propose to deal with +this fellow myself,—only remain with the other men upon the landing, +so that, if I call, you may come to my assistance.’ +</p> + +<p> +Matthews did as he was told, he left the room,—with, I fancy, more +rapidity than he had entered it. Mr Lessingham returned to me, his +manner distinctly more determined, as if he found his resolution +reinforced by the near neighbourhood of his retainers. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, my man, you see how the case stands, at a word from me you will +be overpowered and doomed to undergo a long period of imprisonment. Yet +I am still willing to listen to the dictates of mercy. Put down that +revolver, give me those letters,—you will not find me disposed to +treat you hardly.’ +</p> + +<p> +For all the attention I paid him, I might have been a graven image. He +misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand, the cause of my silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, I see that you suppose my intentions to be harsher than they +really are,—do not let us have a scandal, and a scene,—be +sensible!—give me those letters!’ +</p> + +<p> +Again he moved in my direction; again, after he had taken a step or +two, to stumble and stop, and look about him with frightened eyes; +again to begin to mumble to himself aloud. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a conjurer’s trick!—Of course!—Nothing more.—What else could +it be?—I’m not to be fooled.—I’m older than I was. I’ve been +overdoing it,—that’s all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he broke into cries. +</p> + +<p> +‘Matthews! Matthews!—Help! help!’ +</p> + +<p> +Matthews entered the room, followed by three other men, younger than +himself. Evidently all had slipped into the first articles of clothing +they could lay their hands upon, and each carried a stick, or some +similar rudimentary weapon. +</p> + +<p> +Their master spurred them on. +</p> + +<p> +‘Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!—knock him down!—take +the letters from him!—don’t be afraid!—I’m not afraid!’ +</p> + +<p> +In proof of it, he rushed at me, as it seemed half blindly. As he did +so I was constrained to shout out, in tones which I should not have +recognised as mine, +</p> + +<p> +‘THE BEETLE!’ +</p> + +<p> +And that moment the room was all in darkness, and there were screams as +of someone in an agony of terror or of pain. I felt that something had +come into the room, I knew not whence nor how,—something of horror. +And the next action of which I was conscious was, that under cover of +the darkness, I was flying from the room, propelled by I knew not what. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch08"> +CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MAN IN THE STREET</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Whether</span> anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as I +came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the +landing, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effort +was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is that +not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by +anyone. +</p> + +<p> +In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flying +through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how +nor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a +door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across this +room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen +articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes +under them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet +again,—until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by +curtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,—but +I was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the +fastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, so +far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open I +stepped through it on to the verandah without,—to find that I was on +the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below. +</p> + +<p> +I tried the road down which I had tried up,—proceeding with a +breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was, +probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the +descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it +had been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, +with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,—then +down I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when I +had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance—scraping, +as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process—I +lost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling, +rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracle +I was not seriously injured,—but in that sense, certainly, that night +the miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was up +again,—mud and all. +</p> + +<p> +Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the +shoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built +man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to +the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me,—and I +looked back at him. +</p> + +<p> +‘After the ball,—eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some +quality as of sunshine in his handsome face. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing that I said nothing he went on,—with a curious, half mocking +smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle’s pillar?—Is it +simple burglary, or simpler murder?—Tell me the glad tidings that +you’ve killed St Paul, and I’ll let you go.’ +</p> + +<p> +Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,—there was some excuse for +thinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike +were strange. +</p> + +<p> +‘Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not +shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?—Away +with you!’ +</p> + +<p> +He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,—and I was +away. I neither stayed nor paused. +</p> + +<p> +I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I +did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to +know just what it was,—I should, too, like to have seen it done. +</p> + +<p> +In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the +house with the open window,—the packet of letters—which were like to +have cost me so dear!—gripped tightly in my hand. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch09"> +CHAPTER IX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I pulled</span> up sharply,—as if a brake had been suddenly, and even +mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill. In front of the +window I stood shivering. A shower had recently commenced,—the falling +rain was being blown before the breeze. I was in a terrible sweat,—yet +tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and +bleeding,—as piteous an object as you would care to see. Every limb in +my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I +was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was +upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless, +helpless, hapless heap. +</p> + +<p> +But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me. +</p> + +<p> +As I stood there, like some broken and beaten hack, waiting for the +word of command, it came. It was as if some strong magnetic current had +been switched on to me through the window to draw me into the room. +Over the low wall I went, over the sill,—once more I stood in that +chamber of my humiliation and my shame. And once again I was conscious +of that awful sense of the presence of an evil thing. How much of it +was fact, and how much of it was the product of imagination I cannot +say; but, looking back, it seems to me that it was as if I had been +taken out of the corporeal body to be plunged into the inner chambers +of all nameless sin. There was the sound of something flopping from off +the bed on to the ground, and I knew that the thing was coming at me +across the floor. My stomach quaked, my heart melted within me,—the +very anguish of my terror gave me strength to scream,—and scream! +Sometimes, even now, I seem to hear those screams of mine ringing +through the night, and I bury my face in the pillow, and it is as +though I was passing through the very Valley of the Shadow. +</p> + +<p> +The thing went back,—I could hear it slipping and sliding across the +floor. There was silence. And, presently, the lamp was lit, and the +room was all in brightness. There, on the bed, in the familiar attitude +between the sheets, his head resting on his hand, his eyes blazing like +living coals, was the dreadful cause of all my agonies. He looked at me +with his unpitying, unblinking glance. +</p> + +<p> +‘So!—Through the window again!—like a thief!—Is it always through +that door that you come into a house?’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused,—as if to give me time to digest his gibe. +</p> + +<p> +‘You saw Paul Lessingham,—well?—the great Paul Lessingham!—Was he, +then, so great?’ +</p> + +<p> +His rasping voice, with its queer foreign twang, reminded me, in some +uncomfortable way, of a rusty saw,—the things he said, and the manner +in which he said them, were alike intended to add to my discomfort. It +was solely because the feat was barely possible that he only partially +succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +‘Like a thief you went into his house,—did I not tell you that you +would? Like a thief he found you,—were you not ashamed? Since, like a +thief he found you, how comes it that you have escaped,—by what +robber’s artifice have you saved yourself from gaol?’ +</p> + +<p> +His manner changed,—so that, all at once, he seemed to snarl at me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he great?—well!—is he great,—Paul Lessingham? You are small, but +he is smaller,—your great Paul Lessingham!—Was there ever a man so +less than nothing?’ +</p> + +<p> +With the recollection fresh upon me of Mr Lessingham as I had so lately +seen him I could not but feel that there might be a modicum of truth in +what, with such an intensity of bitterness, the speaker suggested. The +picture which, in my mental gallery, I had hung in the place of honour, +seemed, to say the least, to have become a trifle smudged. +</p> + +<p> +As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the slightest +difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my mind. +</p> + +<p> +‘That is so,—you and he, you are a pair,—the great Paul Lessingham is +as great a thief as you,—and greater!—for, at least, than you he has +more courage.’ +</p> + +<p> +For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden fierceness, +</p> + +<p> +‘Give me what you have stolen!’ +</p> + +<p> +I moved towards the bed—most unwillingly—and held out to him the +packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer. +Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set himself +to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared me straight +in the face. +</p> + +<p> +‘What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close at my +side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would you not take +me for a wife?’ +</p> + +<p> +There was something about the manner in which this was said which was +so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could possibly +be mistaken in the creature’s sex. I would have given much to have been +able to strike him across the face,—or, better, to have taken him by +the neck, and thrown him through the window, and rolled him in the mud. +</p> + +<p> +He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘So!—that is what you have stolen!—That is what you have taken from +the drawer in the bureau—the drawer which was locked—and which you +used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give it to +me,—thief!’ +</p> + +<p> +He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as he +did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet over and +over, glaring at it as he did so,—it was strange what a relief it was +to have his glance removed from off my face. +</p> + +<p> +‘You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you +could see it,—did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should +be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing,—yes, +worth knowing!—since you found it worth your while to hide it up so +closely.’ +</p> + +<p> +As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink +ribbon,—a fact on which he presently began to comment. +</p> + +<p> +‘With what a pretty string you have encircled it,—and how neatly it is +tied! Surely only a woman’s hand could tie a knot like that,—who would +have guessed yours were such agile fingers?—So! An endorsement on the +cover! What’s this?—let’s see what’s written!—“The letters of my dear +love, Marjorie Lindon.”’ +</p> + +<p> +As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer +sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which were +enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I suppose that +rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His jaw dropped open +so that his yellow fangs gleamed through his parted lips,—he held his +breath so long that each moment I looked to see him fall down in a fit; +the veins stood out all over his face and head like seams of blood. I +know not how long he continued speechless. When his breath returned, it +was with chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his +words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him near to +strangulation. +</p> + +<p> +‘The letters of his dear love!—of his dear love!—his!—Paul +Lessingham’s!—So!—It is as I guessed,—as I knew,—as I +saw!—Marjorie Lindon!—Sweet Marjorie!—His dear love!—Paul +Lessingham’s dear love!—She with the lily face, the corn-hued +hair!—What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to write +Paul Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open. It contained, perhaps, eight +or nine letters,—some mere notes, some long epistles. But, short or +long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over and over +again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading them. They +were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of whiteness, with +untrimmed edges. On each sheet a crest and an address were stamped in +gold, and all the sheets were of the same shape and size. I told myself +that if anywhere, at any time, I saw writing paper like that again, I +should not fail to know it. The caligraphy was, like the paper, +unusual, bold, decided, and, I should have guessed, produced by a J pen. +</p> + +<p> +All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more +resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,—like some savage +beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of +reading,—for the season,—he let his passion have full vent. +</p> + +<p> +‘So!—That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to write +Paul Lessingham!—Paul Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which the +speaker dwelt upon the name,—it was demoniac. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is enough!—it is the end!—it is his doom! He shall be ground +between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish, and +all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream of the +bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for her—for +Marjorie Lindon!—for his dear love!—it shall come to pass that she +shall wish that she was never born,—nor he!—and the gods of the +shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her suffering!—It shall be! +it shall be! It is I that say it,—even I!’ +</p> + +<p> +In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had actually +forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside, he saw me, and +remembered,—and was prompt to take advantage of an opportunity to +wreak his rage upon a tangible object. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is you!—you thief!—you still live!—to make a mock of one of the +children of the gods!’ +</p> + +<p> +He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my throat +with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the floor; I felt his +breath mingle with mine * * * and then God, in His mercy, sent oblivion. +</p> + + +<h2 id="b2"> +BOOK II.<br/> +<span class="book_sub">The Haunted Man</span> +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire</i> +</p> + +<h3 id="ch10"> +CHAPTER X.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">REJECTED</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet +corner,—which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the hall. +Before I had got into my stride she checked me,—touching my sleeve +with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Stop, please!’ +</p> + +<p> +But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty Cazell. +I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I was wound up +to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk till he does +talk,—to the girl he wants to marry. It is my impression that I gave +her recollections of the Restoration poets. She seemed surprised,—not +having previously detected in me the poetic strain, and insisted on +cutting in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then I did let fly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sorry that I love you!—why? Why should you be sorry that you have +become the one thing needful in any man’s eyes,—even in mine? The one +thing precious,—the one thing to be altogether esteemed! Is it so +common for a woman to come across a man who would be willing to lay +down his life for her that she should be sorry when she finds him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I have +had my—my doubts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Doubts!—I thank you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Like me!—Bah!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot help liking you,—though it may be “bah.”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want you to like me,—I want you to love me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Precisely,—that is your mistake.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My mistake!—in wanting you to love me!—when I love you—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you shouldn’t,—though I can’t help thinking that you are +mistaken even there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mistaken!—in supposing that I love you!—when I assert and reassert +it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me to do to prove +I love you,—take you in my arms and crush you to my bosom, and make a +spectacle of you before every creature in the place?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d rather you wouldn’t, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind not talking +quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what you’re shouting +about.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You shouldn’t torture me.’ +</p> + +<p> +She opened and shut her fan,—as she looked down at it I am disposed to +suspect that she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of course, you +are my friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not your friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me, you are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I say I’m not,—if I can’t be something else, I’ll be no friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +She went on,—calmly ignoring me,—playing with her fan. +</p> + +<p> +‘As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in which +a friend is welcome.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter? Who’s been worrying you,—your father?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—he has not,—as yet; but he may be soon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s in the wind?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +She dropped her voice,—and her eyes. For the moment I did not catch +her meaning. +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your friend, Mr Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is +entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What!—Not when I am going to be his wife?’ +</p> + +<p> +That took me aback. I had had my suspicions that Paul Lessingham was +more with Marjorie than he had any right to be, but I had never +supposed that she could see anything desirable in a stick of a man like +that. Not to speak of a hundred and one other +considerations,—Lessingham on one side of the House, and her father on +the other; and old Lindon girding at him anywhere and everywhere—with +his high-dried Tory notions of his family importance,—to say nothing +of his fortune. +</p> + +<p> +I don’t know if I looked what I felt,—if I did, I looked uncommonly +blank. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me such +a communication.’ +</p> + +<p> +She chose to disregard my irony. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a +difficult position I am in.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I offer you my hearty congratulations.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I thank you for them, Mr Atherton, in the spirit in which they are +offered, because from you I know they mean so much.’ +</p> + +<p> +I bit my lip,—for the life of me I could not tell how she wished me to +read her words. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one of +the public?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not. It is made to you, in confidence, as my friend,—as my +greatest friend; because a husband is something more than friend.’ My +pulses tingled. ‘You will be on my side?’ +</p> + +<p> +She had paused,—and I stayed silent. +</p> + +<p> +‘On your side,—or Mr Lessingham’s?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘His side is my side, and my side is his side;—you will be on our +side?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not sure that I altogether follow you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are the first I have told. When papa hears it is possible that +there will be trouble,—as you know. He thinks so much of you and of +your opinion; when that trouble comes I want you to be on our side,—on +my side.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should I?—what does it matter? You are stronger than your +father,—it is just possible that Lessingham is stronger than you; +together, from your father’s point of view, you will be invincible.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are my friend,—are you not my friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you;—I did not think you so unkind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you,—are you kind? I make you an avowal of my love, and, +straightway, you ask me to act as chorus to the love of another.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How could I tell you loved me,—as you say! I had no notion. You have +known me all your life, yet you have not breathed a word of it till +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If I had spoken before?’ +</p> + +<p> +I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,—almost +amounting to a shrug. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not know that it would have made any difference.—I do not +pretend that it would. But I do know this, I believe that you yourself +have only discovered the state of your own mind within the last +half-hour.’ +</p> + +<p> +If she had slapped my face she could not have startled me more. I had +no notion if her words were uttered at random, but they came so near +the truth they held me breathless. It was a fact that only during the +last few minutes had I really realised how things were with me,—only +since the end of that first waltz that the flame had burst out in my +soul which was now consuming me. She had read me by what seemed so like +a flash of inspiration that I hardly knew what to say to her. I tried +to be stinging. +</p> + +<p> +‘You flatter me, Miss Lindon, you flatter me at every point. Had you +only discovered to me the state of your mind a little sooner I should +not have discovered to you the state of mine at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We will consider it <i>terra incognita</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Since you wish it.’ Her provoking calmness stung me,—and the +suspicion that she was laughing at me in her sleeve. I gave her a +glimpse of the cloven hoof. ‘But, at the same time, since you assert +that you have so long been innocent, I beg that you will continue so no +more. At least, your innocence shall be without excuse. For I wish you +to understand that I love you, that I have loved you, that I shall love +you. Any understanding you may have with Mr Lessingham will not make +the slightest difference. I warn you, Miss Lindon, that, until death, +you will have to write me down your lover.’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me, with wide open eyes,—as if I almost frightened her. +To be frank, that was what I wished to do. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is not like you at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We seem to be making each other’s acquaintance for the first time.’ +</p> + +<p> +She continued to gaze at me with her big eyes,—which, to be candid, I +found it difficult to meet. On a sudden her face was lighted by a +smile,—which I resented. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not after all these years,—not after all these years! I know you, and +though I daresay you’re not flawless, I fancy you’ll be found to ring +pretty true.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her manner was almost sisterly,—elder-sisterly. I could have shaken +her. Hartridge coming to claim his dance gave me an opportunity to +escape with such remnants of dignity as I could gather about me. He +dawdled up,—his thumbs, as usual, in his waistcoat pockets. +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.’ +</p> + +<p> +She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got up, and +left her, without a word. +</p> + +<p> +As I crossed the hall I chanced on Percy Woodville. He was in his +familiar state of fluster, and was gaping about him as if he had +mislaid the Koh-i-noor, and wondered where in thunder it had got to. +When he saw it was I he caught me by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No!—Have you?—By Jove!—Where? I’ve been looking for her all over +the place, except in the cellars and the attics,—and I was just going +to commence on them. This is our dance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case, she’s shunted you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No!—Impossible!’ His mouth went like an O,—and his eyes ditto, his +eyeglass clattering down on to his shirt front. ‘I expect the mistake’s +mine. Fact is, I’ve made a mess of my programme. It’s either the last +dance, or this dance, or the next, that I’ve booked with her, but I’m +hanged if I know which. Just take a squint at it, there’s a good chap, +and tell me which one you think it is.’ +</p> + +<p> +I ‘took a squint’—since he held the thing within an inch of my nose I +could hardly help it; one ‘squint,’ and that was enough—and more. Some +men’s ball programmes are studies in impressionism, Percy’s seemed to +me to be a study in madness. It was covered with hieroglyphics, but +what they meant, or what they did there anyhow, it was absurd to +suppose that I could tell,—I never put them there!—Proverbially, the +man’s a champion hasher. +</p> + +<p> +‘I regret, my dear Percy, that I am not an expert in cuneiform writing. +If you have any doubt as to which dance is yours, you’d better ask the +lady,—she’ll feel flattered.’ +</p> + +<p> +Leaving him to do his own addling I went to find my coat,—I panted to +get into the open air; as for dancing I felt that I loathed it. Just as +I neared the cloak-room someone stopped me. It was Dora Grayling. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you forgotten that this is our dance?’ +</p> + +<p> +I had forgotten,—clean. And I was not obliged by her remembering. +Though as I looked at her sweet, grey eyes, and at the soft contours of +her gentle face, I felt that I deserved well kicking. She is an +angel,—one of the best!—but I was in no mood for angels. Not for a +very great deal would I have gone through that dance just then, nor, +with Dora Grayling, of all women in the world, would I have sat it +out.—So I was a brute and blundered. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must forgive me, Miss Grayling, but—I am not feeling very well, +and—I don’t think I’m up to any more dancing.—Good-night.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch11"> +CHAPTER XI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A MIDNIGHT EPISODE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> weather out of doors was in tune with my frame of mind,—I was in a +deuce of a temper, and it was a deuce of a night. A keen north-east +wind, warranted to take the skin right off you, was playing +catch-who-catch-can with intermittent gusts of blinding rain. Since it +was not fit for a dog to walk, none of your cabs for me,—nothing would +serve but pedestrian exercise. +</p> + +<p> +So I had it. +</p> + +<p> +I went down Park Lane,—and the wind and rain went with me,—also, +thoughts of Dora Grayling. What a bounder I had been,—and was! If +there is anything in worse taste than to book a lady for a dance, and +then to leave her in the lurch, I should like to know what that thing +is,—when found it ought to be made a note of. If any man of my +acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a felony in the first +degree, I should cut him. I wished someone would try to cut me,—I +should like to see him at it. +</p> + +<p> +It was all Marjorie’s fault,—everything! past, present, and to come! I +had known that girl when she was in long frocks—I had, at that period +of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them; when she was +advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she returned to long. And +all that time,—well, I was nearly persuaded that the whole of the time +I had loved her. If I had not mentioned it, it was because I had +suffered my affection, ‘like the worm, to lie hidden in the bud,’—or +whatever it is the fellow says. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the faintest +notion that she would ever seriously consider such a man as Lessingham +I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why, he was old enough to +be her father,—at least he was a good many years older than I was. And +a wretched Radical! It is true that on certain points I, also, am what +some people would call a Radical,—but not a Radical of the kind he is. +Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I have admired traits in his character, +until I learnt this thing of him. I am even prepared to admit that he +is a man of ability,—in his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But +to think of him in connection with such a girl as Marjorie +Lindon,—preposterous! Why, the man’s as dry as a stick,—drier! And +cold as an iceberg. Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a +lover!—how I could fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the +benches in a roar. Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable +of even playing such a part; as for being the thing,—absurd! If you +were to sink a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his +feet, you would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties +and of politics. +</p> + +<p> +What my Marjorie—if everyone had his own, she is mine, and, in that +sense, she always will be mine—what my Marjorie could see in such a +dry-as-dust out of which even to construct the rudiments of a husband +was beyond my fathoming. +</p> + +<p> +Suchlike agreeable reflections were fit company for the wind and the +wet, so they bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the +corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to +the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out +into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him +and his house,—on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind +of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained +me. +</p> + +<p> +‘May your following,’ I cried,—it is an absolute fact that the words +were shouted!—‘both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you +as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political +aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches! +May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to +catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject +you!—Jehoram!—what’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only +lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden, +a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window +was crashed open from within,—the one over the front door, and someone +came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a +case of intended suicide I made sure,—and I began to be in hopes that +I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of +the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down +the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever +witnessed,—I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came +tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet. +</p> + +<p> +I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain +quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end +of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that +singularly agile stranger,—if he was not made of indiarubber he ought +to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up,—it was all I +could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket. +</p> + +<p> +Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen,—at least, in the streets +of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a +position to say,—all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which +he strove to wrap round him. Save for that,—and mud!—he was bare as +the palm of my hand. Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I +have seen strange expressions on men’s faces, but never before one such +as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a +life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the +devil. It was not the look of a madman,—far from it; it was something +worse. +</p> + +<p> +It was the expression on the man’s countenance, as much as anything +else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him,—some +nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was +supernatural. I spoke to him again;—not a word issued from those rigid +lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes,—eyes which I was +tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever +should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let him go. I +know not why,—I did. +</p> + +<p> +He had remained as motionless as a statue while I held him,—indeed, +for any evidence of life he gave, he might have been a statue; but, +when my grasp was loosed, how he ran! He had turned the corner and was +out of sight before I could say, ‘How do!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was only then,—when he had gone, and I had realised the +extra-double-express-flash-of-lightning rate at which he had taken his +departure—that it occurred to me of what an extremely sensible act I +had been guilty in letting him go at all. Here was an individual who +had been committing burglary, or something very like it, in the house +of a budding cabinet minister, and who had tumbled plump into my arms, +so that all I had to do was to call a policeman and get him +quodded,—and all that I had done was something of a totally different +kind. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re a nice type of an ideal citizen!’ I was addressing myself. ‘A +first chop specimen of a low-down idiot,—to connive at the escape of +the robber who’s been robbing Paul. Since you’ve let the villain go, +the least you can do is to leave a card on the Apostle, and inquire how +he’s feeling.’ +</p> + +<p> +I went to Lessingham’s front door and knocked,—I knocked once, I +knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and the third time, I give you my +word, I made the echoes ring,—but still there was not a soul that +answered. +</p> + +<p> +‘If this is a case of a seven or seventy-fold murder, and the gentleman +in the cloak has made a fair clearance of every living creature the +house contains, perhaps it’s just as well I’ve chanced upon the +scene,—still I do think that one of the corpses might get up to answer +the door. If it is possible to make noise enough to waken the dead, you +bet I’m on to it.’ +</p> + +<p> +And I was,—I punished that knocker! until I warrant the pounding I +gave it was audible on the other side of Green Park. And, at last, I +woke the dead,—or, rather, I roused Matthews to a consciousness that +something was going on. Opening the door about six inches, through the +interstice he protruded his ancient nose. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing, my dear sir, nothing and no one. It must have been your +vigorous imagination which induced you to suppose that there was,—you +let it run away with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he knew me,—and opened the door about two feet. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir,—I thought it might +have been the police.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law,—at last?’ +</p> + +<p> +A most discreet servant, Matthews,—just the fellow for a budding +cabinet minister. He glanced over his shoulder,—I had suspected the +presence of a colleague at his back, now I was assured. He put his hand +up to his mouth,—and I thought how exceedingly discreet he looked, in +his trousers and his stockinged feet, and with his hair all rumpled, +and his braces dangling behind, and his nightshirt creased. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The deuce you have!—From whom?’ +</p> + +<p> +Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an air +which was flatteringly confidential. +</p> + +<p> +‘From Mr Lessingham, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Possibly Mr Lessingham is not aware that a robbery has been committed +on his premises, that the burglar has just come out of his drawing-room +window with a hop, skip, and a jump, bounded out of the window like a +tennis-ball, flashed round the corner like a rocket.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which way +discretion lay, whether fore or aft. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, sir. I believe that Mr Lessingham is aware of something of +the kind.’ He seemed to come to a sudden resolution, dropping his voice +to a whisper. ‘The fact is, sir, that I fancy Mr Lessingham’s a good +deal upset.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Upset?’ I stared at him. There was something in his manner I did not +understand. ‘What do you mean by upset? Has the scoundrel attempted +violence?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s there?’ +</p> + +<p> +The voice was Lessingham’s, calling to Matthews from the staircase, +though, for an instant, I hardly recognised it, it was so curiously +petulant. Pushing past Matthews, I stepped into the hall. A young man, +I suppose a footman, in the same undress as Matthews, was holding a +candle,—it seemed the only light about the place. By its glimmer I +perceived Lessingham standing half-way up the stairs. He was in full +war paint,—as he is not the sort of man who dresses for the House, I +took it that he had been mixing pleasure with business. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s I, Lessingham,—Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has jumped +out of your drawing-room window?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice had +lost its petulance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Has he escaped?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Clean,—he’s a mile away by now.’ +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a note +of relief. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wondered if he had. Poor fellow! more sinned against than sinning! +Take my advice, Atherton, and keep out of politics. They bring you into +contact with all the lunatics at large. Good night! I am much obliged +to you for knocking us up. Matthews, shut the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +Tolerably cool, on my honour,—a man who brings news big with the fate +of Rome does not expect to receive such treatment. He expects to be +listened to with deference, and to hear all that there is to hear, and +not to be sent to the right-about before he has had a chance of really +opening his lips. Before I knew it—almost!—the door was shut, and I +was on the doorstep. Confound the Apostle’s impudence! next time he +might have his house burnt down—and him in it!—before I took the +trouble to touch his dirty knocker. +</p> + +<p> +What did he mean by his allusion to lunatics in politics,—did he think +to fool me? There was more in the business than met the eye,—and a +good deal more than he wished to meet mine,—hence his insolence. The +creature. +</p> + +<p> +What Marjorie Lindon could see in such an opusculum surpassed my +comprehension; especially when there was a man of my sort walking +about, who adored the very ground she trod upon. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch12"> +CHAPTER XII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A MORNING VISITOR</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">All</span> through the night, waking and sleeping, and in my dreams, I +wondered what Marjorie could see in him! In those same dreams I +satisfied myself that she could, and did, see nothing in him, but +everything in me,—oh the comfort! The misfortune was that when I awoke +I knew it was the other way round,—so that it was a sad awakening. An +awakening to thoughts of murder. +</p> + +<p> +So, swallowing a mouthful and a peg, I went into my laboratory to plan +murder—legalised murder—on the biggest scale it ever has been +planned. I was on the track of a weapon which would make war not only +an affair of a single campaign, but of a single half-hour. It would not +want an army to work it either. Once let an individual, or two or three +at most, in possession of my weapon-that-was-to-be, get within a mile +or so of even the largest body of disciplined troops that ever yet a +nation put into the field, and—pouf!—in about the time it takes you +to say that they would be all dead men. If weapons of precision, which +may be relied upon to slay, are preservers of the peace—and the man is +a fool who says that they are not!—then I was within reach of the +finest preserver of the peace imagination ever yet conceived. +</p> + +<p> +What a sublime thought to think that in the hollow of your own hand +lies the life and death of nations,—and it was almost in mine. +</p> + +<p> +I had in front of me some of the finest destructive agents you could +wish to light upon—carbon-monoxide, chlorine-trioxide, mercuric-oxide, +conine, potassamide, potassium-carboxide, cyanogen—when Edwards +entered. I was wearing a mask of my own invention, a thing that covered +ears and head and everything, something like a diver’s helmet—I was +dealing with gases a sniff of which meant death; only a few days +before, unmasked, I had been doing some fool’s trick with a couple of +acids—sulphuric and cyanide of potassium—when, somehow, my hand +slipped, and, before I knew it, minute portions of them combined. By +the mercy of Providence I fell backwards instead of forwards;—sequel, +about an hour afterwards Edwards found me on the floor, and it took the +remainder of that day, and most of the doctors in town, to bring me +back to life again. +</p> + +<p> +Edwards announced his presence by touching me on the shoulder,—when I +am wearing that mask it isn’t always easy to make me hear. +</p> + +<p> +‘Someone wishes to see you, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then tell someone that I don’t wish to see him.’ +</p> + +<p> +Well-trained servant, Edwards,—he walked off with the message as +decorously as you please. And then I thought there was an end,—but +there wasn’t. +</p> + +<p> +I was regulating the valve of a cylinder in which I was fusing some +oxides when, once more, someone touched me on the shoulder. Without +turning I took it for granted it was Edwards back again. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have only to give a tiny twist to this tap, my good fellow, and you +will be in the land where the bogies bloom. Why will you come where +you’re not wanted?’ Then I looked round. ‘Who the devil are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +For it was not Edwards at all, but quite a different class of character. +</p> + +<p> +I found myself confronting an individual who might almost have sat for +one of the bogies I had just alluded to. His costume was reminiscent of +the ‘Algerians’ whom one finds all over France, and who are the most +persistent, insolent and amusing of pedlars. I remember one who used to +haunt the <i>répétitions</i> at the Alcazar at Tours,—but there! This +individual was like the originals, yet unlike,—he was less gaudy, and +a good deal dingier, than his Gallic prototypes are apt to be. Then he +wore a burnoose,—the yellow, grimy-looking article of the Arab of the +Soudan, not the spick and span Arab of the boulevard. Chief difference +of all, his face was clean shaven,—and whoever saw an Algerian of +Paris whose chiefest glory was not his well-trimmed moustache and beard? +</p> + +<p> +I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these gentlemen +call French,—but he didn’t. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are Mr Atherton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you are Mr—Who?—how did you come here? Where’s my servant?’ +</p> + +<p> +The fellow held up his hand. As he did so, as if in accordance with a +pre-arranged signal, Edwards came into the room looking excessively +startled. I turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is this the person who wished to see me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Didn’t I tell you to say that I didn’t wish to see him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why didn’t you do as I told you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then how comes he here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Really, sir,’—Edwards put his hand up to his head as if he was half +asleep—‘I don’t quite know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean by you don’t know? Why didn’t you stop him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think, sir, that I must have had a touch of sudden faintness, +because I tried to put out my hand to stop him, and—I couldn’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re an idiot.—Go!’ And he went. I turned to the stranger. ‘Pray, +sir, are you a magician?’ +</p> + +<p> +He replied to my question with another. +</p> + +<p> +‘You, Mr Atherton,—are you also a magician?’ +</p> + +<p> +He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle +forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe.’ He inclined his +head,—though I doubt if he understood. ‘Be so good as to tell me, +briefly, what it is you wish with me.’ +</p> + +<p> +He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a +slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I +glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or +a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words +only,—‘Marjorie Lindon.’ The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved +name brought the blood into my cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +‘You come from Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined +his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not +particularly explanatory,—so I repeated my question. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip +of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again +nothing was written on it but a name,—‘Paul Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?—I see,—Paul Lessingham.—What then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She is good,—he is bad,—is it not so?’ +</p> + +<p> +He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray how do you happen to know?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He shall never have her,—eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What on earth do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!—what do I mean!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who the +devil are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is as a friend I come to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then in that case you may go; I happen to be overstocked in that line +just now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not with the kind of friend I am!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The saints forefend!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You love her,—you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him in +her arms?’ +</p> + +<p> +I took off my mask,—feeling that the occasion required it. As I did so +he brushed aside the hanging folds of the hood of his burnoose, so that +I saw more of his face. I was immediately conscious that in his eyes +there was, in an especial degree, what, for want of a better term, one +may call the mesmeric quality. That his was one of those morbid +organisations which are oftener found, thank goodness, in the east than +in the west, and which are apt to exercise an uncanny influence over +the weak and the foolish folk with whom they come in contact,—the kind +of creature for whom it is always just as well to keep a seasoned rope +close handy. I was, also, conscious that he was taking advantage of the +removal of my mask to try his strength on me,—than which he could not +have found a tougher job. The sensitive something which is found in the +hypnotic subject happens, in me, to be wholly absent. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see you are a mesmerist.’ +</p> + +<p> +He started. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am nothing,—a shadow!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I’m a scientist. I should like, with your permission—or without +it!—to try an experiment or two on you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved further back. There came a gleam into his eyes which suggested +that he possessed his hideous power to an unusual degree,—that, in the +estimation of his own people, he was qualified to take his standing as +a regular devil-doctor. +</p> + +<p> +‘We will try experiments together, you and I,—on Paul Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why on him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not know?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you lie to me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t lie to you,—I haven’t the faintest notion what is the nature +of your interest in Mr Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My interest?—that is another thing; it is your interest of which we +are speaking.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me,—it is yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen! you love her,—and he! But at a word from you he shall not +have her,—never! It is I who say it,—I!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And, once more, sir, who are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am of the children of Isis!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that so?—It occurs to me that you have made a slight +mistake,—this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do I not know?—what does it matter?—you shall see! There will come a +time when you will want me,—you will find that you cannot bear to +think of him in her arms,—her whom you love! You will call to me, and +I shall come, and of Paul Lessingham there shall be an end.’ +</p> + +<p> +While I was wondering whether he was really as mad as he sounded, or +whether he was some impudent charlatan who had an axe of his own to +grind, and thought that he had found in me a grindstone, he had +vanished from the room. I moved after him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hang it all!—stop!’ I cried. +</p> + +<p> +He must have made pretty good travelling, because, before I had a foot +in the hall, I heard the front door slam, and, when I reached the +street, intent on calling him back, neither to the right nor to the +left was there a sign of him to be seen. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch13"> +CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE PICTURE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +‘<span class="sc">I wonder</span> what that nice-looking beggar really means, and who he +happens to be?’ That was what I said to myself when I returned to the +laboratory. ‘If it is true that, now and again, Providence does write a +man’s character on his face, then there can’t be the slightest shred of +a doubt that a curious one’s been written on his. I wonder what his +connection has been with the Apostle,—or if it’s only part of his game +of bluff.’ +</p> + +<p> +I strode up and down,—for the moment my interest in the experiments I +was conducting had waned. +</p> + +<p> +‘If it was all bluff I never saw a better piece of acting,—and yet +what sort of finger can such a precisian as St Paul have in such a pie? +The fellow seemed to squirm at the mere mention of the +rising-hope-of-the-Radicals’ name. Can the objection be political? Let +me consider,—what has Lessingham done which could offend the religious +or patriotic susceptibilities of the most fanatical of Orientals? +Politically, I can recall nothing. Foreign affairs, as a rule, he has +carefully eschewed. If he has offended—and if he hasn’t the seeming +was uncommonly good!—the cause will have to be sought upon some other +track. But, then, what track?’ +</p> + +<p> +The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement grew. +</p> + +<p> +‘Absurd!—The rascal has had no more connection with St Paul than St +Peter. The probability is that he’s a crackpot; and if he isn’t, he has +some little game on foot—in close association with the hunt of the +oof-bird!—which he tried to work off on me, but couldn’t. As for—for +Marjorie—my Marjorie!—only she isn’t mine, confound it!—if I had had +my senses about me, I should have broken his head in several places for +daring to allow her name to pass his lips,—the unbaptised +Mohammedan!—Now to return to the chase of splendid murder!’ +</p> + +<p> +I snatched up my mask—one of the most ingenious inventions, by the +way, of recent years; if the armies of the future wear my mask they +will defy my weapon!—and was about to re-adjust it in its place, when +someone knocked at the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s there?—Come in!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, sir,—I thought you were engaged. I didn’t know +that—that gentleman had gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.—Why the +deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Really, sir, I don’t know. I gave him your message, and—he looked +at me, and—that is all I remember till I found myself standing in +this room.’ +</p> + +<p> +Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his +palm well greased,—but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I +thought,—my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had +actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant, +at my own front door,—a man worth studying. Edwards continued. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,—Mr Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lessingham!’ At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I +daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. ‘Show him in.’ +</p> + +<p> +Presently in came Paul. +</p> + +<p> +I am free to confess,—I have owned it before!—that, in a sense, I +admire that man,—so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into +a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my +eye—speaking as a mere biologist. I like the suggestion conveyed by +his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life,—of +reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall +back at pleasure. The fellow’s lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; +clean built, well hung,—the sort of man who might be relied upon to +make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint,—mental or +physical—though to do that you would have to be spry!—but in a +staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the +kind of man whom I would trust,—unless I knew that he was on the +job,—which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain. +He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round +him even in moments of extremest peril,—and for whatever he does he +has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of +it, of being a man of iron nerve,—and with some reason; yet I am not +so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities +which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse,—to rise, the +moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it +might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster. +</p> + +<p> +And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some +cause. He was a man of position,—destined, probably, to rise much +higher; a man of parts,—with capacity to make the most of them; not +ill-looking; with agreeable manners,—when he chose; and he came within +the lady’s definition of a gentleman, ‘he always did the right thing, +at the right time, in the right way.’ And yet—! Well, I take it that +we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy’s sake do +not let us all give ourselves away. +</p> + +<p> +He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed,—black frock coat, +black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow, +gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if +was not childlike, at any rate was bland. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not disturbing you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sure?—I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching +himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling +that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in +this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your +System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty +purchased,—wisely—What is it, now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Death.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No?—really?—what do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I +may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see,—a new projectile.—How long is this race to continue between +attack and defence?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Until the sun grows cold.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’ll be no defence,—nothing to defend.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a +cheerful one.’ He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a +table. ‘By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last +night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,—I have come to +apologise.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you—queer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face +which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the +superstition about his iron nerve. ‘I was worried, and not well. +Besides, one doesn’t care to be burgled, even by a maniac.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was he a maniac?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you see him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very clearly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the street.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How close were you to him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Closer than I am to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed. I didn’t know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to +stop him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Easier said than done,—he was off at such a rate.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you see how he was dressed,—or, rather, undressed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a lunatic would have +attempted burglary in such a costume?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did he take anything?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Absolutely nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seems to have been a curious episode.’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved his eyebrows,—according to members of the House the only +gesture in which he has been known to indulge. +</p> + +<p> +‘We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning +it to anyone,—to anyone.’ He repeated the last two words, as if to +give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. ‘I am +communicating with the police. Until they move I don’t want it to get +into the papers,—or to be talked about. It’s a worry,—you understand?’ +</p> + +<p> +I nodded. He changed the theme. +</p> + +<p> +‘This that you’re engaged upon,—is it a projectile or a weapon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you are a member of the next government you will possibly know; if +you aren’t you possibly won’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep +secret.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean that business of last night? If a trifle of that sort gets +into the papers, or gets talked about,—which is the same thing!—you +have no notion how we are pestered. It becomes an almost unbearable +nuisance. Jones the Unknown can commit murder with less inconvenience +to himself than Jones the Notorious can have his pocket picked,—there +is not so much exaggeration in that as there sounds.—Good-bye,—thanks +for your promise.’ I had given him no promise, but that was by the way. +He turned as to go,—then stopped. ‘There’s another thing,—I believe +you’re a specialist on questions of ancient superstitions and extinct +religions.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of Isis?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Neither I nor any man,—with scientific certainty. As you know, she +had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the same. What, +precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or anything about it, +none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics, and so on, which remain +are very far from being exhaustive, and our knowledge of those which do +remain, is still less so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely legendary?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To what marvels do you particularly refer?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Weren’t supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were attributed to +all the priests of all the creeds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.’ Presently he continued. ‘I presume that her cult is long since +extinct,—that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated,—I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if he +really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a cover +for something else,—you see, I knew my Paul. +</p> + +<p> +‘That is not so sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of his. +</p> + +<p> +‘You think that she still is worshipped?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in +Africa—Africa is a large order!—homage is paid to Isis, quite in the +good old way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know that as a fact?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?—Are you aware that you are +treating me as if I was on the witness stand?—Have you any special +purpose in making these inquiries?’ +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a +curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the story?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you; when I +am I will. You will find it interesting,—as an instance of a singular +survival.—Didn’t the followers of Isis believe in transmigration?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some of them,—no doubt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What did they understand by transmigration?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Transmigration.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—but of the soul or of the body?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you mean?—transmigration is transmigration. Are you driving at +something in particular? If you’ll tell me fairly and squarely what it +is I’ll do my best to give you the information you require; as it is, +your questions are a bit perplexing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,—as you say, “transmigration is +transmigration.”’ I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in his +manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself had +started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the table. ‘Hadn’t +the followers of Isis a—what shall I say?—a sacred emblem?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hadn’t they an especial regard for some sort of a—wasn’t it some sort +of a—beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean <i>Scarabaeus sacer</i>,—according to Latreille, <i>Scarabaeus +Egyptiorum</i>? Undoubtedly,—the scarab was venerated throughout +Egypt,—indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for +instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the figure +of Apis, the bull.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Weren’t the priests of Isis—or some of them—supposed to assume, +after death, the form of a—scarabaeus?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I never heard of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure?—think!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t like to answer such a question positively, offhand, but I +don’t, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of the kind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t laugh at me—I’m not a lunatic!—but I understand that recent +researches have shown that even in some of the most astounding of the +ancient legends there was a substratum of fact. Is it absolutely +certain that there could be no shred of truth in such a belief?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In what belief?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed after death +the form of a scarabaeus?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some +uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your bounden +duty to give to the world,—or, at any rate, to that portion of the +world which is represented by me. Come,—tell us all about it!—what +are you afraid of?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid of nothing,—and some day you shall be told,—but not now. +At present, answer my question.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then repeat your question,—clearly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of truth in +the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed after death the +form of a beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know no more than the man in the moon,—how the dickens should I? +Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that after +death the body takes the shape of worms—and so, in a sense, it +does,—and, sometimes, eels.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is not what I mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of +a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually +take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Or a follower of Isis?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Before, or after death?’ +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated. I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of +interest,—to be frank, I was keenly interested too!—but, on a sudden +there came into his eyes a glint of something that was almost terror. +When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted awkwardness. +</p> + +<p> +‘In—in the very act of dying.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the very act of dying?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If—he had seen a follower of Isis in—the very act of dying, +assume—the form of a—a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such +a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?’ +</p> + +<p> +I stared,—as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was +rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,—yet I was +almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more +extraordinary still. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here, Lessingham, I can see you’ve a capital tale to tell,—so +tell it, man! Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not the kind of tale in which +ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,—anyhow, it’s hardly +fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it +unappeased.’ +</p> + +<p> +He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more, +until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless +mask,—somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not +altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland and +self-contained. +</p> + +<p> +‘I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle. I +suppose I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But what is the tarradiddle?—don’t you see I’m burning?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have permission to +unloose it, my tongue is tied.’ He picked up his hat and umbrella from +where he had placed them on the table. Holding them in his left hand, +he advanced to me with his right outstretched. ‘It is very good of you +to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such +interruptions mean,—believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?’ +</p> + +<p> +On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of +paper,—the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this he +stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred. On the +instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him. +His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor. He retreated, +gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him, +until he reached the wall on the other side of the room. A more amazing +spectacle than he presented I never saw. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lessingham!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ +</p> + +<p> +My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of +epilepsy,—though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be +hard to find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be +the immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper. I stared at +it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there previously, I +had not put it there,—where had it come from? The curious thing was +that, on it, produced apparently by some process of photogravure, was +an illustration of a species of beetle with which I felt that I ought +to be acquainted, and yet was not. It was of a dull golden green; the +colour was so well brought out,—even to the extent of seeming to +scintillate, and the whole thing was so dexterously done that the +creature seemed alive. The semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid +that it needed a second glance to be assured that it was a mere trick +of the reproducer. Its presence there was odd,—after what we had been +talking about it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to +suppose that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like +Lessingham. +</p> + +<p> +With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was,—pressing his +back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till he was +actually crouching on his haunches. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lessingham!—come, man, what’s wrong with you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had +on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring +him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was +struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face +which one associates with abject terror. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton?—Is it you?—It’s all right,—quite right.—I’m well,—very +well.’ +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of +being very well.’ +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his +lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the pressure of overwork,—I’ve had one or two attacks like +this,—but it’s nothing, only—a local lesion.’ +</p> + +<p> +I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him +which was very odd indeed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Only a local lesion!—If you take my strongly-urged advice you’ll get +a medical opinion without delay,—if you haven’t been wise enough to +have done so already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll go to-day;—at once; but I know it’s only mental overstrain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re sure it’s nothing to do with this?’ +</p> + +<p> +I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so +he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take it away! take it away!’ he screamed. +</p> + +<p> +I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then +I found my tongue. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lessingham!—It’s only a picture!—Are you stark mad?’ +</p> + +<p> +He persisted in his ejaculations. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take it away! take it away!—Tear it up!—Burn it!’ +</p> + +<p> +His agitation was so unnatural,—from whatever cause it arose!—that, +fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered, +I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and, +striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the +process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and +nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lessingham,’ I said, ‘you’re either mad already, or you’re going +mad,—which is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think it’s neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It’s—it’s that +story of which I was speaking; it—it seems curious, but I’ll tell you +all about it—some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an +interesting instance of a singular survival.’ He made an obvious effort +to become more like his usual self. ‘It is extremely unfortunate, +Atherton, that I should have troubled you with such a display of +weakness,—especially as I am able to offer you so scant an +explanation. One thing I would ask of you,—to observe strict +confidence. What has taken place has been between ourselves. I am in +your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can rely on you not to +speak of it to anyone,—and, in particular, not to breathe a hint of it +to Miss Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you not guess?’ +</p> + +<p> +I hunched my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +‘If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why +silence would be unfair to her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is for me to speak, if for anyone. I shall not fail to do what +should be done.—Give me your promise that you will not hint a word to +her of what you have so unfortunately seen?’ +</p> + +<p> +I gave him the promise he required. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +There was no more work for me that day. The Apostle, his divagations, +his example of the coleoptera, his Arabian friend,—these things were +as microbes which, acting on a system already predisposed for their +reception, produced high fever; I was in a fever,—of unrest. Brain in +a whirl!—Marjorie, Paul, Isis, beetle, mesmerism, in delirious jumble. +Love’s upsetting!—in itself a sufficiently severe disease; but when +complications intervene, suggestive of mystery and novelties, so that +you do not know if you are moving in an atmosphere of dreams or of +frozen facts,—if, then, your temperature does not rise, like that +rocket of M. Verne’s,—which reached the moon, then you are a freak of +an entirely genuine kind, and if the surgeons do not preserve you, and +place you on view, in pickle, they ought to, for the sake of historical +doubters, for no one will believe that there ever was a man like you, +unless you yourself are somewhere around to prove them Thomases. +</p> + +<p> +Myself,—I am not that kind of man. When I get warm I grow heated, and +when I am heated there is likely to be a variety show of a gaudy kind. +When Paul had gone I tried to think things out, and if I had kept on +trying something would have happened—so I went on the river instead. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch14"> +CHAPTER XIV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE DUCHESS’ BALL</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">That</span> night was the Duchess of Datchet’s ball—the first person I saw +as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling. +</p> + +<p> +I went straight up to her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night. I have come to +make to you my apologies,—to sue for your forgiveness!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My forgiveness?’ Her head went back,—she has a pretty bird-like trick +of cocking it a little on one side. ‘You were not well. Are you better?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite.—You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me +a dance for the one I lost last night.’ +</p> + +<p> +She rose. A man came up,—a stranger to me; she’s one of the best +hunted women in England,—there’s a million with her. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is my dance, Miss Grayling.’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten +that I was already engaged.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went, +and left him staring. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s he who’s the sufferer now,’ I whispered, as we went round,—she +can waltz! +</p> + +<p> +‘You think so? It was I last night,—I did not mean, if I could help +it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.’ She went +all red,—adding, as an afterthought, ‘Nowadays so few men really +dance. I expect it’s because you dance so well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.’ +</p> + +<p> +We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu shelter +which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked. There’s something +sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one to talk about one’s +self,—before I was half aware of it I was telling her of all my plans +and projects,—actually telling her of my latest notion which, +ultimately, was to result in the destruction of whole armies as by a +flash of lightning. She took an amount of interest in it which was +surprising. +</p> + +<p> +‘What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not theory but +practice,—one can prove one’s facts on paper, or on a small scale in a +room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale, by actual experiment. +If, for instance, I could take my plant to one of the forests of South +America, where there is plenty of animal life but no human, I could +demonstrate the soundness of my position then and there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why don’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Think of the money it would cost.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought I was a friend of yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I had hoped you were.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why don’t you let me help you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Help me?—How?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By letting you have the money for your South American experiment;—it +would be an investment on which I should expect to receive good +interest.’ +</p> + +<p> +I fidgeted. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.’ +</p> + +<p> +She became quite frigid. +</p> + +<p> +‘Please don’t be absurd!—I perceive quite clearly that you are +snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you know +how.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer +assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I assure you—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray don’t. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been +different; she would at least have received a civil answer. But we are +not all Miss Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,—I had not the faintest +notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a +surprising passion—and it suited her!—I thought I had never seen her +look prettier,—I could do nothing else but stare. So she went +on,—with just as little reason. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here is someone coming to claim this dance,—I can’t throw all my +partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be +impossible for you to dance with me again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!—I shall be only too delighted.’ She handed me her +card. ‘Which may I have?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly +can.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They all seem taken.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That doesn’t matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put +your own instead.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked myself +for the next waltz but two,—who it was who would have to give way to +me I did not trouble to inquire. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton!—Is that you?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was,—it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her I +knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,—the mere sight +of her sent the blood tingling through my veins. Turning to her +attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is there an empty chair?’ +</p> + +<p> +She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat +down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in +a stupid tremblement. +</p> + +<p> +‘You remember that last night I told you that I might require your +friendly services in diplomatic intervention?’ I nodded,—I felt that +the allusion was unfair. ‘Well, the occasion’s come,—or, at least, +it’s very near.’ She was still,—and I said nothing to help her. ‘You +know how unreasonable papa can be.’ +</p> + +<p> +I did,—never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey +Lindon,—or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared +to admit it to his child. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know what an absurd objection he has to—Paul.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow’s +Christian name,—when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which +stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me—of all men,—of the fellow in +such a tone was—like a woman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa +thinks so much of you—I want you to sound Paul’s praises in his +ear—to prepare him for what must come.’ Was ever rejected lover +burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. ‘Sydney, you +have always been my friend,—my truest, dearest friend. When I was a +little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his +wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, +and to shield me still.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her +touch, I burned. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I don’t understand what cause there has been for secrecy,—why +should there have been any secrecy from the first?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was Paul’s wish that papa should not be told.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sydney!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Or does he fear your father?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been prejudiced +against him all along, you know that his political position is just now +one of the greatest difficulty, that every nerve and muscle is kept on +the continual strain, that it is in the highest degree essential that +further complications of every and any sort should be avoided. He is +quite aware that his suit will not be approved of by papa, and he +simply wishes that nothing shall be said about it till the end of the +session,—that is all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,—politician +first, and lover afterwards.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well!—why not?—would you have him injure the cause he has at heart +for want of a little patience?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It depends what cause it is he has at heart.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the matter with you?—why do you speak to me like that?—it is +not like you at all.’ She looked at me shrewdly, with flashing eyes. +‘Is it possible that you are—jealous?—that you were in earnest in +what you said last night?—I thought that was the sort of thing you +said to every girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press her +to my bosom then and there,—to think that she should taunt me with +having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you know of Mr Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What all the world knows,—that history will be made by him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not desire +to be associated. What do you know of his private life,—it was to that +that I was referring.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Really,—you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just as he +is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you do know that, it is sufficient.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do know it,—all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he comes in +contact is aware—must be aware, that he is incapable of a +dishonourable thought or action.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Take my advice, don’t appreciate any man too highly. In the book of +every man’s life there is a page which he would wish to keep turned +down.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is no such page in Paul’s,—there may be in yours; I think that +probable.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my case, +the page may extend to several. There is nothing Apostolic about +me,—not even the name.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sydney!—you are unendurable!—It is the more strange to hear you talk +like this since Paul regards you as his friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He flatters me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you not his friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it not sufficient to be yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—who is against Paul is against me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is hard.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the +wife,—when the husband and the wife are one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But as yet you are not one.—Is my cause so hopeless?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you call your cause?—are you thinking of that nonsense you +were talking about last night?’ +</p> + +<p> +She laughed! +</p> + +<p> +‘You call it nonsense.—You ask for sympathy, and give—so much!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,—I promise it! +My poor, dear Sydney!—don’t be so absurd! Do you think that I don’t +know you? You’re the best of friends, and the worst of lovers,—as the +one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my certain knowledge, with how +many girls have you been in love,—and out again. It is true that, to +the best of my knowledge and belief, you have never been in love with +me before,—but that’s the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear +Sydney, you’ll be in love with someone else to-morrow,—if you’re not +half-way there to-night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that +direction, all the experience I have had of you has in nowise +strengthened my prophetic instinct. Cheer up!—one never knows!—Who is +this that’s coming?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was Dora Grayling who was coming,—I went off with her without a +word,—we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and—disagreeable. +Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant side.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The blame was mine,—what sort of side do I show you? You are far +kinder to me than I deserve,—now, and always.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is what you say.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me, it’s true,—else how comes it that, at this time of day, +I’m without a friend in all the world?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You!—without a friend!—I never knew a man who had so many!—I never +knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking well!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you have +done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions, think +of—but never mind! The world knows you have done great things, and it +confidently looks to you to do still greater. You talk of being +friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour—as a great favour!—to be +allowed to do something to show my friendship, you—well, you snub me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I snub you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know you snubbed me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you really mean that you take an interest in—in my work?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know I mean it.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned to me, her face all glowing,—and I did know it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will I!—won’t I!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With your aunt?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, with my aunt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and then if +you still think there’s anything in it, I’ll accept your offer about +that South American experiment,—that is, if it still holds good.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course it still holds good.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And we’ll be partners.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Partners?—Yes,—we will be partners.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It will cost a terrific sum.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There are some things which never can cost too much.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s not my experience.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope it will be mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a bargain?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On my side, I promise you that it’s a bargain.’ +</p> + +<p> +When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my +side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking, as long as my arm. He +took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his handkerchief,—and +directly he put it back he took it out and rubbed it again. I believe +that I never saw him in such a state of fluster,—and, when one speaks +of Woodville, that means something. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.’ He looked it. ‘All of a +heap!—I’ve had a blow which I shall never get over!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then get under.’ +</p> + +<p> +Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me their +most private matters,—even to what they owe their washerwomen for the +ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone can tell,—heaven knows +I am not sympathetic. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be an idiot!—you don’t know what I’m suffering!—I’m as nearly +as possible stark mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s all right, old chap,—I’ve seen you that way more than once +before.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t talk like that,—you’re not a perfect brute!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I bet you a shilling that I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t torture me,—you’re not. Atherton!’ He seized me by the lapels +of my coat, seeming half beside himself,—fortunately he had drawn me +into a recess, so that we were noticed by few observers. ‘What do you +think has happened?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s refused me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Has she!—Well I never!—Buck up,—try some other address,—there are +quite as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, you’re a blackguard.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually bobbing +at his eyes with it,—the idea of Percy Woodville being dissolved in +tears was excruciatingly funny,—but, just then, I could hardly tell +him so. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s not a doubt of it,—it’s my way of being sympathetic. Don’t be +so down, man,—try her again!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s not the slightest use—I know it isn’t—from the way she treated +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be so sure—women often say what they mean least. Who’s the +lady?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who?—Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has there +ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but Marjorie +Lindon!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +I fancy that my jaw dropped open,—that, to use his own vernacular, I +was ‘all of a heap.’ I felt like it. +</p> + +<p> +I strode away—leaving him mazed—and all but ran into Marjorie’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?’ I saw +her to the carriage. ‘Are you off?—can I give you a lift?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you,—I am not thinking of being off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m going to the House of Commons,—won’t you come?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you going there for?’ +</p> + +<p> +Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,—and she knew that I +knew, as her words showed. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so +ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on +to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when Paul +is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is a fortunate man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed,—and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is +inadequately described as fortunate.—But I must be off. He expected to +be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago that there has +been a delay, but that he will be up within half-an-hour.—Till our +next meeting.’ +</p> + +<p> +As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville. He had +his hat on. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where are you off to?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m off to the House.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To hear Paul Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Damn Paul Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With all my heart!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s a division expected,—I’ve got to go.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,—Marjorie Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No!—you don’t say so!—by Jove!—I say, Atherton, I wish I could make +a speech,—I never can. When I’m electioneering I have to have my +speeches written for me, and then I have to read ’em. But, by Jove, if +I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew anything about the +thing, or could get someone to tell me something, hang me if I wouldn’t +speak,—I’d show her I’m not the fool she thinks I am!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Speak, Percy, speak!—you’d knock ’em silly, sir!—I tell you what +I’ll do,—I’ll come with you! I’ll to the House as well!—Paul +Lessingham shall have an audience of three.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch15"> +CHAPTER XV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> House was full. Percy and I went upstairs,—to the gallery which +is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called +‘distinguished strangers,’—those curious animals. Trumperton was up, +hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the lamp as +of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,—except the men in the Press +Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety per cent. of its +wisdom. +</p> + +<p> +It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered Lessingham. +The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur of sounds which, I +have no doubt, some of the pressmen interpreted next day as ‘loud and +continued applause.’ There was movement in the House, possibly +expressive of relief; a hum of voices; men came flocking in. Then, from +the Opposition benches, there rose a sound which was applause,—and I +perceived that, on a cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham +was standing up bareheaded. +</p> + +<p> +I eyed him critically,—as a collector might eye a valuable specimen, +or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four and twenty +hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to me, he was the +most interesting man the world contained. +</p> + +<p> +When I remembered how I had seen him that same morning, a nerveless, +terror-stricken wretch, grovelling, like some craven cur, upon the +floor, frightened, to the verge of imbecility, by a shadow, and less +than a shadow, I was confronted by two hypotheses. Either I had +exaggerated his condition then, or I exaggerated his condition now. So +far as appearance went, it was incredible that this man could be that +one. +</p> + +<p> +I confess that my feeling rapidly became one of admiration. I love the +fighter. I quickly recognised that here we had him in perfection. There +was no seeming about him then,—the man was to the manner born. To his +finger-tips a fighting man. I had never realised it so clearly before. +He was coolness itself. He had all his faculties under complete +command. While never, for a moment, really exposing himself, he would +be swift in perceiving the slightest weakness in his opponents’ +defence, and, so soon as he saw it, like lightning, he would slip in a +telling blow. Though defeated, he would hardly be disgraced; and one +might easily believe that their very victories would be so expensive to +his assailants, that, in the end, they would actually conduce to his +own triumph. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hang me!’ I told myself, ‘if, after all, I am surprised if Marjorie +does see something in him.’ For I perceived how a clever and +imaginative young woman, seeing him at his best, holding his own, like +a gallant knight, against overwhelming odds, in the lists in which he +was so much at home, might come to think of him as if he were always +and only there, ignoring altogether the kind of man he was when the +joust was finished. +</p> + +<p> +It did me good to hear him, I do know that,—and I could easily imagine +the effect he had on one particular auditor who was in the Ladies’ +Cage. It was very far from being an ‘oration’ in the American sense; it +had little or nothing of the fire and fury of the French Tribune; it +was marked neither by the ponderosity nor the sentiment of the eloquent +German; yet it was as satisfying as are the efforts of either of the +three, producing, without doubt, precisely the effect which the speaker +intended. His voice was clear and calm, not exactly musical, yet +distinctly pleasant, and it was so managed that each word he uttered +was as audible to every person present as if it had been addressed +particularly to him. His sentences were short and crisp; the words +which he used were not big ones, but they came from him with an +agreeable ease; and he spoke just fast enough to keep one’s interest +alert without involving a strain on the attention. +</p> + +<p> +He commenced by making, in the quietest and most courteous manner, +sarcastic comments on the speeches and methods of Trumperton and his +friends which tickled the House amazingly. But he did not make the +mistake of pushing his personalities too far. To a speaker of a certain +sort nothing is easier than to sting to madness. If he likes, his every +word is barbed. Wounds so given fester; they are not easily +forgiven;—it is essential to a politician that he should have his +firmest friends among the fools; or his climbing days will soon be +over. Soon his sarcasms were at an end. He began to exchange them for +sweet-sounding phrases. He actually began to say pleasant things to his +opponents; apparently to mean them. To put them in a good conceit with +themselves. He pointed out how much truth there was in what they said; +and then, as if by accident, with what ease and at how little cost, +amendments might be made. He found their arguments, and took them for +his own, and flattered them, whether they would or would not, by +showing how firmly they were founded upon fact; and grafted other +arguments upon them, which seemed their natural sequelae; and +transformed them, and drove them hither and thither; and brought +them—their own arguments!—to a round, irrefragable conclusion, which +was diametrically the reverse of that to which they themselves had +brought them. And he did it all with an aptness, a readiness, a grace, +which was incontestable. So that, when he sat down, he had performed +that most difficult of all feats, he had delivered what, in a House of +Commons’ sense, was a practical, statesmanlike speech, and yet one +which left his hearers in an excellent humour. +</p> + +<p> +It was a great success,—an immense success. A parliamentary triumph of +almost the highest order. Paul Lessingham had been coming on by leaps +and bounds. When he resumed his seat, amidst applause which, this time, +really was applause, there were, probably, few who doubted that he was +destined to go still farther. How much farther it is true that time +alone could tell; but, so far as appearances went, all the prizes, +which are as the crown and climax of a statesman’s career, were well +within his reach. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, I was delighted. I had enjoyed an intellectual +exercise,—a species of enjoyment not so common as it might be. The +Apostle had almost persuaded me that the political game was one worth +playing, and that its triumphs were things to be desired. It is +something, after all, to be able to appeal successfully to the passions +and aspirations of your peers; to gain their plaudits; to prove your +skill at the game you yourself have chosen; to be looked up to and +admired. And when a woman’s eyes look down on you, and her ears drink +in your every word, and her heart beats time with yours,—each man to +his own temperament, but when that woman is the woman whom you love, to +know that your triumph means her glory, and her gladness, to me that +would be the best part of it all. +</p> + +<p> +In that hour,—the Apostle’s hour!—I almost wished that I were a +politician too! +</p> + +<p> +The division was over. The business of the night was practically done. +I was back again in the lobby! The theme of conversation was the +Apostle’s speech,—on every side they talked of it. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never saw her +look more beautiful,—or happier. She seemed to be alone. +</p> + +<p> +‘So you have come, after all!—Wasn’t it splendid?—wasn’t it +magnificent? Isn’t it grand to have such great gifts, and to use them +to such good purpose?—Speak, Sydney! Don’t feign a coolness which is +foreign to your nature!’ +</p> + +<p> +I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she delighted +to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was not a bad speech, of a kind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of a kind!’ How her eyes flashed fire! With what disdain she treated +me! ‘What do you mean by “of a kind?” My dear Sydney, are you not aware +that it is an attribute of small minds to attempt to belittle those +which are greater? Even if you are conscious of inferiority, it’s +unwise to show it. Mr Lessingham’s was a great speech, of any kind; +your incapacity to recognise the fact simply reveals your lack of the +critical faculty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is fortunate for Mr Lessingham that there is at least one person in +whom the critical faculty is so bountifully developed. Apparently, in +your judgment, he who discriminates is lost.’ +</p> + +<p> +I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead, laughing, +she placed her hand upon my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor Sydney!—I understand!—It is so sad!—Do you know you are like a +little boy who, when he is beaten, declares that the victor has cheated +him. Never mind! as you grow older, you will learn better.’ +</p> + +<p> +She stung me almost beyond bearing,—I cared not what I said. +</p> + +<p> +‘You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are older.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +Before I could have told her—if I had meant to tell; which I did +not—Lessingham came up. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer than I +expected.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all,—though I am quite ready to get away; it’s a little +tiresome waiting here.’ +</p> + +<p> +This with a mischievous glance towards me,—a glance which compelled +Lessingham to notice me. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not often favour us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t. I find better employment for my time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are wrong. It’s the cant of the day to underrate the House of +Commons, and the work which it performs; don’t you suffer yourself to +join in the chorus of the simpletons. Your time cannot be better +employed than in endeavouring to improve the body politic.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am obliged to you.—I hope you are feeling better than when I saw +you last.’ +</p> + +<p> +A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He showed no +other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.—I am very well.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that +what I meant was meant unpleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come,—let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not well.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had just slipped her arm through Lessingham’s when her father +approached. Old Lindon stared at her on the Apostle’s arm, as if he +could hardly believe that it was she. +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought that you were at the Duchess’?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So I have been, papa; and now I’m here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here!’ Old Lindon began to stutter and stammer, and to grow red in the +face, as is his wont when at all excited. ‘W—what do you mean by +here?—wh—where’s the carriage?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,—unless the horses +have run away.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—I—I’ll take you down to it. I—I don’t approve of y—your +w—w—waiting in a place like this.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.—I shall +see you afterwards.—Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +Anything cooler than the way in which she walked off I do not think I +ever saw. This is the age of feminine advancement. Young women think +nothing of twisting their mothers round their fingers, let alone their +fathers; but the fashion in which that young woman walked off, on the +Apostle’s arm, and left her father standing there, was, in its way, a +study. +</p> + +<p> +Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had gone. +Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood staring after +them, growing redder and redder, till the veins stood out upon his +face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure threatened. Then, with a +gasp, he turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Damned scoundrel!’ I took it for granted that he alluded to the +gentleman,—even though his following words hardly suggested it. ‘Only +this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him, and n—now +he’s w—walked off with her! C—confounded adventurer! That’s what he +is, an adventurer, and before many hours have passed I’ll take the +liberty to tell him so!’ +</p> + +<p> +Jamming his fists into his pockets, and puffing like a grampus in +distress, he took himself away,—and it was time he did, for his words +were as audible as they were pointed, and already people were wondering +what the matter was. Woodville came up as Lindon was going,—just as +sorely distressed as ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘She went away with Lessingham,—did you see her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I saw her. When a man makes a speech like Lessingham’s any +girl would go away with him,—and be proud to. When you are endowed +with such great powers as he is, and use them for such lofty purposes, +she’ll walk away with you,—but, till then, never.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s bitter hard. When I knew that she was there, I’d half a mind to +make a speech myself, upon my word I had, only I didn’t know what to +speak about, and I can’t speak anyhow,—how can a fellow speak when +he’s shoved into the gallery?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As you say, how can he?—he can’t stand on the railing and +shout,—even with a friend holding him behind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know I shall speak one day,—bound to; and then she won’t be there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’ll be better for you if she isn’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Think so?—Perhaps you’re right. I’d be safe to make a mess of it, and +then, if she were to see me at it, it’d be the devil! ’Pon my word, +I’ve been wishing, lately, I was clever.’ +</p> + +<p> +He rubbed his nose with the rim of his eyeglass, looking the most +comically disconsolate figure. +</p> + +<p> +‘Put black care behind you, Percy!—buck up, my boy! The division’s +over—you are free—now we’ll go “on the fly.”’ +</p> + +<p> +And we did ‘go on the fly.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch16"> +CHAPTER XVI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">ATHERTON’S MAGIC VAPOUR</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I bore</span> him off to supper at the Helicon. All the way in the cab he was +trying to tell me the story of how he proposed to Marjorie,—and he was +very far from being through with it when we reached the club. There was +the usual crowd of supperites, but we got a little table to ourselves, +in a corner of the room, and before anything was brought for us to eat +he was at it again. A good many of the people were pretty near to +shouting, and as they seemed to be all speaking at once, and the band +was playing, and as the Helicon supper band is not piano, Percy did not +have it quite all to himself, but, considering the delicacy of his +subject, he talked as loudly as was decent,—getting more so as he went +on. But Percy is peculiar. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to tell her,—over and over +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, pretty near every time I met her,—but I never seemed to get +quite to it, don’t you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How was that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, just as I was going to say, “Miss Lindon, may I offer you the +gift of my affection—”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was that how you invariably intended to begin?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, not always—one time like that, another time another way. Fact +is, I got off a little speech by heart, but I never got a chance to +reel it off, so I made up my mind to just say anything.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And what did you say?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, nothing,—you see, I never got there. Just as I was feeling my +way, she’d ask me if I preferred big sleeves to little ones, or top +hats to billycocks, or some nonsense of the kind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would she now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—of course I had to answer, and by the time I’d answered the +chance was lost.’ Percy was polishing his eyeglass. ‘I tried to get +there so many times, and she choked me off so often, that I can’t help +thinking that she suspected what it was that I was after.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You think she did?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She must have done. Once I followed her down Piccadilly, and chivied +her into a glove shop in the Burlington Arcade. I meant to propose to +her in there,—I hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night through dreaming +of her, and I was just about desperate.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And did you propose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The girl behind the counter made me buy a dozen pairs of gloves +instead. They turned out to be three sizes too large for me when they +came home. I believe she thought I’d gone to spoon the glove girl,—she +went out and left me there. That girl loaded me with all sorts of +things when she was gone,—I couldn’t get away. She held me with her +blessed eye. I believe it was a glass one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lindon’s?—or the glove girl’s?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The glove girl’s. She sent me home a whole cartload of green ties, and +declared I’d ordered them. I shall never forget that day. I’ve never +been up the Arcade since, and never mean to.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You gave Miss Lindon a wrong impression.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know. I was always giving her wrong impressions. Once she said +that she knew I was not a marrying man, that I was the sort of chap who +never would marry, because she saw it in my face.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Under the circumstances, that was trying.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bitter hard.’ Percy sighed again. ‘I shouldn’t mind if I wasn’t so +gone. I’m not a fellow who does get gone, but when I do get gone, I get +so beastly gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell you what, Percy,—have a drink!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m a teetotaler,—you know I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You talk of your heart being broken, and of your being a teetotaler in +the same breath,—if your heart were really broken you’d throw +teetotalism to the winds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think so,—why?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because you would,—men whose hearts are broken always do,—you’d +swallow a magnum at the least.’ +</p> + +<p> +Percy groaned. +</p> + +<p> +‘When I drink I’m always ill,—but I’ll have a try.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had a try,—making a good beginning by emptying at a draught the +glass which the waiter had just now filled. Then he relapsed into +melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell me, Percy,—honest Indian!—do you really love her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Love her?’ His eyes grew round as saucers. ‘Don’t I tell you that I +love her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know you tell me, but that sort of thing is easy telling. What does +it make you feel like, this love you talk so much about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Feel like?—Just anyhow,—and nohow. You should look inside me, and +then you’d know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—It’s like that, is it?—Suppose she loved another man, what +sort of feeling would you feel towards him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Does she love another man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, suppose.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I dare say she does. I expect that’s it.—What an idiot I am not to +have thought of that before.’ He sighed,—and refilled his glass. ‘He’s +a lucky chap, whoever he is. I’d—I’d like to tell him so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’d like to tell him so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s such a jolly lucky chap, you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Possibly,—but his jolly good luck is your jolly bad luck. Would you +be willing to resign her to him without a word?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If she loves him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you say you love her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t suppose that, because I love her, I shouldn’t like to see +her happy?—I’m not such a beast!—I’d sooner see her happy than +anything else in all the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—Even happy with another?—I’m afraid that my philosophy is not +like yours. If I loved Miss Lindon, and she loved, say, Jones, I’m +afraid I shouldn’t feel like that towards Jones at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What would you feel like?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Murder.—Percy, you come home with me,—we’ve begun the night +together, let’s end it together,—and I’ll show you one of the finest +notions for committing murder on a scale of real magnificence you ever +dreamed of. I should like to make use of it to show my feelings towards +the supposititious Jones,—he’d know what I felt for him when once he +had been introduced to it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Percy went with me without a word. He had not had much to drink, but it +had been too much for him, and he was in a condition of maundering +sentimentality. I got him into a cab. We dashed along Piccadilly. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and sat looking in front of him with an air of vacuous +sullenness which ill-became his cast of countenance. I bade the cabman +pass though Lowndes Square. As we passed the Apostle’s I pulled him up. +I pointed out the place to Woodville. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see, Percy, that’s Lessingham’s house!—that’s the house of the +man who went away with Marjorie!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ Words came from him slowly, with a quite unnecessary stress on +each. ‘Because he made a speech.—I’d like to make a speech.—One day +I’ll make a speech.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because he made a speech,—only that, and nothing more! When a man +speaks with an Apostle’s tongue, he can witch any woman in the +land.—Hallo, who’s that?—Lessingham, is that you?’ +</p> + +<p> +I saw, or thought I saw, someone, or something, glide up the steps, and +withdraw into the shadow of the doorway, as if unwilling to be seen. +When I hailed no one answered. I called again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be shy, my friend!’ +</p> + +<p> +I sprang out of the cab, ran across the pavement, and up the steps. To +my surprise, there was no one in the doorway. It seemed incredible, but +the place was empty. I felt about me with my hands, as if I had been +playing at blind man’s buff, and grasped at vacancy. I came down a step +or two. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ostensibly, there’s a vacuum,—which nature abhors.—I say, driver, +didn’t you see someone come up the steps?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought I did, sir,—I could have sworn I did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So could I.—It’s very odd.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps whoever it was has gone into the ’ouse, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t see how. We should have heard the door open, if we hadn’t seen +it,—and we should have seen it, it’s not so dark as that.—I’ve half a +mind to ring the bell and inquire.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t do that if I was you, sir,—you jump in, and I’ll get +along. This is Mr Lessingham’s,—the great Mr Lessingham’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +I believe the cabman thought that I was drunk,—and not respectable +enough to claim acquaintance with the great Mr Lessingham. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wake up, Woodville! Do you know I believe there’s some mystery about +this place,—I feel assured of it. I feel as if I were in the presence +of something uncanny,—something which I can neither see, nor touch, +nor hear.’ +</p> + +<p> +The cabman bent down from his seat, wheedling me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jump in, sir, and we’ll be getting along.’ +</p> + +<p> +I jumped in, and we got along,—but not far. Before we had gone a dozen +yards, I was out again, without troubling the driver to stop. He pulled +up, aggrieved. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, sir, what’s the matter now? You’ll be damaging yourself before +you’ve done, and then you’ll be blaming me.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had caught sight of a cat crouching in the shadow of the railings,—a +black one. That cat was my quarry. Either the creature was unusually +sleepy, or slow, or stupid, or it had lost its wits—which a cat seldom +does lose!—anyhow, without making an attempt to escape it allowed me +to grab it by the nape of the neck. +</p> + +<p> +So soon as we were inside my laboratory, I put the cat into my glass +box. Percy stared. +</p> + +<p> +‘What have you put it there for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, my dear Percy, is what you are shortly about to see. You are +about to be the witness of an experiment which, to a legislator—such +as you are!—ought to be of the greatest possible interest. I am going +to demonstrate, on a small scale, the action of the force which, on a +large scale, I propose to employ on behalf of my native land.’ +</p> + +<p> +He showed no signs of being interested. Sinking into a chair, he +recommenced his wearisome reiteration. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hate cats!—Do let it go!—I’m always miserable when there’s a cat +in the room.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense,—that’s your fancy! What you want’s a taste of +whisky—you’ll be as chirpy as a cricket.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want anything more to drink!—I’ve had too much already!’ +</p> + +<p> +I paid no heed to what he said. I poured two stiff doses into a couple +of tumblers. Without seeming to be aware of what it was that he was +doing he disposed of the better half of the one I gave him at a +draught. Putting his glass upon the table, he dropped his head upon his +hands, and groaned. +</p> + +<p> +‘What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Think?—nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she has +so much better fish to fry?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m feeling frightfully ill!—I’ll be drunk before I’ve done!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then be drunk!—only, for gracious sake, be lively drunk, not deadly +doleful.—Cheer up, Percy!’ I clapped him on the shoulder,—almost +knocking him off his seat on to the floor. ‘I am now going to show you +that little experiment of which I was speaking!—You see that cat?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I see it!—the beast!—I wish you’d let it go!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should I let it go?—Do you know whose cat that is? That cat’s +Paul Lessingham’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham’s?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Paul Lessingham’s,—the man who made the speech,—the man whom +Marjorie went away with.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you know it’s his?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know it is, but I believe it is,—I choose to believe it +is!—I intend to believe it is!—It was outside his house, therefore +it’s his cat,—that’s how I argue. I can’t get Lessingham inside that +box, so I get his cat instead.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Whatever for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You shall see.—You observe how happy it is?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It don’t seem happy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ve all our ways of seeming happy,—that’s its way.’ +</p> + +<p> +The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against +the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to +side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both. Perhaps it +foresaw what was coming,—there is no fathoming the intelligence of +what we call the lower animals. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a funny way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We some of us have funny ways, beside cats. Now, attention! Observe +this little toy,—you’ve seen something of its kind before. It’s a +spring gun; you pull the spring—drop the charge into the +barrel—release the spring—and the charge is fired. I’ll unlock this +safe, which is built into the wall. It’s a letter lock, the combination +just now, is “whisky,”—you see, that’s a hint to you. You’ll notice +the safe is strongly made,—it’s air-tight, fire-proof, the outer +casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel,—the contents are +valuable—to me!—and devilish dangerous,—I’d pity the thief who, in +his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal. Look inside,—you see it’s +full of balls,—glass balls, each in its own little separate nest; +light as feathers; transparent,—you can see right through them. Here +are a couple, like tiny pills. They contain neither dynamite, nor +cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no +favour, they’ll work more mischief than all the explosives man has +fashioned. Take hold of one—you say your heart is broken!—squeeze +this under your nose—it wants but a gentle pressure—and in less time +than no time you’ll be in the land where they say there are no broken +hearts.’ +</p> + +<p> +He shrunk back. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.—I don’t want the thing.—Take +it away.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Think twice,—the chance may not recur.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell you I don’t want it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sure?—Consider!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I’m sure!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the cat shall have it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let the poor brute go!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The poor brute’s going,—to the land which is so near, and yet so far. +Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy +gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust +the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which +contains the Apostle’s cat,—you’ll observe it fits quite close, which, +on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.—I am about to release the +spring.—Close attention, please.—Notice the effect.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, let the brute go!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The brute’s gone! I’ve released the spring—the pellet has been +discharged—it has struck against the roof of the glass box—it has +been broken by the contact,—and, hey presto! the cat lies dead,—and +that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is,—how +still! Let’s hope that, now, it’s really happy. The cat which I choose +to believe is Paul Lessingham’s has received its quietus; in the +morning I’ll send it back to him, with my respectful compliments. He’ll +miss it if I don’t.—Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what +we’ll call Atherton’s Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and +twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an +opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a +hundred thousand men,—quite possibly more!—would drop down dead, as +if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn’t that something like a +weapon, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m not well!—I want to get away!—I wish I’d never come!’ +</p> + +<p> +That was all Woodville had to say. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rubbish!—You’re adding to your stock of information every second, +and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is supposed to know all +about everything, information’s the one thing wanted. Empty your glass, +man,—that’s the time of day for you!’ +</p> + +<p> +I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its contents, +then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the tumbler from him. +I had placed—carelessly enough—the second pellet within a foot of the +edge of the table. The shock of the heavy beaker striking the board +close to it, set it rolling. I was at the other side. I started forward +to stop its motion, but I was too late. Before I could reach the +crystal globule, it had fallen off the edge of the table on to the +floor at Woodville’s feet, and smashed in falling. As it smashed, he +was looking down, wondering, no doubt, in his stupidity, what the +pother was about,—for I was shouting, and making something of a +clatter in my efforts to prevent the catastrophe which I saw was +coming. On the instant, as the vapour secreted in the broken pellet +gained access to the air, he fell forward on to his face. Rushing to +him, I snatched his senseless body from the ground, and dragged it, +staggeringly, towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging +the door open, I got him into the open air. +</p> + +<p> +As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood outside. It +was Lessingham’s mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend,—my morning’s +visitor. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch17"> +CHAPTER XVII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">MAGIC?—OR MIRACLE?</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was a +passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure standing in the +shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses reeled. It was +only because I had resolutely held my breath, and kept my face averted +that I had not succumbed to the fate which had overtaken Woodville. Had +I been a moment longer in gaining the open air, it would have been too +late. As it was, in placing Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over +him. My senses left me. Even as they went I was conscious of +exclaiming,—remembering the saying about the engineer being hoist by +his own petard, +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton’s Magic Vapour!’ +</p> + +<p> +My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found +myself being supported in someone’s arms, a stranger’s face was bending +over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had ever seen were +looking into mine. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who the deuce are you?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant +ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was streaming +through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was lying close beside +me,—stark and still. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he dead?’ I cried. ‘Percy!—speak, man!—it’s not so bad with you +as that!’ +</p> + +<p> +But it was pretty bad,—so bad that, as I bent down and looked at him, +my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it could be. His +heart seemed still,—the vapour took effect directly on the cardiac +centres. To revive their action, and that instantly, was indispensable. +Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could not even think of how to +set about beginning. Had I been alone, it is more than probable +Woodville would have died. As I stared at him, senselessly, aimlessly, +the stranger, passing his arms beneath his body, extended himself at +full length upon his motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy’s, he +seemed to be pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man’s. +As I gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of +Percy’s body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By degrees, the +motions became convulsive,—till on a sudden he bestirred himself to +such effect that the stranger was rolled right off him. I bent +down,—to find that the young gentleman’s condition still seemed very +far from satisfactory. There was a rigidity about the muscles of his +face, a clamminess about his skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about +the way in which his teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed, +which was uncomfortable to contemplate. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind,—not a +very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he said, +with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had seemed +like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then. +</p> + +<p> +‘All will be well with him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not so sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side of +the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand to and +fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic all +semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy’s features, and, to all +appearances, he was placidly asleep. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you hypnotised him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What does it matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The conditions +were both unusual and trying, the effect produced seemed all that could +be desired,—the change brought about in half a dozen seconds was quite +remarkable. I began to be aware of a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul +Lessingham’s friend. His morals might be peculiar, and manners he might +have none, but in this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have +justified the means. He went on. +</p> + +<p> +‘He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been. +Leave him,—the night is warm,—all will be well.’ +</p> + +<p> +As he said, the night was warm,—and it was dry. Percy would come to +little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the pleasant +breezes. So I acted on the stranger’s advice, and left him lying in the +yard, while I had a little interview with the impromptu physician. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch18"> +CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two +away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to +as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was +conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of +indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was +oriental to the finger-tips,—that much was certain; yet in spite of a +pretty wide personal knowledge of oriental people I could not make up +my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was +hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah,—he was not, unless I erred, a +Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly +not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a +flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The +portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself, +sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and +shapeless,—and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance, +seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of +negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age. +As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have +been supposed to have retained something of their pristine vigour after +having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one +began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed,—if, indeed, he +was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are +apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes +encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of +centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard +themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of +the fellow’s countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence +of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were +curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some +queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could +not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the +force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More +uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,—their possessor could +not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably, +to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his +gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger +signals never yet were placed in a creature’s head. The individual who, +having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their +owner’s acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst +results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued. +</p> + +<p> +It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision. +I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I +continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an +effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which +seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been +imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if +it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could +understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament, +the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his +glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an +appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach +almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the +traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such +profound believers, it was he. +</p> + +<p> +When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I +began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the +ice, I put to him a question. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them, +palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed?—Is that so?—Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but, +for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words. +Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?’ +</p> + +<p> +Again nothing but the gesture. +</p> + +<p> +‘Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and +customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the +pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would +find yourself in an awkward situation,—and, unless you are presently +more explanatory, called in they will be.’ +</p> + +<p> +By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which +might have been meant for a smile,—and which seemed to suggest that he +regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you laugh—do you think that being threatened with the police +is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.—Have you suddenly been +bereft of the use of your tongue?’ +</p> + +<p> +He proved that he had not by using it. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have still the use of my tongue.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you +got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why +you got there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know why I have come.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely +what I do not know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You do know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do I?—Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason +which appears upon the surface,—to commit a felony.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You call me thief?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What else are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am no thief.—You know why I have come.’ +</p> + +<p> +He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt +that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for +the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have come because you wanted me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I wanted you!—On my word!—That’s sublime!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All night you have wanted me,—do I not know? When she talked to you +of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the +people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he +could mean, or—there was confusion somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t try to come the bunco-steerer +over me,—I’m a bit in that line myself, you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +This time the score was mine,—he was puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know not what you talk of.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case, we’re equal,—I know not what you talk of either.’ +</p> + +<p> +His manner, for him, was childlike and bland. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,—if you want +me, then I come?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say +something of the kind, but—where’s the application?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s the him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of—to put it +gently—spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the +Apostle harm would not be lacking. +</p> + +<p> +‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hate.’ +</p> + +<p> +Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,—in the solid oriental +sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the +words had seared his lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you +attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Those who hate are kin.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, also, I should be slow to admit; but—to go a step farther—what +has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of +the night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You love her.’ This time I did not ask him to supply the name,—being +unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. ‘She +loves him,—that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,—that +will be well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed.—And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be +desired to be brought about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.’ +</p> + +<p> +Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I +hesitated. There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment, +had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind +of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. +I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the +powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,—which had revealed +itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, +of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the +lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in +my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,—only to +win her! +</p> + +<p> +What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for +the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right +out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It +would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded, +for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do +it then? +</p> + +<p> +I would act on his suggestion,—I would carry the thing right through. +Already I was advancing towards him, when—I stopped. I don’t know why. +On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent. +</p> + +<p> +What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a +woman’s name in vain for the sake of playing fool’s tricks with such +scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,—and that the +name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me. +</p> + +<p> +‘You hound!’ I cried. +</p> + +<p> +In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the +desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step +in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the +position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my +approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up +dead,—as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of +steel. +</p> + +<p> +For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The +sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in +his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,—I was even +incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only +stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had +happened. +</p> + +<p> +The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me. +</p> + +<p> +That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life. +A shiver went down my back,—what might have occurred if I had not +pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not +have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of +playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of +underrating the enemy’s strength. Evidently, in his own line, the +fellow was altogether something out of the usual way. +</p> + +<p> +I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away, +and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,—as +if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was +silent,—it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of +the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I +resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me +equal to this gentleman of many talents. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t attempt to play that hankey +pankey off on to me again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what you talk of.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t lie to me,—or I’ll burn you into ashes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It +was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could +easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a +little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was +amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +‘My lord!—my lord!—have mercy, oh my lord!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you be careful, that’s all. You may suppose yourself to be +something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I +can do a bit in that line myself,—perhaps I’m a trifle better at the +game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold, +which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such +as you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its +contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a +blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of +the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor +was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence +of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of +terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to +show,—in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a +dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor. +The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be +suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there +was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man +himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in +a condition of abject terror. +</p> + +<p> +‘My lord! my lord!’ he whined. ‘I entreat you, my lord, to use me as +your slave!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll use you as my slave!’ Whether he or I was the more agitated it +would have been difficult to say,—but, at least, it would not have +done to betray my feelings as he did his. ‘Stand up!’ +</p> + +<p> +He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I +was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or +not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It +was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had +seemed to disappear,—it was also incredible that I could have imagined +his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the +faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick, +then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he +give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I +could him? +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with +downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to +cross-examine him. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them +promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ask, oh my lord.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Revenge.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is the feud of the innocent blood.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean by that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who has he killed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, my lord, is for me,—and for him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and +that I am again to use my—magic?’ +</p> + +<p> +I saw that he quivered. +</p> + +<p> +‘My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.’ +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be +as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it +might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,—though it was hard to +conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was +the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a +background,—that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the +background’s darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured +bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were +blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run? +</p> + +<p> +‘“Spilling blood” is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If +you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and +most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What has the Englishman’s law to do with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a +great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that +sense, the Englishman’s law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be +guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as +cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your +own entire satisfaction.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to +see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which +it was not nice to see. +</p> + +<p> +‘He would be shamed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed he would be shamed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Before all men?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Before all men,—and, I take it, before all women too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And he would hang?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,—yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation +which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had +apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps I will do that in the end,—in the end!’ He opened his eyes to +their widest limits, then shut them tight,—as if to gloat on the +picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. ‘In the meantime I +will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the +avenger is upon him,—he has good reason to know it. And through the +days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall +be to him as the bitterness of death,—aye, of many deaths. For he will +know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more +sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by +day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall +turn it shall be there,—yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my +vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the +days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that THE +DEATH, THE GREAT DEATH, is coming—coming—and shall be on him—when I +will!’ +</p> + +<p> +The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he +said,—and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!—then +a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr Lessingham,—and, +also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this +latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic +would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone +acting on his behalf, and, so far as their power of doing mischief +went, his big words proved empty windbags, or Marjorie would have to be +warned that there was at least one passage in her suitor’s life, into +which, ere it was too late, it was advisable that inquiry should be +made. To allow Marjorie to irrevocably link her fate with the +Apostle’s, without being first of all made aware that he was, to all +intents and purposes, a haunted man—that was not to be thought of. +</p> + +<p> +‘You employ large phrases.’ +</p> + +<p> +My words cooled the other’s heated blood. Once more his eyes were cast +down, his hands crossed upon his breast. +</p> + +<p> +‘I crave my lord’s pardon. My wound is ever new.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that little +incident of the cockroach?’ +</p> + +<p> +He glanced up quickly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Cockroach?—I know not what you say.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—was it beetle, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,—the word was gasped. +</p> + +<p> +‘After you went we found, upon a sheet of paper, a capitally executed +drawing of a beetle, which, I fancy, you must have left behind +you,—<i>Scarabaeus sacer</i>, wasn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know not what you talk of.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr Lessingham. +Now, why was that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh yes you do,—and, before you go, I mean to know something too.’ +</p> + +<p> +The man was trembling, looking this way and that, showing signs of +marked discomfiture. That there was something about that ancient +scarab, which figures so largely in the still unravelled tangles of the +Egyptian mythologies, and the effect which the mere sight of its +cartouch—for the drawing had resembled something of the kind—had had +on such a seasoned vessel as Paul Lessingham, which might be well worth +my finding out, I felt convinced,—the man’s demeanour, on my recurring +to the matter, told its own plain tale. I made up my mind, if possible, +to probe the business to the bottom, then and there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen to me, my friend. I am a plain man, and I use plain +speech,—it’s a kind of hobby I have. You will give me the information +I require, and that at once, or I will pit my magic against yours,—in +which case I think it extremely probable that you will come off worst +from the encounter.’ +</p> + +<p> +I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity +recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled. +</p> + +<p> +‘My lord, I know not of what you talk.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘None of your lies for me.—Tell me why, at the sight of the thing on +that sheet of paper, Paul Lessingham went green and yellow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ask him, my lord.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I am +asking you. Answer,—or look out for squalls.’ +</p> + +<p> +The electrical exhibition was going on. He was glaring at it as if he +wished that it would stop. As if ashamed of his cowardice, plainly, on +a sudden, he made a desperate effort to get the better of his +fears,—and succeeded better than I had expected or desired. He drew +himself up with what, in him, amounted to an air of dignity. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am a child of Isis!’ +</p> + +<p> +It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me, as +with a view of elevating his own low spirits. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you?—Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to +congratulate the lady on her offspring.’ +</p> + +<p> +When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard +before. +</p> + +<p> +‘Silence!—You know not of what you speak!—I warn you, as I warned +Paul Lessingham, be careful not to go too far. Be not like him,—heed +my warning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is it I am being warned against,—the beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—the beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +Were I upon oath, and this statement being made, in the presence of +witnesses, say, in a solicitor’s office, I standing in fear of pains +and penalties, I think that, at this point, I should leave the paper +blank. No man likes to own himself a fool, or that he ever was a +fool,—and ever since I have been wondering whether, on that occasion, +that ‘child of Isis’ did, or did not, play the fool with me. His +performance was realistic enough at the time, heaven knows. But, as it +gets farther and farther away, I ask myself, more and more confidently, +as time effluxes, whether, after all, it was not clever +juggling,—superhumanly clever juggling, if you will; that, and nothing +more. If it was something more, then, with a vengeance! there is more +in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy. The mere +possibility opens vistas which the sane mind fears to contemplate. +</p> + +<p> +Since, then, I am not on oath, and, should I fall short of verbal +accuracy, I do not need to fear the engines of the law, what seemed to +happen was this. +</p> + +<p> +He was standing within about ten feet of where I leaned against the +edge of the table. The light was full on, so that it was difficult to +suppose that I could make a mistake as to what took place in front of +me. As he replied to my mocking allusion to the beetle by echoing my +own words, he vanished,—or, rather, I saw him taking a different shape +before my eyes. His loose draperies all fell off him, and, as they were +in the very act of falling, there issued, or there seemed to issue out +of them, a monstrous creature of the beetle tribe,—the man himself was +gone. On the point of size I wish to make myself clear. My impression, +when I saw it first, was that it was as large as the man had been, and +that it was, in some way, standing up on end, the legs towards me. But, +the moment it came in view, it began to dwindle, and that so rapidly +that, in a couple of seconds at most, a little heap of drapery was +lying on the floor, on which was a truly astonishing example of the +coleoptera. It appeared to be a beetle. It was, perhaps, six or seven +inches high, and about a foot in length. Its scales were of a vivid +golden green. I could distinctly see where the wings were sheathed +along the back, and, as they seemed to be slightly agitated, I looked, +every moment, to see them opened, and the thing take wing. +</p> + +<p> +I was so astonished,—as who would not have been?—that for an +appreciable space of time I was practically in a state of stupefaction. +I could do nothing but stare. I was acquainted with the legendary +transmigrations of Isis, and with the story of the beetle which issues +from the woman’s womb through all eternity, and with the other pretty +tales, but this, of which I was an actual spectator, was something new, +even in legends. If the man, with whom I had just been speaking, was +gone, where had he gone to? If this glittering creature was there, in +his stead, whence had it come? +</p> + +<p> +I do protest this much, that, after the first shock of surprise had +passed, I retained my presence of mind. I felt as an investigator might +feel, who has stumbled, haphazard, on some astounding, some +epoch-making, discovery. I was conscious that I should have to make the +best use of my mental faculties if I was to take full advantage of so +astonishing an accident. I kept my glance riveted on the creature, with +the idea of photographing it on my brain. I believe that if it were +possible to take a retinal print—which it some day will be—you would +have a perfect picture of what it was I saw. Beyond doubt it was a +lamellicorn, one of the <i>copridae</i>. With the one exception of its +monstrous size, there were the characteristics in plain view;—the +convex body, the large head, the projecting clypeus. More, its smooth +head and throat seemed to suggest that it was a female. Equally beyond +a doubt, apart from its size, there were unusual features present too. +The eyes were not only unwontedly conspicuous, they gleamed as if they +were lighted by internal flames,—in some indescribable fashion they +reminded me of my vanished visitor. The colouring was superb, and the +creature appeared to have the chameleonlike faculty of lightening and +darkening the shades at will. Its not least curious feature was its +restlessness. It was in a state of continual agitation; and, as if it +resented my inspection, the more I looked at it the more its agitation +grew. As I have said, I expected every moment to see it take wing and +circle through the air. +</p> + +<p> +All the while I was casting about in my mind as to what means I could +use to effect its capture. I did think of killing it, and, on the +whole, I rather wish that I had at any rate attempted slaughter,—there +were dozens of things, lying ready to my hand, any one of which would +have severely tried its constitution;—but, on the spur of the moment, +the only method of taking it alive which occurred to me, was to pop +over it a big tin canister which had contained soda-lime. This canister +was on the floor to my left. I moved towards it, as nonchalantly as I +could, keeping an eye on that shining wonder all the time. Directly I +moved, its agitation perceptibly increased,—it was, so to speak, all +one whirr of tremblement; it scintillated, as if its coloured scales +had been so many prisms; it began to unsheath its wings, as if it had +finally decided that it would make use of them. Picking up the tin, +disembarrassing it of its lid, I sprang towards my intended victim. Its +wings opened wide; obviously it was about to rise; but it was too late. +Before it had cleared the ground, the tin was over it. +</p> + +<p> +It remained over it, however, for an instant only. I had stumbled, in +my haste, and, in my effort to save myself from falling face foremost +on to the floor, I was compelled to remove my hands from the tin. +Before I was able to replace them, the tin was sent flying, and, while +I was still partially recumbent, within eighteen inches of me, that +beetle swelled and swelled, until it had assumed its former portentous +dimensions, when, as it seemed, it was enveloped by a human shape, and +in less time than no time, there stood in front of me, naked from top +to toe, my truly versatile oriental friend. One startling fact nudity +revealed,—that I had been egregiously mistaken on the question of sex. +My visitor was not a man, but a woman, and, judging from the brief +glimpse which I had of her body, by no means old or ill-shaped either. +</p> + +<p> +If that transformation was not a bewildering one, then two and two make +five. The most level-headed scientist would temporarily have lost his +mental equipoise on witnessing such a quick change as that within a +span or two of his own nose I was not only witless, I was breathless +too,—I could only gape. And, while I gaped, the woman, stooping down, +picking up her draperies, began to huddle them on her anyhow,—and, +also, to skedaddle towards the door which led into the yard. When I +observed this last manoeuvre, to some extent I did rise to the +requirements of the situation. Leaping up, I rushed to stay her flight. +</p> + +<p> +‘Stop!’ I shouted. +</p> + +<p> +But she was too quick for me. Ere I could reach her, she had opened the +door, and was through it,—and, what was more, she had slammed it in my +face. In my excitement, I did some fumbling with the handle. When, in +my turn, I was in the yard, she was out of sight. I did fancy I saw a +dim form disappearing over the wall at the further side, and I made for +it as fast as I knew how. I clambered on to the wall, looking this way +and that, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I listened for +the sound of retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had +the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished. +Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent. +</p> + +<p> +As I returned across the yard, Woodville, who still was taking his rest +under the open canopy of heaven, sat up. Seemingly my approach had +roused him out of slumber. At sight of me he rubbed his eyes, and +yawned, and blinked. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say,’ he remarked, not at all unreasonably, ‘where am I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re on holy—or on haunted ground,—hang me if I quite know +which!—but that’s where you are, my boy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By Jove!—I am feeling queer!—I have got a headache, don’t you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t be in the least surprised at anything you have, or +haven’t,—I’m beyond surprise. It’s a drop of whisky you are +wanting,—and what I’m wanting too,—only, for goodness sake, drop me +none of your drops! Mine is a case for a bottle at the least.’ +</p> + +<p> +I put my arm through his, and went with him into the laboratory. And, +when we were in, I shut, and locked, and barred the door. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch19"> +CHAPTER XIX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE LADY RAGES</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Dora Grayling</span> stood in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +‘I told your servant he need not trouble to show me in,—and I’ve come +without my aunt. I hope I’m not intruding.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was—confoundedly; and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her +so. She came into the room, with twinkling eyes, looking radiantly +happy,—that sort of look which makes even a plain young woman +prepossessing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I intruding?—I believe I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +She held out her hand, while she was still a dozen feet away, and when +I did not at once dash forward to make a clutch at it, she shook her +head and made a little mouth at me. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter with you?—Aren’t you well?’ +</p> + +<p> +I was not well,—I was very far from well. I was as unwell as I could +be without being positively ill, and any person of common discernment +would have perceived it at a glance. At the same time I was not going +to admit anything of the kind to her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you,—I am perfectly well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, if I were you, I would endeavour to become imperfectly well; a +little imperfection in that direction might make you appear to more +advantage.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid that that I am not one of those persons who ever do appear +to much advantage,—did I not tell you so last night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe you did say something of the kind,—it’s very good of you to +remember. Have you forgotten something else which you said to me last +night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the follies of +which my tongue is guilty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.—That is quite enough.—Good-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned as if to go. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter?—What have I been saying now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning,—is that +one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?’ +</p> + +<p> +The engagement had escaped my recollection—it is a fact!—and my face +betrayed me. +</p> + +<p> +‘You had forgotten?’ Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. ‘You must +pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the invitation was +of that general kind which is never meant to be acted on.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was half way to the door before I stopped her,—I had to take her +by the shoulder to do it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!—You are hard on me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose I am.—Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an +undesired, and unexpected, guest?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now you are harder still.—If you knew what I have gone through since +our conversation of last night, in your strength you would be merciful.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed?—What have you gone through?’ +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated. What I actually had gone through I certainly did not +propose to tell her. Other reasons apart I did not desire to seem +madder than I admittedly am,—and I lacked sufficient plausibility to +enable me to concoct, on the spur of the moment, a plain tale of the +doings of my midnight visitor which would have suggested that the +narrator was perfectly sane. So I fenced,—or tried to. +</p> + +<p> +‘For one thing,—I have had no sleep.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had not,—not one single wink. When I did get between the sheets, +‘all night I lay in agony,’ I suffered from that worst form of +nightmare,—the nightmare of the man who is wide awake. There was +continually before my fevered eyes the strange figure of that Nameless +Thing. I had often smiled at tales of haunted folk,—here was I one of +them. My feelings were not rendered more agreeable by a strengthening +conviction that if I had only retained the normal attitude of a +scientific observer I should, in all probability, have solved the +mystery of my oriental friend, and that his example of the genus of +<i>copridae</i> might have been pinned,—by a very large pin!—on a piece—a +monstrous piece!—of cork. It was galling to reflect that he and I had +played together a game of bluff,—a game at which civilisation was once +more proved to be a failure. +</p> + +<p> +She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw +something—because her own look softened. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do look tired.’ She seemed to be casting about in her own mind for +a cause. ‘You have been worrying.’ She glanced round the big +laboratory. ‘Have you been spending the night in this—wizard’s cave?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pretty well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!’ +</p> + +<p> +The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning. Uninvited, +she seated herself in an arm-chair, a huge old thing, of shagreen +leather, which would have held half a dozen of her. Demure in it she +looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive, and a little up-to-date, +of the women of long ago. Her dove grey eyes seemed to perceive so much +more than they cared to show. +</p> + +<p> +‘How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?—didn’t +you mean it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I meant it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then how is it you’ve forgotten?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t forget.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t tell fibs.—Something is the matter,—tell me what it is.—Is it +that I am too early?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing of the sort,—you couldn’t be too early.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.—When you pay a compliment, even so neat an one as that, +sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.—It is early,—I know +it’s early, but afterwards I want you to come to lunch. I told aunt +that I would bring you back with me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are much better to me than I deserve.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps.’ A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic. ‘I +think that to some men women are almost better than they deserve. I +don’t know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.’ There was a +different intonation,—a dryness. ‘Have you forgotten what I came for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a bit of it,—I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to see an +illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for slaughtering my +fellows. The fact is, I’m hardly in a mood for that just now,—I’ve +been illustrating it too much already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, for one thing it’s been murdering Lessingham’s cat.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lessingham’s cat?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton!—I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong place, +and, if it hadn’t been for something very like a miracle, he’d be dead.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with such things—I hate them.’ +</p> + +<p> +I stared. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hate them?—I thought you’d come to see an illustration.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And pray what was your notion of an illustration?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was being +killed for my—edification?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It needn’t necessarily have been a cat, but something would have had +to be killed,—how are you going to illustrate the death-dealing +propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something +killed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then for what did you come?’ +</p> + +<p> +I do not know what there was about the question which was startling, +but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I was a fool.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed, or I +had,—or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and tongs, so +far as I could see, for absolutely nothing. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully rapid.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her. +Immediately she was at my elbow. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you cross with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you are +completely justified.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you are not stupid.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No?—Nor you satirical.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are not stupid,—you know you are not stupid; it was only +stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is very good of you to say so.—But I fear that I am an indifferent +host. Although you would not care for an illustration, there may be +other things which you might find amusing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you keep on snubbing me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I keep on snubbing you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are always snubbing me,—you know you are. Some times I feel as if +I hated you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do! I do! I do!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘After all, it is only natural.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is how you talk,—as if I were a child, and you were,—oh I don’t +know what.—Well, Mr Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to leave you. I +have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have not seemed too +intrusive.’ +</p> + +<p> +She flounced—‘flounce’ was the only appropriate word!—out of the room +before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Grayling, I entreat you—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray do not entreat me, Mr Atherton.’ Standing still she turned to me. +‘I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself in, but, if +that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me between this and +the street?’ +</p> + +<p> +The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the hall +without a word,—in perfect silence she shook the dust of my abode from +off her feet. +</p> + +<p> +I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the top of +the steps and watched her going,—she was walking off at four miles an +hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed to call a hansom. +</p> + +<p> +It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which another +blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it, advisable—and I +was just returning into the house with the intention of putting myself +into my flannels, when a cab drew up, and old Lindon got out of it. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch20"> +CHAPTER XX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A HEAVY FATHER</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr Lindon</span> was excited,—there is no mistaking it when he is, because +with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he was out of +the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the lining. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I want to speak to you—most particularly—somewhere in +private.’ +</p> + +<p> +I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there; it +is a workshop, not a playroom,—the place is private; but, recently, my +rules had become dead letters. Directly he was inside, Lindon began +puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead, throwing out his chest, as if +he were oppressed by a sense of his own importance. Then he started off +talking at the top of his voice,—and it is not a low one either. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I—I’ve always looked on you as a—a kind of a son.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s very kind of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve always regarded you as a—a level-headed fellow; a man from whom +sound advice can be obtained when sound advice—is—is most to be +desired.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That also is very kind of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at—at what may be +regarded as a—a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the history +of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are—are essentially +required.’ +</p> + +<p> +This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived what was +coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more clear-headed +than I do when I am with a woman,—realise so much better the nature of +the ground on which I am standing. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you know of this man Lessingham?’ +</p> + +<p> +I knew it was coming. +</p> + +<p> +‘What all the world knows.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And what does all the world know of him?—I ask you that! A flashy, +plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,—that is what all the world +knows of him. The man’s a political adventurer,—he snatches a +precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the follies of his +fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency, destitute of principle, and +impervious to all the feelings of a gentleman. What do you know of him +besides this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh yes you do!—don’t talk nonsense!—you choose to screen the fellow! +I say what I mean,—I always have said, and I always shall say.—What +do you know of him outside politics,—of his family—of his private +life?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—not very much.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course you don’t!—nor does anybody else! The man’s a mushroom,—or +a toadstool, rather!—sprung up in the course of a single night, +apparently out of some dirty ditch.—Why, sir, not only is he without +ordinary intelligence, he is even without a Brummagen substitute for +manners.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his countenance +presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets and purples. He +flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide open, and his arms too, +and started off again. +</p> + +<p> +‘The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a—a +young woman,—by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it’s her duty +to represent me adequately—adequately, sir! And what’s more, between +ourselves, sir, it’s her duty to marry. My property’s my own, and I +wouldn’t have it pass to either of my confounded brothers on any +account. They’re next door to fools, and—and they don’t represent me +in any possible sense of the word. My daughter, sir, can marry whom she +pleases,—whom she pleases! There’s no one in England, peer or +commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to have her for his +wife—I’ve told her so,—yes, sir, I’ve told her, though you—you’d +think that she, of all people in the world, wouldn’t require telling. +Yet what do you think she does? She—she actually carries on what I—I +can’t help calling a—a compromising acquaintance with this man +Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I say yes!—and I wish to heaven I didn’t. I—I’ve warned her +against the scoundrel more than once; I—I’ve told her to cut him dead. +And yet, as—as you saw yourself, last night, in—in the face of the +assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-trap speech of +his, in which there was not one sound sentiment, nor an idea +which—which would hold water, she positively went away with him, +in—in the most ostentatious and—and disgraceful fashion, on—on his +arm, and—and actually snubbed her father.—It is monstrous that a +parent—a father!—should be subjected to such treatment by his child.’ +</p> + +<p> +The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +‘When I got home I—I told her what I thought of her, I promise you +that,—and I told her what I thought of him,—I didn’t mince my words +with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is demanded,—and +that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to the fellow again, or +to recognise him if she met him in the street. I pointed out to her, +with perfect candour, that the fellow was an infernal scoundrel,—that +and nothing else!—and that he would bring disgrace on whoever came +into contact with him, even with the end of a barge pole.—And what do +you think she said?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did she, sir!—By gad, did she!—That shows how much you know +her!—She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and—and the way she went +on, you’d—you’d have thought that she was the parent and I was the +child—she said that I—I grieved her, that she was disappointed in me, +that times have changed,—yes, sir, she said that times have +changed!—that, nowadays, parents weren’t Russian autocrats—no, sir, +not Russian autocrats!—that—that she was sorry she couldn’t oblige +me,—yes, sir, that was how she put it,—she was sorry she couldn’t +oblige me, but it was altogether out of the question to suppose that +she could put a period to a friendship which she valued, simply on +account of—of my unreasonable prejudices,—and—and—and, in short, +she—she told me to go the devil, sir!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And did you—’ +</p> + +<p> +I was on the point of asking him if he went,—but I checked myself in +time. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know +against Lessingham, apart from his politics?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s just it,—I know nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In a sense, isn’t that in his favour?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t see how you make that out. I—I don’t mind telling you that +I—I’ve had inquiries made. He’s not been in the House six years—this +is his second Parliament—he’s jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box. His +first constituency was Harwich—they’ve got him still, and much good +may he do ’em!—but how he came to stand for the place,—or who, or +what, or where he was before he stood for the place, no one seems to +have the faintest notion.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hasn’t he been a great traveller?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I never heard of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not in the East?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Has he told you so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—I was only wondering. Well, it seems to me that to find out that +nothing is known against him is something in his favour!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Sydney, don’t talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,—that +he’s a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone, something +would have been known about him, either for or against. I don’t want my +daughter to marry a man who—who—who’s shot up through a trap, simply +because nothing is known against him. Ha-hang me, if I wouldn’t ten +times sooner she should marry you.’ +</p> + +<p> +When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn away. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid that is out of the question.’ +</p> + +<p> +He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,—and, +probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your +suggestion, but I can only repeat that—unfortunately, anything of the +kind is out of the question.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t see why.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You—you’re a pretty lot, upon my word!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m afraid we are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence with +which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a shred of +it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly as that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t care how you state it,—state it as you like. Only—only I +want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I—I—I want +you to paint him in his true colours; in—in—in fact, I—I want you to +choke him off.’ +</p> + +<p> +While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration on +his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,—it +delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer. +</p> + +<p> +‘T-the very thing!—c-couldn’t have been better!—show her in here! +H-hide me somewhere,—I don’t care where,—behind that screen! Y-you +use your influence with her;—g-give her a good talking to;—t-tell her +what I’ve told you; and at—at the critical moment I’ll come in, and +then—then if we can’t manage her between us, it’ll be a wonder.’ +</p> + +<p> +The proposition staggered me. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot—’ +</p> + +<p> +He cut me short. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here she comes!’ +</p> + +<p> +Ere I could stop him he was behind the screen,—I had not seen him move +with such agility before!—and before I could expostulate Marjorie was +in the room. Something which was in her bearing, in her face, in her +eyes, quickened the beating of my pulses,—she looked as if something +had come into her life, and taken the joy clean out of it. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch21"> +CHAPTER XXI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +‘<span class="sc">Sydney</span>!’ she cried, ‘I’m so glad that I can see you!’ +</p> + +<p> +She might be,—but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I was +a sharer of her joy. +</p> + +<p> +‘I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and—I’m +in trouble now. Such strange trouble.’ +</p> + +<p> +So was I,—and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,—I would +outwit her eavesdropping father. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come with me into the house,—tell me all about it there.’ +</p> + +<p> +She refused to budge. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—I will tell you all about it here.’ She looked about her,—as it +struck me queerly. ‘This is just the sort of place in which to unfold a +tale like mine. It looks uncanny.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘“But me no buts!” Sydney, don’t torture me,—let me stop here where I +am,—don’t you see I’m haunted?’ +</p> + +<p> +She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out in +front of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wild +as her words. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I’m mad?—I wonder +if I’m going mad.—Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You’re a bit of +everything, you’re a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,—there it +is!—tell me if I’m ill!’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt her pulse,—it did not need its swift beating to inform me that +fever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass. +She held it up to the level of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brain +sometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do you +good.’ +</p> + +<p> +She drained the glass. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s done me good already,—I believe it has; that’s being something +like a doctor.—Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last night +papa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham—by way of a prelude.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Exactly. Mr Lindon—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Mr Lindon,—that’s papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I know +papa said some surprising things,—but it’s a way he has,—he’s apt to +say surprising things. He’s the best father in the world, but—it’s not +in his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried old +Tory never can;—I’ve always thought that that’s why he’s so fond of +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you. I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred to +me before.’ +</p> + +<p> +Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning the +position over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all things +considered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of his +daughter’s confidence as I had, even from the vantage of the +screen,—and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from her +lips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady would +not be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of what +was the actual purport of her visit. +</p> + +<p> +She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday +morning,—about the adventure of my finding the man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a word.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe I meant to,—I’m half disposed to think he’s brought me +trouble. Isn’t there some superstition about evil befalling whoever +shelters a homeless stranger?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ll hope not, for humanity’s sake.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I fancy there is,—I feel sure there is.—Anyhow, listen to my story. +Yesterday morning, before breakfast,—to be accurate, between eight and +nine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. I +sent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said there +was a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found, +lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for the +tattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would have +been stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,—a +dreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction in +First Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one else +seemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thought +I would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do you +think he said?’ +</p> + +<div class="fig"> +<a href="images/img_155.jpg"> +<img alt="" src="images/img_155_th.jpg" /> +</a> +<div class="caption"> +I WENT OUT TO LOOK AT THE MAN. +</div></div> + +<p> +‘Thank you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense.—He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, “Paul +Lessingham.” I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, a +man in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion—to me, of all +people in the world!—took me aback. The policeman who was holding his +head remarked, “That’s the first time he’s opened his mouth. I thought +he was dead.” He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movement +went all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness, +and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of the +street, “Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!” It was very silly of +me, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner—the +two together—affected me.—Well, the long and the short of it was, +that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,—and I +had the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. He +reported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort of +cataleptic seizure,—I could see that he thought it likely to turn out +almost as interesting a case as I did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me, quizzically. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell him +everything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our little +courtesies,—which, it is to be hoped, were to papa’s satisfaction, +since they were not to be mine—I went to see the patient. I was told +that he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon as +I approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raised +himself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had been +addressing some large assembly—I can’t describe to you the dreadful +something which was in his voice, and on his face,—“Paul +Lessingham!—Beware!—The Beetle!”’ +</p> + +<p> +When she said that, I was startled. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure those were the words he used?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,—especially after what +has happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,—they haunt me all +the time.’ +</p> + +<p> +She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from her +eyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something +about the Apostle’s connection with his Oriental friend which needed +probing to the bottom. +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +I had my doubts as to the gentleman’s identity,—which her words +dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another +direction. +</p> + +<p> +‘He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, and +straggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin and +bone,—the doctor says it’s a case of starvation.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the +whiskers are real?’ +</p> + +<p> +She opened her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course they’re real. Why shouldn’t they be real?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Does he strike you as being a—foreigner?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one, +and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is a +very curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it, +but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, then +it is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen a +clairvoyant?’ I nodded. ‘He seems to me to be in a state of +clairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but we +know what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some condition +of the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being under +what those sort of people call “influence,” and that whoever had him +under influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for the +words came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.’ +</p> + +<p> +Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkable +conclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaided +powers of intuition,—but I did not choose to let her know I thought so. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Marjorie!—you who pride yourself on having your imagination +so strictly under control!—on suffering it to take no errant flights!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likely +to make assertions wildly,—proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me. +When I left that unfortunate creature’s room,—I had had a nurse sent +for, I left him in her charge—and reached my own bedroom, I was +possessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, but +very real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Remember,—you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with your +father. Your patient’s words came as a climax.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is what I told myself,—or, rather, that was what I tried to tell +myself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the command +of my powers of reflection.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Precisely.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was not precisely,—or, at least, it was not precisely in the sense +you mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogether +indescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that I +was in the presence of the supernatural.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was not nonsense,—I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, I +was conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril was +assailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it was +something altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. I +wanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but I +couldn’t, and I knew that I couldn’t,—I knew that I couldn’t move as +much as a finger to help him.—Stop,—let me finish!—I told myself +that it was absurd, but it wouldn’t do; absurd or not, there was the +terror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the words +wouldn’t come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain, +but my longings wouldn’t shape themselves into words, and my tongue was +palsied. I don’t know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came to +understand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fight +the fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,—and that +was the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of my +terror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now I +would have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn’t do +it, I couldn’t even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, and +to think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more than +I could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able to +take her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, in +general, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become the +prey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had an +innate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had some +sort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would be +my business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objection +to—cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs has +always made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that something +of the kind was in the room.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Something of what kind?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some kind of—beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I could +hear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head; +that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; I +covered myself all over with the clothes,—then I felt it bumping +against the coverlet. And, Sydney!’ She drew closer. Her blanched +cheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but an +echo of itself. ‘It followed me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It got into the bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You imagined it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it found +a way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I felt +it—against my face.—And it’s there now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +She raised the forefinger of her left hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘There!—Can’t you hear it droning?’ +</p> + +<p> +She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instant +the droning of an insect did become audible. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open +window.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.—Sydney, don’t you feel as +if you were in the presence of evil? Don’t you want to get away from +it, back into the presence of God?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, Sydney, pray!—I can’t!—I don’t know why, but I can’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me in +paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman me +too. It was so unlike Marjorie,—and I would have given my life to save +her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,—as if she +could not help it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, Sydney, pray!’ +</p> + +<p> +At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in +praying,—I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated +aloud the Lord’s Prayer,—the first time for I know not how long. As +the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make no +doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached the +last great petition, ‘Deliver us from evil,’ she loosed her arms from +about my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And she +joined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus. +</p> + +<p> +‘For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. +Amen.’ +</p> + +<p> +When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her head +bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at my +heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year, +almost as if it had been my mother’s hand;—I daresay that sometimes +she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, to +touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while. +</p> + +<p> +As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there was +old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. The +look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me with +such a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keep +from laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fog +which was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possibly +intended for a whisper, +</p> + +<p> +‘Is—is she m-mad?’ +</p> + +<p> +The whisper,—if it was meant for a whisper—was more than sufficiently +audible to catch his daughter’s ears. She started—raised her +head—sprang to her feet—turned—and saw her father. +</p> + +<p> +‘Papa!’ +</p> + +<p> +Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering. +</p> + +<p> +‘W-w-what the d-devil’s the—the m-m-meaning of this?’ +</p> + +<p> +Her utterance was clear enough,—I fancy her parent found it almost +painfully clear. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it +possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behind +that—screen?’ +</p> + +<p> +Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness of +his daughter’s gaze,—and endeavoured to conceal the fact by an +explosion of passion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do-don’t you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I—I’m +your father!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that my +father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rage rendered him speechless,—or, at any rate, he chose to let us +believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silent. +So Marjorie turned to me,—and, on the whole, I had rather she had not. +Her manner was very different from what it had been just now,—it was +more than civil, it was freezing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with your +cognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart to you +unchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a listener +behind the screen?’ +</p> + +<p> +I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share in +playing her a very shabby trick,—I should have liked to throw old +Lindon through the window. +</p> + +<p> +‘The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I would +have compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But your +distress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the justice +to remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with me into +another room.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any +particular reason why I should have gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You never gave me a chance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sydney!—I had not thought you would have played me such a trick!’ +</p> + +<p> +When she said that—in such a tone!—the woman whom I loved!—I could +have hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to have treated +her so scurvily! +</p> + +<p> +Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father, cool, +calm, stately;—she was, on a sudden, once more, the Marjorie with whom +I was familiar. The demeanour of parent and child was in striking +contrast. If appearances went for aught, the odds were heavy that in +any encounter which might be coming the senior would suffer. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been some +curious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your intention than +to listen at a keyhole. What would you have thought—and said—if I had +attempted to play the spy on you? And I have always understood that men +were so particular on points of honour.’ +</p> + +<p> +Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than +splutter,—certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this +sharp-tongued maiden. +</p> + +<p> +‘D-don’t talk to me li-like that, girl!—I—I believe you’re s-stark +mad!’ He turned to me. ‘W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking to +you about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To what do you allude?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows +what,—d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,—r-reared on the literature +of the gutter!—I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunk +to such a depth!—Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,—what +do you think of a child who behaves as she has done? who t-takes a +nameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from her +father? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against the +r-rascal Lessingham!—Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl +who behaves like that?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I—I know very well +what you d-do think of her,—don’t be afraid to say it out because +she’s present.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; Sydney, don’t be afraid.’ +</p> + +<p> +I saw that her eyes were dancing,—in a manner of speaking, her looks +brightened under the sunshine of her father’s displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s hear what you think of her as a—as a m-man of the world!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, Sydney, do!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What you feel for her in your—your heart of hearts!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?’ +</p> + +<p> +The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,—she was making a mock of +me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her. +</p> + +<p> +‘D-don’t you speak until you’re spoken to! Atherton, I—I hope I’m not +deceived in you; I—I hope you’re the man I—I took you for; that +you’re willing and—and ready to play the part of a-a-an honest friend +to this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the time for mincing +words, it—it’s the time for candid speech. Tell this—this weak-minded +young woman, right out, whether this man Lessingham is, or is not, a +damned scoundrel.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Papa!—Do you really think that Sydney’s opinion, or your opinion, is +likely to alter facts?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing either +for or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Exactly,—and all the world knows him to be a miserable adventurer who +is scheming to entrap my daughter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears to +me to be unnecessarily strong.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I—I’m ashamed of you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside the +pale.—My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will tell you +what I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the +truth.—That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes without +saying,—permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a man of honour. +He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the highest aims. He has +dedicated his whole life to the improvement of the conditions amidst +which the less fortunate of his fellow countrymen are at present +compelled to exist. That seems to me to be an object well worth having. +He has asked me to share his life-work, and I have told him that I +will; when, and where, and how, he wants me to. And I will. I do not +suppose his life has been free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion on +the point. What man’s life has? Who among men can claim to be without +sin? Even the members of our highest families sometimes hide behind +screens. But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met, +I am persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that I +have found favour in his eyes.—Good-bye, Sydney.—I suppose I shall +see you again, papa.’ +</p> + +<p> +With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she straightway +left the room. Lindon would have stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +‘S-stay, y-y-y-you—’ he stuttered. +</p> + +<p> +But I caught him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good purpose +will be served by a multiplication of words.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I—I’m disappointed in you. You—you haven’t behaved as I +expected. I—I haven’t received from you the assistance which I looked +for.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the young +lady from the path which she has set herself to tread is calculated to +send her furiously along it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don’t mind telling you, +in c-confidence, that at—at times, her mother was the devil, and I’ll +be—I’ll be hanged if her daughter isn’t worse.—What was the +tomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—I don’t think she’s mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her. +What’s the matter with the girl?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—you must excuse my saying that I don’t fancy you quite +understand women.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—I don’t,—and I—I—I don’t want to either.’ +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,—in Marjorie’s interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie is high-strung,—extremely sensitive. Her imagination is +quickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was safe. +You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered. You don’t +want people to say you have driven her into a lunatic asylum.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—good heavens, no! I—I’ll send for the doctor directly I get +home,—I—I’ll have the best opinion in town.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,—you’ll only make her worse. What you +have to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.—As for +this affair of Lessingham’s, I have a suspicion that it may not be all +such plain sailing as she supposes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear from +me again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her head.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Give the girl her head! H-haven’t I—I g-given the g-girl her h-head +all her l-life!’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why, the day’s half gone!’ He +began scurrying towards the front door, I following at his heels. ‘I’ve +got a committee meeting on at the club,—m-most important! For weeks +they’ve been giving us the worst food you ever tasted in your +life,—p-played havoc with my digestion, and I—I’m going to tell them +if—things aren’t changed, they—they’ll have to pay my doctor’s +bills.—As for that man, Lessingham—’ +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing on +the step was ‘that man Lessingham’ himself. Lindon was a picture. The +Apostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lindon put his hand behind his back,—and behaved as stupidly as he +very well could have done. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don’t know you, +and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that what I say +applies equally to any member of my family.’ +</p> + +<p> +With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the steps +like an inflated turkeycock. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch22"> +CHAPTER XXII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE HAUNTED MAN</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">To</span> have received the cut discourteous from his future father-in-law +might have been the most commonplace of incidents,—Lessingham evinced +not a trace of discomposure. So far as I could judge, he took no notice +of the episode whatever, behaving exactly as if nothing had happened. +He merely waited till Mr Lindon was well off the steps; then, turning +to me, he placidly observed, +</p> + +<p> +‘Interrupting you again, you see.—May I?’ +</p> + +<p> +The sight of him had set up such a turmoil in my veins, that, for the +moment, I could not trust myself to speak. I felt, acutely, that an +explanation with him was, of all things, the thing most to be +desired,—and that quickly. Providence could not have thrown him more +opportunely in the way. If, before he went away, we did not understand +each other a good deal more clearly, upon certain points, the fault +should not be mine. Without a responsive word, turning on my heels, I +led the way into the laboratory. +</p> + +<p> +Whether he noticed anything peculiar in my demeanour, I could not tell. +Within he looked about him with that purely facial smile, the sight of +which had always engendered in me a certain distrust of him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you always receive visitors in here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By no means.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is this?’ +</p> + +<p> +Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a lady’s +purse,—a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming gold. +Whether it was Marjorie’s or Miss Grayling’s I could not tell. He +watched me as I examined it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. It is not mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon +another,—very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded hands +upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite conscious of his +observation; but endured it in silence, being a little wishful that he +should begin. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, what is the matter with you?—Have I done something to +offend you too?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you ask?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your manner seems a little singular.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You think so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What have you come to see me about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Just now, nothing.—I like to know where I stand.’ +</p> + +<p> +His manner was courteous, easy, even graceful. I was outmanoeuvred. I +understood the man sufficiently well to be aware that when once he was +on the defensive, the first blow would have to come from me. So I +struck it. +</p> + +<p> +‘I, also, like to know where I stand.—Lessingham, I am aware, and you +know that I am aware, that you have made certain overtures to Miss +Lindon. That is a fact in which I am keenly interested.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As—how?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The Lindons and the Athertons are not the acquaintances of one +generation only. Marjorie Lindon and I have been friends since +childhood. She looks upon me as a brother—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As a brother?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As a brother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lindon regards me as a son. He has given me his confidence; as I +believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you +to give me yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you want to know?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because +I want you to understand me clearly.—I believe, honestly, that the +thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I +thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both! +and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that +you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think so too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some +reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should she not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you answer a question?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the question?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous +terror?’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a perceptible pause before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Explain yourself.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No explanation is needed,—you know perfectly well what I mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You credit me with miraculous acumen.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t juggle, Lessingham,—be frank!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The frankness should not be all on one side.—There is that in your +frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might +not unreasonably resent.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you resent it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place +yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Answer my question!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril +of losing my temper,—which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him +intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no +sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his +ease. He smiled,—facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little +derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the +faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a +gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before,—I +could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic. +</p> + +<p> +‘In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of +marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as +the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that so?—Will your past bear the fullest investigation?’ +</p> + +<p> +I winced. +</p> + +<p> +‘At any rate, it is known to all the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it?—Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man, +that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which +we keep to ourselves.’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what +to say. +</p> + +<p> +‘But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being +haunted one draws the line.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Haunted?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As you are.’ +</p> + +<p> +He got up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not +understand me.’ He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was +standing on a shelf. ‘What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes +and bulbs?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am +in no mood to be trifled with.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it some kind of an exhauster?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an +answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the +meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting +things here which you might care to see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,—from +conquest unto conquest.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In what respect?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;—I saw it +take place last night.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here,—within a few feet of where you are standing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you serious?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perfectly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What did you see?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night, +before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never +hinted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So I understand.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘From whom?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘From a friend of yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘From a friend of mine?—Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?’ +</p> + +<p> +The man’s attempt at coolness did him credit,—but it did not deceive +me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I +perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only +render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for +Marjorie, I should have cared nothing,—his affairs were his affairs; +though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man +which, from the scientific explorer’s point of view, might be well +worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I +should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in +it, I wondered more and more what it could be. +</p> + +<p> +My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one. +That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe,—I have, even in +my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible. +That we know everything, I doubt;—that our +great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years +ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we +do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false. +</p> + +<p> +Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we +cannot do, and which we do not know how they did, we profess to think +that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming—lies! But it is +not so sure. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil’s trick +played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have +been played upon my Marjorie,—I repeat that I write ‘my Marjorie’ +because, to me, she will always be ‘my’ Marjorie! It had driven her +half out of her senses. As I looked at Lessingham, I seemed to see her +at his side, as I had seen her not long ago, with her white, drawn +face, and staring eyes, dumb with an agony of fear. Her life was +bidding fair to be knit with his,—what Upas tree of horror was rooted +in his very bones? The thought that her sweet purity was likely to be +engulfed in a devil’s slough in which he was wallowing was not to be +endured. As I realised that the man was more than my match at the game +which I was playing—in which such vital interests were at stake!—my +hands itched to clutch him by the throat, and try another way. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he said, +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you aware how strangely you are looking at me, Atherton? Were my +countenance a mirror I think you would be surprised to see in it your +own.’ +</p> + +<p> +I drew back from him,—I daresay, sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to have +seen yours,—at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How easily you quarrel.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not quarrel.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then perhaps it’s I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel’s +ended,—pouf! it’s done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we +differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into +you?—You are a wiser man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in +which words only will not serve.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what will serve?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am myself beginning to wonder.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do +not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one +fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,—not unspotted +from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you +are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being +something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;—in an +unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an +atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have, +during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an +uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have +noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will +withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, or I shall place +certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the +world.’ +</p> + +<p> +He grew visibly paler but he smiled—facially. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.—What +are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of your +house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the public +ear?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not so unobservant as you appear to imagine. There were features +about the episode which struck me forcibly at the time, and which have +struck me more forcibly since. To suggest, as you did yesterday +morning, that it was an ordinary case of burglary, or that the man was +a lunatic, is an absurdity.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me,—I did nothing of the kind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what do you suggest?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come from +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter quiet. +There is an appearance of suggestion about that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton. Nothing, to +me, could seem more natural.—However,—proceed.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had his hands behind his back, and rested them on the edge of the +table against which he was leaning. He was undoubtedly ill at ease; but +so far I had not made the impression on him, either mentally or +morally, which I desired. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is your Oriental friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not follow you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am certain. Repeat your question.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is your Oriental friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I was not aware that I had one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you swear that?’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, a strange laugh. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you seek to catch me tripping? You conduct your case with too much +animus. You must allow me to grasp the exact purport of your inquiry +before I can undertake to reply to it on oath.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who +claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with +you in the East?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That you swear?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That I do swear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is singular.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why is it singular?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Haunts me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Haunts you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You jest.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You think so?—You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which, +yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You use strong language.—I know what you allude to.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you mean to say that you don’t know that you were indebted for that +to your Oriental friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t understand you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly I am sure.—It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an +explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware +that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture +found its way into your room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.’ +</p> + +<p> +The words were chance ones,—but they struck a mark. +</p> + +<p> +‘The Lord—’ He faltered,—and stopped. He showed signs of +discomposure. ‘I will be frank with you,—since frankness is what you +ask.’ His smile, that time, was obviously forced. ‘Recently I have been +the victim of delusions;’ there was a pause before the word, ‘of a +singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental +overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their +source?’ +</p> + +<p> +I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the +twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach +the other side of Mr Lessingham,—the side which he kept hidden from +the world. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is this—individual whom you speak of as my—Oriental friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Being your friend, you should know better than I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of man is he to look at?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did not say it was a man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I presume it is a man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did not say so.’ +</p> + +<p> +He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,—and he looked at me with +eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command +which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity +which well became him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious +injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of +me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the +best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as +clean a man as you are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you’re haunted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Haunted?’ He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then +a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in +an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. ‘Yes, God +knows it’s true,—I’m haunted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So either you’re mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you’ve +done something which places you outside the tolerably generous +boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to +marry. You’re on the horns of a dilemma.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—I’m the victim of a delusion.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of +a—beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton!’ +</p> + +<p> +Without the slightest warning, he collapsed,—was transformed; I can +describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in +a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he +gibbered,—like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle +than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched +in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of +him set every nerve of my body on edge. +</p> + +<p> +‘In Heaven’s name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark, +staring mad? Here,—drink this!’ +</p> + +<p> +Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering +fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand +what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips, +he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his +senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile +which was positively ghastly. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s—it’s a delusion.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.’ +</p> + +<p> +I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous +efforts to regain his self-control,—all the while with that horrible +smile about his lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, you—you take me at an advantage.’ I was still. ‘Who—who’s +your Oriental friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My Oriental friend?—you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the +individual in question was a man; but it appears that she’s a woman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A woman?—Oh.—How do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, the face is a man’s—of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of +which the powers forbid that there are many!—and the voice is a +man’s,—also of a kind!—but the body, as, last night, I chanced to +discover, is a woman’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That sounds very odd.’ He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks +were clammy. ‘Do you—do you believe in witchcraft?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That depends.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you heard of Obi?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which +compels a person to see whatever he—the Obeah man—may please. Do you +think that’s possible?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either +yes or no.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was +making conversation,—saying anything for the sake of gaining time. +</p> + +<p> +‘I remember reading a book entitled “Obscure Diseases of the Brain.” It +contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Possibly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of +a mental pathologist?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think that you’re insane, if that’s what you mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No?—That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be +dreaded.—Well, Atherton, I’m keeping you. The truth is that, insane or +not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved towards his hat and umbrella. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is something else which you must do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign +everything,—everything!’ +</p> + +<p> +He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was +pathetic. +</p> + +<p> +‘Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am +concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite +promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with +her before to-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +His back was towards me. +</p> + +<p> +‘There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of +your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most +unfortunate of men.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous +that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent +girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned. +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie +Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She regards me as a brother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her +purely fraternal?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know that I love her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one +desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your +desire too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is so.’ He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face +of which I had not thought it capable. ‘That is so to an extent of +which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, +especially by one whom he regards—may I say it?—as a possible rival. +But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my +life is likely to continue, I would not wish,—God forbid that I should +wish to join her fate with mine,—not for all that the world could +offer me.’ +</p> + +<p> +He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued. +</p> + +<p> +‘When I was younger I was subject to a—similar delusion. But it +vanished,—I saw no trace of it for years,—I thought that I had done +with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,—as you have +witnessed. I shall institute inquiries into the cause of its +reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids +fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my +pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, but to all my other ambitions. In +the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself +on the footing of a mere acquaintance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You promise me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do.—And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more +gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I +am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few +things more disagreeable to one’s self-esteem than to learn, too late, +that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all +that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean +if I have to turn my back on it,—owing to a mischievous twist of +fortune’s wheel.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned, as if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude +of listening. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a sound of droning,—I recalled what Marjorie had said of her +experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle. +The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began +to change,—it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lessingham!—don’t be a fool!—play the man!’ +</p> + +<p> +He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were +being compressed in a vice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then—I shall have to have some more brandy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I +doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him +the decanter and the glass. He helped himself to a copious libation. By +the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put +down the empty tumbler. +</p> + +<p> +‘When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert +pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,—but +then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation +of a tête-à-tête with the devil.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again he turned to leave the room,—and this time he actually went. I +let him go alone. I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and +the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out +in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and—I wondered. +</p> + +<p> +I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a +slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come +fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked +it up. It was a picture of a beetle,—a facsimile of the one which had +had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before. +</p> + +<p> +‘If this was intended for St Paul, it’s a trifle late;—unless—’ +</p> + +<p> +I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked +up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;—in which expectation I was +agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss +Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were +red as roses. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope I am not interrupting you again, but—I left my purse here.’ +She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘And—I want +you to come and lunch with me.’ +</p> + +<p> +I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,—and I lunched with +Dora Grayling. +</p> + + +<h2 id="b3"> +BOOK III.<br/> +<span class="book_sub">The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day</span> +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale</i> +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch23"> +CHAPTER XXIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE WAY HE TOLD HER</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I am</span> the happiest woman in the world! I wonder how many women have said +that of themselves in their time,—but I am. Paul has told me that he +loves me. How long I have made inward confession of my love for him, I +should be ashamed to say. It sounds prosaic, but I believe it is a fact +that the first stirring of my pulses was caused by the report of a +speech of his which I read in the <i>Times</i>. It was on the Eight Hours’ +Bill. Papa was most unflattering. He said that he was an oily spouter, +an ignorant agitator, an irresponsible firebrand, and a good deal more +to the same effect. I remember very well how papa fidgeted with the +paper, declaring that it read even worse than it had sounded, and +goodness knew that it had sounded bad enough. He was so very emphatic +that when he had gone I thought I would see what all the pother was +about, and read the speech for myself. So I read it. It affected me +quite differently. The speaker’s words showed such knowledge, charity, +and sympathy that they went straight to my heart. +</p> + +<p> +After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham’s which I came across. +And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time +before we met. Considering what papa’s opinions were, it was not likely +that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the +mere mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we +did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even +than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and +women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop +windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful. +</p> + +<p> +When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was. +We did not plan our meetings,—at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed +always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not +meet,—sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming +across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not +notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have +managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be +certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those +constant encounters could not have all been chance ones. +</p> + +<p> +But I never supposed he loved me,—never. I am not even sure that, for +some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship, +both of us.—I was quite aware that I was his friend,—that he regarded +me as his friend; he told me so more than once. +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell you this,’ he would say, referring to this, that, or the other, +‘because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +With him those were not empty words. All kinds of people talk to one +like that,—especially men; it is a kind of formula which they use with +every woman who shows herself disposed to listen. But Paul is not like +that. He is chary of speech; not by any means a woman’s man. I tell him +that is his weakest point. If legend does not lie more even than is +common, few politicians have achieved prosperity without the aid of +women. He replies that he is not a politician; that he never means to +be a politician. He simply wishes to work for his country; if his +country does not need his services—well, let it be. Papa’s political +friends have always so many axes of their own to grind, that, at first, +to hear a member of Parliament talk like that was almost disquieting. I +had dreamed of men like that; but I never encountered one till I met +Paul Lessingham. +</p> + +<p> +Our friendship was a pleasant one. It became pleasanter and pleasanter. +Until there came a time when he told me everything; the dreams he +dreamed; the plans which he had planned; the great purposes which, if +health and strength were given him, he intended to carry to a great +fulfilment. And, at last, he told me something else. +</p> + +<p> +It was after a meeting at a Working Women’s Club in Westminster. He had +spoken, and I had spoken too. I don’t know what papa would have said, +if he had known, but I had. A formal resolution had been proposed, and +I had seconded it,—in perhaps a couple of hundred words; but that +would have been quite enough for papa to have regarded me as an +Abandoned Wretch,—papa always puts those sort of words into capitals. +Papa regards a speechifying woman as a thing of horror,—I have known +him look askance at a Primrose Dame. +</p> + +<p> +The night was fine. Paul proposed that I should walk with him down the +Westminster Bridge Road, until we reached the House, and then he would +see me into a cab. I did as he suggested. It was still early, not yet +ten, and the streets were alive with people. Our conversation, as we +went, was entirely political. The Agricultural Amendment Act was then +before the Commons, and Paul felt very strongly that it was one of +those measures which give with one hand, while taking with the other. +The committee stage was at hand, and already several amendments were +threatened, the effect of which would be to strengthen the landlord at +the expense of the tenant. More than one of these, and they not the +most moderate, were to be proposed by papa. Paul was pointing out how +it would be his duty to oppose these tooth and nail, when, all at once, +he stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists +between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon regards +my action as a personal question, and resents it so keenly, that I am +sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion of his resentment is +not shared by you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and +papa the father as quite another.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are his daughter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly I am;—but would you, on that account, wish me to share his +political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You love him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I do,—he is the best of fathers.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.’ +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was +passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa was one +which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to +taboo. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has no +politics.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lindon!—I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within +three weeks his wife’s politics would be his own.’ +</p> + +<p> +Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their +wives,—even their political ones.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Papa’s opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The +reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is because he +fears that if he associated with anybody else—with Radicals, +say,—before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. With him, +association is synonymous with logic.’ +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge. +Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was +gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of +barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred to what I +had just been saying. +</p> + +<div class="fig"> +<a href="images/img_187.jpg"> +<img alt="" src="images/img_187_th.jpg" /> +</a> +<div class="caption"> +PRESENTLY HIS HAND FASTENED UPON MINE AND HELD IT TIGHT. +</div></div> + +<p> +‘And you,—do you think marriage would colour your convictions?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would it yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That depends.’ He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had +learned to look for when he was most in earnest, ‘It depends on whether +you would marry me.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath +away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he +addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?’ +</p> + +<p> +I found my voice,—or a part of it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?—to what?’ +</p> + +<p> +He came a little closer. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you be my wife?’ +</p> + +<p> +The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came into +my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so absurd. Just +then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling waters were tipped +with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my +ears. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know that I love you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a feeling +of friendship was something very different. It was as if somebody, in +tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which +dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have I offended you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +I fancy that he noted the tremor which was in my voice, and read it +rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along the +parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight. +</p> + +<p> +And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they were +hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some time in +saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart was too full +for copious speech; I was dumb with a great happiness. And, I believe, +I can say the same of Paul. He told me as much when we were parting. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started. Turning, +he stared up at Big Ben. +</p> + +<p> +‘Midnight!—The House up!—Impossible!’ +</p> + +<p> +But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been on the +Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never had I +supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely unnoticed. +Paul was considerably taken aback. His legislative conscience pricked +him. He excused himself—in his own fashion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not so +important as my business out of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face. +</p> + +<p> +‘So you call this business!’ +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in the cab +he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that night. My +nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when he kissed me, I +did a thing which I never do,—I have my own standard of behaviour, and +that sort of thing is quite outside of it; I behaved like a sentimental +chit. I cried. And it took him all the way to my father’s door to +comfort me. +</p> + +<p> +I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion, he +consented to excuse me. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch24"> +CHAPTER XXIV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A WOMAN’S VIEW</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Sydney Atherton</span> has asked me to be his wife. It is not only annoying; +worse, it is absurd. +</p> + +<p> +This is the result of Paul’s wish that our engagement should not be +announced. He is afraid of papa;—not really, but for the moment. The +atmosphere of the House is charged with electricity. Party feeling runs +high. They are at each other, hammer and tongs, about this Agricultural +Amendment Act. The strain on Paul is tremendous. I am beginning to feel +positively concerned. Little things which I have noticed about him +lately convince me that he is being overwrought. I suspect him of +having sleepless nights. The amount of work which he has been getting +through lately has been too much for any single human being, I care not +who he is. He himself admits that he shall be glad when the session is +at an end. So shall I. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime, it is his desire that nothing shall be said about our +engagement until the House rises. It is reasonable enough. Papa is sure +to be violent,—lately, the barest allusion to Paul’s name has been +enough to make him explode. When the discovery does come, he will be +unmanageable,—I foresee it clearly. From little incidents which have +happened recently I predict the worst. He will be capable of making a +scene within the precincts of the House. And, as Paul says, there is +some truth in the saying that the last straw breaks the camel’s back. +He will be better able to face papa’s wild wrath when the House has +risen. +</p> + +<p> +So the news is to bide a wee. Of course Paul is right. And what he +wishes I wish too. Still, it is not all such plain sailing for me as he +perhaps thinks. The domestic atmosphere is almost as electrical as that +in the House. Papa is like the terrier who scents a rat,—he is always +sniffing the air. He has not actually forbidden me to speak to +Paul,—his courage is not quite at the sticking point; but he is +constantly making uncomfortable allusions to persons who number among +their acquaintance ‘political adventurers,’ ‘grasping carpet-baggers,’ +‘Radical riff-raff,’ and that kind of thing. Sometimes I venture to +call my soul my own; but such a tempest invariably follows that I +become discreet again as soon as I possibly can. So, as a rule, I +suffer in silence. +</p> + +<p> +Still, I would with all my heart that the concealment were at an end. +No one need imagine that I am ashamed of being about to marry +Paul,—papa least of all. On the contrary, I am as proud of it as a +woman can be. Sometimes, when he has said or done something unusually +wonderful, I fear that my pride will out,—I do feel it so strong +within me. I should be delighted to have a trial of strength with papa; +anywhere, at any time,—I should not be so rude to him as he would be +to me. At the bottom of his heart papa knows that I am the more +sensible of the two; after a pitched battle or so he would understand +it better still. I know papa! I have not been his daughter for all +these years in vain. I feel like hot-blooded soldiers must feel, who, +burning to attack the enemy in the open field, are ordered to skulk +behind hedges, and be shot at. +</p> + +<p> +One result is that Sydney has actually made a proposal of marriage,—he +of all people! It is too comical. The best of it was that he took +himself quite seriously. I do not know how many times he has confided +to me the sufferings which he has endured for love of other women—some +of them, I am sorry to say, decent married women too; but this is the +first occasion on which the theme has been a personal one. He was so +frantic, as he is wont to be, that, to calm him, I told him about +Paul,—which, under the circumstances, to him I felt myself at liberty +to do. In return, he was melodramatic; hinting darkly at I know not +what. I was almost cross with him. +</p> + +<p> +He is a curious person, Sydney Atherton. I suppose it is because I have +known him all my life, and have always looked upon him, in cases of +necessity, as a capital substitute for a brother, that I criticise him +with so much frankness. In some respects, he is a genius; in others—I +will not write fool, for that he never is, though he has often done +some extremely foolish things. The fame of his inventions is in the +mouths of all men; though the half of them has never been told. He is +the most extraordinary mixture. The things which most people would like +to have proclaimed in the street, he keeps tightly locked in his own +bosom; while those which the same persons would be only too glad to +conceal, he shouts from the roofs. A very famous man once told me that +if Mr Atherton chose to become a specialist, to take up one branch of +inquiry, and devote his life to it, his fame, before he died, would +bridge the spheres. But sticking to one thing is not in Sydney’s line +at all. He prefers, like the bee, to roam from flower to flower. +</p> + +<p> +As for his being in love with me; it is ridiculous. He is as much in +love with the moon. I cannot think what has put the idea into his head. +Some girl must have been ill-using him, or he imagines that she has. +The girl whom he ought to marry, and whom he ultimately will marry, is +Dora Grayling. She is young, charming, immensely rich, and over head +and ears in love with him;—if she were not, then he would be over head +and ears in love with her. I believe he is very near it as it +is,—sometimes he is so very rude to her. It is a characteristic of +Sydney’s, that he is apt to be rude to a girl whom he really likes. As +for Dora, I suspect she dreams of him. He is tall, straight, very +handsome, with a big moustache, and the most extraordinary eyes;—I +fancy that those eyes of his have as much to do with Dora’s state as +anything. I have heard it said that he possesses the hypnotic power to +an unusual degree, and that, if he chose to exercise it, he might +become a danger to society. I believe he has hypnotised Dora. +</p> + +<p> +He makes an excellent brother. I have gone to him, many and many a +time, for help,—and some excellent advice I have received. I daresay I +shall consult him still. There are matters of which one would hardly +dare to talk to Paul. In all things he is the great man. He could +hardly condescend to chiffons. Now Sydney can and does. When he is in +the mood, on the vital subject of trimmings a woman could not appeal to +a sounder authority. I tell him, if he had been a dressmaker, he would +have been magnificent. I am sure he would. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch25"> +CHAPTER XXV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MAN IN THE STREET</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">This</span> morning I had an adventure. +</p> + +<p> +I was in the breakfast-room. Papa, as usual, was late for breakfast, +and I was wondering whether I should begin without him, when, chancing +to look round, something caught my eye in the street. I went to the +window to see what it was. A small crowd of people was in the middle of +the road, and they were all staring at something which, apparently, was +lying on the ground. What it was I could not see. +</p> + +<p> +The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.’ +</p> + +<p> +He went and saw; and, presently, he returned. Peter is an excellent +servant; but the fashion of his speech, even when conveying the most +trivial information, is slightly sesquipedalian. He would have made a +capital cabinet minister at question time,—he wraps up the smallest +portions of meaning in the largest possible words. +</p> + +<p> +‘An unfortunate individual appears to have been the victim of a +catastrophe. I am informed that he is dead. The constable asserts that +he is drunk.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Drunk?—dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?—at this hour!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual myself. +I derived my information from a bystander.’ +</p> + +<p> +That was not sufficiently explicit for me. I gave way to a, seemingly, +quite causeless impulse of curiosity, I went out into the street, just +as I was, to see for myself. It was, perhaps, not the most sensible +thing I could have done, and papa would have been shocked; but I am +always shocking papa. It had been raining in the night, and the shoes +which I had on were not so well suited as they might have been for an +encounter with the mud. +</p> + +<p> +I made my way to the point of interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s something wrong with someone. Policeman says he’s drunk, but +he looks to me as if he was something worse.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you let me pass, please?’ +</p> + +<p> +When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of +the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was +so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that +he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was +partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one +wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on. +A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was +regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed +uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, my lad, this won’t do!—Wake up!—What’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold +of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless. +Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought +to be had at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think he’s in a fit, miss?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There +seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he was—’ +</p> + +<p> +The word ‘dead’ was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved me +from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his wrist +away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his hands in front +of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud, but painfully +raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a very bad cold, +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear Paul—my +Paul!—apostrophised by an individual of his appearance, in that +fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly the words +were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward, and seemingly +relapsed into unconsciousness,—the constable gripping him by the +shoulder just in time to prevent him banging the back of his head +against the road. +</p> + +<p> +The officer shook him,—scarcely gently. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, my lad, it’s plain that you’re not dead!—What’s the meaning of +this?—Move yourself!’ +</p> + +<p> +Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he had +been struck by the singularity of his mistress’ behaviour, and had +followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it deserved. +I spoke to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!’ +</p> + +<p> +Dr Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident that the +man’s lapse into consciousness had made the policeman sceptical as to +his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought it might be advisable +that a competent opinion should be obtained without delay. +</p> + +<p> +Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to +consciousness,—that is, if it really was consciousness, as to which I +was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous pantomime; +sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his eyes unnaturally +wide,—and yet they appeared unseeing!—a sort of convulsion went all +over him, and he shrieked—it really amounted to shrieking—as a man +might shriek who was in mortal terror. +</p> + +<p> +‘Be warned, Paul Lessingham—be warned!’ +</p> + +<p> +For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which needed to +be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul’s name,—and in the +strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and the wherefore; to +ascertain what connection there was between this lifeless creature and +Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast him there before my door. I +might be entertaining an angel unawares. My mind was made up on the +instant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Peter, hasten for Dr Cotes.’ Peter passed the word, and immediately a +footman started running as fast as his legs would carry him. ‘Officer, +I will have this man taken into my father’s house.—Will some of you +men help to carry him?’ +</p> + +<p> +There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in the +hall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is papa down yet?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for him +for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his breakfast +conveyed to him upstairs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s all right.’ I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being +carried through the hall. ‘You will say nothing to him about this +unless he particularly asks. You understand?’ +</p> + +<p> +Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries, and +it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wants washing,’ he remarked, directly he saw him. +</p> + +<p> +And that certainly was true,—I never saw a man who stood more +obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he went +through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while. So far as +I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he dead?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He will be soon, if he doesn’t have something to eat. The fellow’s +starving.’ +</p> + +<p> +The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him. +</p> + +<p> +That sagacious officer’s reply was vague. A boy had run up to him +crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway +followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he knew. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the matter with the man?’ I inquired of the doctor, when the +constable had gone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t know.—It may be catalepsy, and it mayn’t.—When I do know, you +may ask again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Dr Cotes’ manner was a trifle brusque,—particularly, I believe, to me. +I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I was a small +child I used to think nothing of boxing his. +</p> + +<p> +Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless +man—particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul—I went +upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he was +suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a capital +breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,—while I was still fasting—I +ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared. +</p> + +<p> +I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the +street,—lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like that, the +slightest thing does. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch26"> +CHAPTER XXVI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A FATHER’S NO</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Paul</span> has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches +which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And, +also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney. +</p> + +<p> +Sydney’s little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in +thinking himself in love with me,—as if, since last night, when he +what he calls ‘proposed’ to me, he has not time to fall out of love, +and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems +to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. +That I should not mind,—for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as +Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts +at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, +will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair’s breadth, he +has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy +Woodville asked me to be his wife to-night,—which, also, is nothing; he +has been trying to do it for the last three years,—though, under the +circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom +merely because I preferred another man,—and he, I believe, does care +for me. +</p> + +<p> +Papa’s affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,—and +this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said +a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was +expected to speak to-night,—as if I did not know it!—and availed +himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case, +he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don’t know—or, rather, I +do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the +presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually employs. +However, I said nothing. I had a motive for allowing the chaff to fly +before the wind. +</p> + +<p> +But, to-night, issue was joined. +</p> + +<p> +I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,—as I have done over and over +again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He +had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in +the lobby, there was Sydney,—all sneers! I could have pinched him. +Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I should have to stick a +pin into his arm, Paul returned,—and, positively, Sydney was rude to +him. I was ashamed, if Mr Atherton was not. As if it was not enough +that he should be insulted by a mere popinjay, at the very moment when +he had been adding another stone to the fabric of his country’s +glory,—papa came up. He actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I +should have liked to see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to +the carriage, leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not +choose,—but, none the less, he managed to be home within three minutes +after I had myself returned. +</p> + +<p> +Then the battle began. +</p> + +<p> +It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There may be +men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if there are, papa +is certainly not one. He is always talking about the magnificence, and +the high breeding of the Lindons, but anything less high-bred than the +head of the Lindons, in his moments of wrath, it would be hard to +conceive. His language I will not attempt to portray,—but his +observations consisted, mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the +Lindons, and orders to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘I forbid you—I forbid you—’ when papa wishes to be impressive he +repeats his own words three or four times over; I don’t know if he +imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he is +wrong—‘I forbid you ever again to speak to that—that—that—’ +</p> + +<p> +Here followed language. +</p> + +<p> +I was silent. +</p> + +<p> +My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception, perhaps, +of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa should so +forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you hear me?—do you hear what I say?—do you hear me, miss?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, papa; I hear you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then—then—then promise me!—promise that you will do as I tell +you!—mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave this +room!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear papa!—do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life in +the drawing-room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you be impertinent!—do-do-don’t you speak to me like +that!—I—I—I won’t have it!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I tell you what it is, papa, if you don’t take care you’ll have +another attack of gout.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Damn gout.’ +</p> + +<p> +That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as gout +can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance of a word, +by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went again. +</p> + +<p> +‘The man’s a ruffianly, rascally,—’ and so on. ‘There’s not such a +villainous vagabond—’ and all the rest of it. ‘And I order you,—I’m a +Lindon, and I order you! I’m your father, and I order you!—I order you +never to speak to such a—such a’—various vain repetitions—‘again, +and—and—and I order you never to look at him!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul +Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord +Cantilever again,—or to recognise him if you meet him in the street.’ +</p> + +<p> +You should have seen how papa glared. Lord Cantilever is the head of +his party. Its august, and, I presume, reverenced leader. He is papa’s +particular fetish. I am not sure that he does regard him as being any +lower than the angels, but if he does it is certainly something in +decimals. My suggestion seemed as outrageous to him as his suggestion +seemed to me. But it is papa’s misfortune that he can only see one side +of a question,—and that’s his own. +</p> + +<p> +‘You—you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to—to that—that—that—!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not comparing them. I am not aware of there being anything in +particular against Lord Cantilever,—that is against his character. +But, of course, I should not dream of comparing a man of his calibre, +with one of real ability, like Paul Lessingham. It would be to treat +his lordship with too much severity.’ +</p> + +<p> +I could not help it,—but that did it. The rest of papa’s conversation +was a jumble of explosions. It was all so sad. +</p> + +<p> +Papa poured all the vials of his wrath upon Paul,—to his own sore +disfigurement. He threatened me with all the pains and penalties of the +inquisition if I did not immediately promise to hold no further +communication with Mr Lessingham,—of course I did nothing of the kind. +He cursed me, in default, by bell, book, and candle,—and by ever so +many other things beside. He called me the most dreadful names,—me! +his only child. He warned me that I should find myself in prison before +I had done,—I am not sure that he did not hint darkly at the gallows. +Finally, he drove me from the room in a whirlwind of anathemas. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch27"> +CHAPTER XXVII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE TERROR BY NIGHT</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">When</span> I left papa,—or, rather, when papa had driven me from him—I went +straight to the man whom I had found in the street. It was late, and I +was feeling both tired and worried, so that I only thought of seeing +for myself how he was. In some way, he seemed to be a link between Paul +and myself, and as, at that moment, links of that kind were precious, I +could not have gone to bed without learning something of his condition. +</p> + +<p> +The nurse received me at the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, nurse, how’s the patient?’ +</p> + +<p> +Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one odd +protégé of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck and call. +She held out her hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s hard to tell. He hasn’t moved since I came.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not moved?—Is he still insensible?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He seems to me to be in some sort of trance. He does not appear to +breathe, and I can detect no pulsation, but the doctor says he’s still +alive,—it’s the queerest case I ever saw.’ +</p> + +<p> +I went farther into the room. Directly I did so the man in the bed gave +signs of life which were sufficiently unmistakable. Nurse hastened to +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘he’s moving!—he might have heard you enter!’ +</p> + +<p> +He not only might have done, but it seemed possible that that was what +he actually had done. As I approached the bed, he raised himself to a +sitting posture, as, in the morning, he had done in the street, and he +exclaimed, as if he addressed himself to someone whom he saw in front +of him,—I cannot describe the almost more than human agony which was +in his voice, +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham!—Beware!—The Beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +What he meant I had not the slightest notion. Probably that was why +what seemed more like a pronouncement of delirium than anything else +had such an extraordinary effect upon my nerves. No sooner had he +spoken than a sort of blank horror seemed to settle down upon my mind. +I actually found myself trembling at the knees. I felt, all at once, as +if I was standing in the immediate presence of something awful yet +unseen. +</p> + +<p> +As for the speaker, no sooner were the words out of his lips, than, as +was the case in the morning, he relapsed into a condition of trance. +Nurse, bending over him, announced the fact. +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s gone off again!—What an extraordinary thing!—I suppose it is +real.’ It was clear, from the tone of her voice, that she shared the +doubt which had troubled the policeman. ‘There’s not a trace of a +pulse. From the look of things he might be dead. Of one thing I’m sure, +that there’s something unnatural about the man. No natural illness I +ever heard of, takes hold of a man like this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face; an +appearance which startled her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, Miss Marjorie, what’s the matter!—You look quite ill!’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt ill, and worse than ill; but, at the same time, I was quite +incapable of describing what I felt to nurse. For some inscrutable +reason I had even lost the control of my tongue,—I stammered. +</p> + +<p> +‘I—I—I’m not feeling very well, nurse; I—I—I think I’ll be better +in bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +As I spoke, I staggered towards the door, conscious, all the while, +that nurse was staring at me with eyes wide open. When I got out of the +room, it seemed, in some incomprehensible fashion, as if something had +left it with me, and that It and I were alone together in the corridor. +So overcome was I by the consciousness of its immediate propinquity, +that, all at once, I found myself cowering against the wall,—as if I +expected something or someone to strike me. +</p> + +<p> +How I reached my bedroom I do not know. I found Fanchette awaiting me. +For the moment her presence was a positive comfort,—until I realised +the amazement with which she was regarding me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mademoiselle is not well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, Fanchette, I—I am rather tired. I will undress myself +to-night—you can go to bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?’ +</p> + +<p> +The suggestion was reasonable enough,—and kindly too; for, to say the +least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had. I hesitated. I +should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg her not to +leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed. In my inner +consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had +suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not +bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid’s eyes. While I +hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to +brush against my cheek in passing. I caught at Fanchette’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fanchette!—Is there something with us in the room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Something with us in the room?—Mademoiselle?—What does mademoiselle +mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked disturbed,—which was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is +not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a +support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the +fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?—you are to +go to bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +She went to bed,—with quite sufficient willingness. +</p> + +<p> +The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back +again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of +stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to +prevent myself from collapsing in a heap on the floor. I had never, +till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect +myself of being the possessor of ‘nerves.’ I was as little likely as +anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing +was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own +conduct when the morning came. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you don’t want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie +Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will +fly.’ +</p> + +<p> +But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became +convinced,—and the process of conviction was terrible beyond +words!—that there actually was something with me in the room, some +invisible horror,—which, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed +to understand—with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!—that +this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together +by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment, +that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, +and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of +second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in +which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands, +and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of +vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the +horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul! Paul!’ I screamed. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood +that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; +that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced +to remove a particle of dress. +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I going mad?’ I wondered. +</p> + +<p> +I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have +caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. +Surely that sort of thing does not come on one—in such a wholly +unmitigated form!—without the slightest notice,—and that my mental +faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first +premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the +melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street. +</p> + +<p> +‘Paul Lessingham!—Beware!—The Beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +The words were ringing in my ears.—What was that?—There was a +buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I +moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round +on my heels. It still eluded me,—it was still behind. +</p> + +<p> +I stood and listened,—what was it that hovered so persistently at my +back? +</p> + +<p> +The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee. +Or—could it be a beetle? +</p> + +<p> +My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles,—of any sort or +kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls, +nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the +thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so +many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My +pet—and only—horror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a +harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several +feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great, +winged beetle—to me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!—was +with me in my bedroom,—goodness alone knew how it had got there!—was +unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would +certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang +from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order +to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitant,—but in vain. I could +hear it all the time; but see it—never! The buzzing sound was +continually behind. +</p> + +<p> +The terror returned,—I began to think that my brain must be softening. +I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But +I was speechless,—words would not come; my thoughts would not take +shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of +God, that I was wrestling with something evil,—that if I only could +ask help of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was +helpless,—overmastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my +fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time. +</p> + +<p> +I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting +nothing,—the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, +I was not aiming. +</p> + +<p> +I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn for the +first time that night; I had had it specially made for the occasion of +the Duchess’ ball, and—more especially—in honour of Paul’s great +speech. I had said to myself, when I saw my image in a mirror, that it +was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that it suited me to +perfection, and that it should continue in my wardrobe for many a day, +if only as a souvenir of a memorable night. Now, in the madness of my +terror, all reflections of that sort were forgotten. My only desire was +to away with it. I tore it off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the +floor at my feet. All else that I had on I flung in the same way after +it; it was a veritable holocaust of dainty garments,—I acting as +relentless executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things. I +leaped upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed, +burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets. +</p> + +<p> +I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my senses. +That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane reflection. But +I had made a grievous error. I had exchanged bad for worse. The +darkness lent added terrors. The light had not been out five seconds +before I would have given all that I was worth to be able to switch it +on again. +</p> + +<p> +As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound above my +head,—the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it more audible +than it had been before. The thing, whatever it was, was hovering above +the bed. It came nearer and nearer; it grew clearer and clearer. I felt +it alight upon the coverlet;—shall I ever forget the sensations with +which I did feel it? It weighed upon me like a ton of lead. How much of +the seeming weight was real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend +to say; but that it was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen +or heard of, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +For a time it was still,—and during that time I doubt if I even drew +my breath. Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion, with +awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if for rest. I +was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet surely, towards the +head of the bed. The emotion of horror with which I realised what this +progression might mean, will be, I fear, with me to the end of my +life,—not only in dreams, but too often, also, in my waking hours. My +heart, as the Psalmist has it, melted like wax within me. I was +incapable of movement,—dominated by something as hideous as, and +infinitely more powerful than, the fascination of the serpent. +</p> + +<p> +When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared—with what a +fear!—would happen, did happen. It began to find its way inside,—to +creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die! I felt it coming +nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon me, that +escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair. +</p> + +<p> +And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my life I +swooned. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch28"> +CHAPTER XXVIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I have</span> been anticipating for some weeks past, that things would become +exciting,—and they have. But hardly in the way which I foresaw. It is +the old story of the unexpected happening. Suddenly events of the most +extraordinary nature have come crowding on me from the most +unlooked-for quarters. +</p> + +<p> +Let me try to take them in something like their proper order. +</p> + +<p> +To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems +likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of his +character. It was nearly nine o’clock this morning when I,—I cannot +say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really been +asleep—but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself sitting up +in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had actually +happened to me I did not know,—could not guess. I was conscious of an +overwhelming sense of nausea, and, generally, I was feeling very far +from well. I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts, and to decide upon +some plan of action. Finally, I decided to go for advice and help where +I had so often gone before,—to Sydney Atherton. +</p> + +<p> +I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he could +not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night had made +on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of sympathy,—and +then all at once I discovered that all the time papa had been concealed +behind a large screen which was in the room, listening to every word I +had been uttering. That I was dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was +bad enough in papa, but in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such +treachery. He and I have told each other secrets all our lives; it has +never entered my imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false, +in one jot or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort +of matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so much +keener than women’s. I told them some plain truths; and I fancy that I +left them both feeling heartily ashamed of themselves. +</p> + +<p> +One result the experience had on me,—it wound me up. It had on me the +revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was a +situation in which I should have to help myself. +</p> + +<p> +When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in the +street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever likely to +be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the connection which +existed between Paul and him, and what was the meaning of his oracular +apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my hat before hastening into his +apartment. +</p> + +<p> +When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his gratitude +were painful in their intensity. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He +looked to me like a man who had very little life left in him. He looked +weak, and white, and worn to a shadow. Probably he never had been +robust, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what +little strength he had ever had. He was nothing else but skin and bone. +Physical and mental debility was written large all over him. +</p> + +<p> +He was not bad-looking,—in a milk and watery sort of way. He had pale +blue eyes and very fair hair, and, I daresay, at one time, had been a +spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages so +rapidly under the stress of misfortune, but I should have set him down +as being about forty. His voice, though faint enough at first, was that +of an educated man, and as he went on, and gathered courage, and became +more and more in earnest, he spoke with a simple directness which was +close akin to eloquence. It was a curious story which he had to tell. +</p> + +<p> +So curious, so astounding indeed, that, by the time it was finished, I +was in such a state of mind, that I could perceive no alternative but +to forgive Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous +misbehaviour, again appeal to him for assistance. It seemed, if the +story told by the man whom I had found in the street was true,—and +incredible though it sounded, he spoke like a truthful man!—that Paul +was threatened by some dreadful, and, to me, wholly incomprehensible +danger; that it was a case in which even moments were precious; and I +felt that, with the best will in the world, it was a position in which +I could not move alone. The shadow of the terror of the night was with +me still, and with that fresh in my recollection how could I hope, +single-handed, to act effectually against the mysterious being of whom +this amazing tale was told? No! I believed that Sydney did care for me, +in his own peculiar way; I knew that he was quick, and cool, and +fertile in resource, and that he showed to most advantage in a +difficult situation; it was possible that he had a conscience, of a +sort, and that, this time, I might not appeal to it in vain. +</p> + +<p> +So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter. +</p> + +<p> +As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five +minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who +lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming +down the steps. I had him shown into my own room. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to +what he has to say.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With pleasure.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can I trust you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To listen to what he has to say?—I believe so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can I trust you to respect my confidence?’ +</p> + +<p> +He was not at all abashed,—I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was +abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always +seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can,—I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test +the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to +prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.’ +</p> + +<p> +Directly we were in the stranger’s room, Sydney marched straight up to +the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into +his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed. +</p> + +<p> +‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know this man?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I +chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this +gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers +me.—Do you?’ +</p> + +<p> +The stranger seemed uneasy,—as if he found Sydney’s tone and manner +disconcerting. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do. You are the man in the street.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Precisely. I am that—individual. And you are the man who came through +the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be +than when first I saw you.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘It is just possible, +Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman +which would be better made in private,—if you don’t mind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I do mind,—I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you +here for?’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,—as if the occasion +were not sufficiently serious. +</p> + +<p> +‘To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your confidence.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story, +and I have sent for you—as you may believe, not too willingly’—Sydney +bowed—‘in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that so?—Well!—Permit me to offer you a chair,—this tale may turn +out to be a trifle long.’ +</p> + +<p> +To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have +preferred to stand;—he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing +on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, sir, we are at your service,—if you will be so good as to +favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn you have been +spinning. But—let us begin at the right end!—what’s your name?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My name is Robert Holt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That so?—Then, Mr Robert Holt,—let her go!’ +</p> + +<p> +Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only +in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney’s glances +exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the +point,—he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable +to the last. +</p> + +<p> +He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been +refused admittance to the casual ward,—that unfailing resource, as one +would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had +come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of +nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through +it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, +who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only +half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild +sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham,—my Paul! How he had +taken advantage of Holt’s enfeebled state to gain over him the most +complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he +actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven +streets, to commit burglary at Paul’s house,—and how he,—Holt,—had +actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition. +How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the +very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a +cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone +out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape +without an effort to detain him. +</p> + +<p> +The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed +still more astonishing the second,—but, as I watched Sydney listening, +what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all +before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is not the first time you have been told this tale.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me,—but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy +tales?’ +</p> + +<p> +Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sydney!—Don’t tell me a story!—Paul has told you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not telling you a story,—at least, on this occasion; and Mr +Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a +little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a +question or two to Mr Holt.’ +</p> + +<p> +I let him have his way,—though I knew he was concealing something from +me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt’s strange +tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence +annoyed me. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two. Then he said, with +the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his +own, +</p> + +<p> +‘I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in +fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little +yarn of yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.’ +</p> + +<p> +This seemed to take Sydney aback. +</p> + +<p> +‘I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive +knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.—I take it +that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this +mysterious dwelling.’ +</p> + +<p> +I saw that Mr Holt shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not likely ever to forget him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.’ +</p> + +<p> +If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave +of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression +conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I +watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr Holt’s somewhat lurid +language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more +and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange +business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a +question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a note in Sydney’s voice which suggested that he had received +precisely the answer which he had expected. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you think it was a woman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made +me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.’ He +paused, as if to reflect. Then added, ‘I suppose it was a question of +instinct.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—Just so.—It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong +on questions of instinct.’ Sydney got off the bed. He stretched +himself, as if fatigued,—which is a way he has. ‘I will not do you the +injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and +simple, narrative. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect +credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will +be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the +delightful residence on which the whole is founded.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt coloured,—Sydney’s tone could scarcely have been more +significant. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never +been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to +pay much attention to locality.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All of which is granted, but—how far was it from Hammersmith +Workhouse?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Possibly under half a mile.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on +leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,—I suppose there are not many turnings +you could have taken.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think I could remember.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn’t a very far cry to +Hammersmith,—don’t you think you are well enough to drive there now, +just you and I together in a cab?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the +doctor’s orders I have stayed in bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, for once in a while, the doctor’s orders shall be ignored,—I +prescribe fresh air.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘Since Mr Holt’s wardrobe +seems rather to seek, don’t you think a suit of one of the men might +fit him,—if Mr Holt wouldn’t mind making shift for the moment?—Then, +by the time you’ve finished dressing, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.’ +</p> + +<p> +While they were ascertaining which suit of clothes would be best +adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we +were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended +to be trifled with. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He pretended not to know what I meant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Coming with me?—I am delighted to hear it,—but where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but—might I point out?—Mr +Holt has to find it yet?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will come to help you to help him find it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney laughed,—but I could see he did not altogether relish the +suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Three in a hansom?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,—or I could order a +carriage if you’d like one.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk +up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently +he began to talk nonsense. +</p> + +<p> +‘I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the +delights of a drive with you,—even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I +in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble servant +to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious +business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I +will describe the proceedings to you with the most literal accuracy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I daresay.—Do you think I don’t know you’ve been deceiving me all the +time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Deceiving you?—I!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—you! Do you think I’m quite an idiot?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Marjorie!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think I can’t see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been +telling us,—perhaps more about it than he knows himself?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On my word!—With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I do,—or discredit you, rather. If I were to trust you, you +would tell me just as much as you chose,—which would be nothing. I’m +coming with you,—so there’s an end.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well.—Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the +house?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Revolvers?—whatever for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal from +you—since you press me—that this is a case in which a revolver is +quite likely to be required.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are trying to frighten me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am +bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, you think that you’re bound to point that out, do you,—then now +your bounden duty’s done. As for there being any revolvers in the +house, papa has a perfect arsenal,—would you like to take them all?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,—unless you +would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don’t think I’ll +trouble. I’ll run the risk.—Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I +earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair +alone. I don’t mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with +which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself +to be associated.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything +against—Paul?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear +Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,—that if, in spite of my +urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the +expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is what you do mean, is it? Then that’s settled.’ I rang the +bell. The servant came. ‘Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me +know the moment Mr Holt is ready.’ The servant went. I turned to +Sydney. ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are, +of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will +not go, but, if you don’t, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +I moved to the door. He stopped me. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such +injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is +which you are setting out upon,—or you would hear reason. I assure you +that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent +peril.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,—why don’t you +speak right out?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t speak right out, there are circumstances which render it +practically impossible—and that’s the plain truth,—but the danger is +none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,—I am in earnest; +won’t you take my word for it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is not a question of taking your word only,—it is a question of +something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last +night,—and Mr Holt’s story is mysterious enough in itself; but there +is something more mysterious still at the back of it,—something which +you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, +and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very +well aware, is already overweighted with affairs of state, pretty +nearly borne down by them,—or I would take the tale to him, and he +would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, +I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul’s wife, I can +make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, +therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to +do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,—alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Understand that, when the time for regret comes—as it will come!—you +are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your +spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you +responsible for anything I either said or did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well!—Your blood be on your own head!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My blood?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—your blood. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to blood before +we’re through.—Perhaps you’ll oblige me with the loan of one of that +arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.’ +</p> + +<p> +I let him have his old revolver,—or, rather, I let him have one of +papa’s new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the +expedition started,—in a four-wheeled cab. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch29"> +CHAPTER XXIX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mr Holt</span> looked as if he was in somebody else’s garments. He was so +thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the +men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed +of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking +him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have +been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he +should eat as much as he could eat before we started—the suggestion of +starvation which he had conveyed to one’s mind was dreadful!—and I had +brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of +everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at +home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab. +</p> + +<p> +It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney’s manner towards me an +air of protection which I instinctively resented,—he appeared to be +regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a +wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished. +Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing +him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were +uttered were addressed to Mr Holt. +</p> + +<p> +The cab stopped,—after what had appeared to me to be an interminable +journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney +put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is ’Ammersmith Workhouse, it’s a large place, sir,—which part of +it might you be wanting?’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his +turn,—he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all. +</p> + +<p> +‘We have come a different way,—this is not the way I went; I went +through Hammersmith,—and to the casual ward; I don’t see that here.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney spoke to the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Driver, where’s the casual ward?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s the other end, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then take us there.’ +</p> + +<p> +He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I dismiss the cabman,—or don’t you feel equal to walking?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,—I think the exercise will +do me good.’ +</p> + +<p> +So the cabman was dismissed,—a step which we—and I, in +particular—had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings. +He pointed to a door which was just in front of us. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the +window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the +right,—back the way I had come.’ We went to the right. ‘I reached this +corner.’ We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him, +endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared +to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of +several directions. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he arrived at something like a decision. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think this is the way I went,—I am nearly sure it is.’ +</p> + +<p> +He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we +followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere. +We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were +confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us +were large spaces of waste land. At some more or less remote period +attempts appeared to have been made at brickmaking,—there were untidy +stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous +weather-stained boards announced that ‘This Desirable Land was to be +Let for Building Purposes.’ The road itself was unfinished. There was +no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed, +so far as I could judge, to lose itself in space, and to be swallowed +up by the wilderness of ‘Desirable Land’ which lay beyond. In the near +distance there were houses enough, and to spare—of a kind. But they +were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the +right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only +two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation. +One stood on either side, not facing each other,—there was a distance +between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more +exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly +forward,—coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left, +which was the nearer of the pair. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is the house!’ he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed almost exhilarated,—I confess that I was depressed. A more +dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those +dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old. +It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to +neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two, +it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a +couple of storeys high, and would have been dear—I should think!—at +thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since +the house was built,—those on the upper floor seemed all either +cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact +that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground +floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had +apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an +iron railing,—a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, +since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which +was practically built upon the road,—whether the wall was intended to +ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is the house!’ repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than +I had hitherto seen in him. +</p> + +<p> +Sydney looked it up and down,—it apparently appealed to his aesthetic +sense as little as it did to mine. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am certain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seems empty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seemed empty to me that night,—that is why I got into it in search +of shelter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Which is the window which served you as a door?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This one.’ Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,—the one +which was screened by a blind. ‘There was no sign of a blind when I +first saw it, and the sash was up,—it was that which caught my eye.’ +</p> + +<p> +Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from +roof to basement,—then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you +proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out +that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has +lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure it is the house,—certain! I know it,—I feel it here,—and +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly +odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. +Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his +attention upon me. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?’ +</p> + +<p> +The mere question ruffled my plumes. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get +through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, +when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,—as you have +heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may +not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position +in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should +keep your wits about you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not likely to let them stray.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then that’s all right.—Do I understand that you propose to come in +with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I do,—what do you suppose I’ve come for? What nonsense you +are talking.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the +time this little adventure’s done.’ +</p> + +<p> +That I resented his impertinence goes without saying—to be talked to +in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever +since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying,—but I am forced +to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by +Mr Holt’s manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had +not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that +woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr Holt’s story had been of +the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were +still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close +neighbourhood with the Unknown—with a capital U!—although it was +broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which,—candidly!—I +was not prepared. +</p> + +<p> +A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen,—it was in +perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was +off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with +rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little +thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to +see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at +us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge,—nothing +happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another +second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any +notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr Holt. +</p> + +<p> +‘Seems as if the place was empty.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,—it made me +uncomfortable to look at him. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do not know,—you cannot tell; there may be someone there who +hears and pays no heed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll give them another chance.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din +must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house +there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll try another way,—I may have better fortune at the back.’ +</p> + +<p> +He led the way round to the rear, Mr Holt and I following in single +file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front. +There were two empty rooms on the ground floor at the back,—there was +no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we +could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen +and wash-house combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a +stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human +habitation. Sydney commented on the fact. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments, +but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.’ +</p> + +<p> +To my thinking Mr Holt’s agitation was increasing every moment. For +some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever,—possibly +because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An +odd change had even taken place in Mr Holt’s voice,—he spoke in a sort +of tremulous falsetto. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was only the front room which I saw.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door. +He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous +shaking. He saluted the dirty windows,—so far as succeeding in +attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned +again to Mr Holt,—half mockingly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I call you to witness that I have used every lawful means to gain the +favourable notice of your mysterious friend. I must therefore beg to +stand excused if I try something slightly unlawful for a change. It is +true that you found the window already open; but, in my case, it soon +will be.’ +</p> + +<p> +He took a knife out of his pocket, and, with the open blade, forced +back the catch,—as I am told that burglars do. Then he lifted the sash. +</p> + +<p> +‘Behold!’ he exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you?—Now, my dear Marjorie, +if I get in first and Mr Holt gets in after me, we shall be in a +position to open the door for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +I immediately saw through his design. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, Mr Atherton; you will get in first, and I will get in after you, +through the window,—before Mr Holt. I don’t intend to wait for you to +open the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney raised his hands and opened his eyes, as if grieved at my want +of confidence. But I did not mean to be left in the lurch, to wait +their pleasure, while on pretence of opening the door, they searched +the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second,—it was not a +difficult operation, since the window-sill was under three feet from +the ground—and Mr Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand +up to his mouth, and shouted. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, +as there is someone wishes to see him.’ +</p> + +<p> +His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was +almost uncanny. I suddenly realised that if, after all, there did +happen to be somebody in the house, and he was at all disagreeable, our +presence on his premises might prove rather difficult to explain. +However, no one answered. While I was waiting for Sydney to make the +next move, he diverted my attention to Mr Holt. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo, Holt, what’s the matter with you? Man, don’t play the fool like +that!’ +</p> + +<p> +Something was the matter with Mr Holt. He was trembling all over as if +attacked by a shaking palsy. Every muscle in his body seemed twitching +at once. A strained look had come on his face, which was not nice to +see. He spoke as with an effort. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m all right.—It’s nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you’ll drop it. Where’s that brandy?’ +I handed Sydney the flask. ‘Here, swallow this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered +without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour +to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney +eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to +understand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Listen to me, my lad. Don’t think you can deceive me by playing any of +your fool tricks, and don’t delude yourself into supposing that I shall +treat you as anything but dangerous if you do. I’ve got this.’ He +showed the revolver of papa’s which I had lent him. ‘Don’t imagine that +Miss Lindon’s presence will deter me from using it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Why he addressed Mr Holt in such a strain surpassed my comprehension. +Mr Holt, however, evinced not the faintest symptoms of resentment,—he +had become, on a sudden, more like an automaton than a man. Sydney +continued to gaze at him as if he would have liked his glance to +penetrate to his inmost soul. +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep in front of me, if you please, Mr Holt, and lead the way to this +mysterious apartment in which you claim to have had such a remarkable +experience.’ +</p> + +<p> +Of me he asked in a whisper, +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you bring a revolver?’ +</p> + +<p> +I was startled. +</p> + +<p> +‘A revolver?—The idea!—How absurd you are!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney said something which was so rude—and so uncalled for!—that it +was worthy of papa in his most violent moments. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.’ I was so angry that I +did not know what to say,—and before I could say it he went on. ‘Keep +your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear. +Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of +your senses as you conveniently can.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there +seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of +a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something. I knew +Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in +the world to make a fuss without reason,—and that he was as little +likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact +there was none. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired—or, rather, commanded, to the +door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. +Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anyone in there?’ he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked. +</p> + +<p> +‘The first sign of the presence of a human being we have had,—doors +don’t lock themselves. It’s just possible that there may have been +someone or something about the place, at some time or other, after all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Grasping the handle firmly, he shook it with all his might,—as he had +done with the door at the back. So flimsily was the place constructed +that he made even the walls to tremble. +</p> + +<p> +‘Within there!—if anyone is in there!—if you don’t open this door, I +shall.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was no response. +</p> + +<p> +‘So be it!—I’m going to pursue my wild career of defiance of +established law and order, and gain admission in one way, if I can’t in +another.’ +</p> + +<p> +Putting his right shoulder against the door, he pushed with his whole +force. Sydney is a big man, and very strong, and the door was weak. +Shortly, the lock yielded before the continuous pressure, and the door +flew open. Sydney whistled. +</p> + +<p> +‘So!—It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours may +not have been such pure romance as it seemed.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and +that recently,—and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a +test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was +that there was someone, or something, living in it still,—an +uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some +evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought. +</p> + +<p> +‘A pretty perfume, on my word! Let’s shed a little more light on the +subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I +tell you.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of +the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some +unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark. +Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had +scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s it,’ said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it +was scarcely recognisable. +</p> + +<p> +‘It?—What do you mean by it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The Beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state +of odd excitement. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, is it!—Then, if this time I don’t find out the how and the why +and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I’ll give you leave +to write me down an ass,—with a great, big A.’ +</p> + +<p> +He rushed farther into the room,—apparently his efforts to lighten it +did not meet with the immediate success which he desired. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter with this confounded blind? There’s no cord! How do +you pull it up?—What the—’ +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr Holt, +who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized +with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I +caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His +eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what +they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his +forehead. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s coming!’ he screamed. +</p> + +<p> +Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard, +proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly +it recalled my experiences of the night before,—as it did so I was +conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if +he were beside himself with rage. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you won’t go up, you shall come down.’ +</p> + +<p> +I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and +dragged it down,—it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The +room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window, +with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other +circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa’s revolver +in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at +a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for. +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you hear anything?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,—which so +frightened me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, was it? Then, by—’ in his excitement he must have been completely +oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, ‘when +I find it there’ll be a small discussion. It can’t have got out of the +room,—I know the creature’s here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush +against my face.—Holt, come inside and shut that door.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt raised his arms, as if he were exerting himself to make a +forward movement,—but he remained rooted to the spot on which he stood. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t!’ he cried. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can’t!—Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It won’t let me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What won’t let you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The Beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney moved till he was close in front of him. He surveyed him with +eager eyes. I was just at his back. I heard him murmur,—possibly to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘By George!—It’s just as I thought!—The beggar’s hypnotised!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he said aloud, +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you see it now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Behind you.’ +</p> + +<p> +As Mr Holt spoke, I again heard, quite close to me, that buzzing sound. +Sydney seemed to hear it too,—it caused him to swing round so quickly +that he all but whirled me off my feet. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an +unparalleled experience,—didn’t you hear something then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did,—distinctly; it was close to me,—within an inch or two of my +face.’ +</p> + +<p> +We stared about us, then back at each other,—there was nothing else to +be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s uncommonly queer. I don’t want to suggest that there are visions +about, or I might suspect myself of softening of the brain. But—it’s +queer. There’s a trick about it somewhere, I am convinced; and no doubt +it’s simple enough when you know how it’s done,—but the difficulty is +to find that out.—Do you think our friend over there is acting?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He looks to me as if he were ill.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He does look ill. He also looks as if he were hypnotised. If he is, it +must be by suggestion,—and that’s what makes me doubtful, because it +will be the first plainly established case of hypnotism by suggestion +I’ve encountered.—Holt!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That,’ said Sydney in my ear, ‘is the voice and that is the manner of +a hypnotised man, but, on the other hand, a person under influence +generally responds only to the hypnotist,—which is another feature +about our peculiar friend which arouses my suspicions.’ Then, aloud, +‘Don’t stand there like an idiot,—come inside.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again Mr Holt made an apparently futile effort to do as he was bid. It +was painful to look at him,—he was like a feeble, frightened, +tottering child, who would come on, but cannot. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No nonsense, my man! Do you think that this is a performance in a +booth, and that I am to be taken in by all the humbug of the +professional mesmerist? Do as I tell you,—come into the room.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a repetition, on Mr Holt’s part, of his previous pitiful +struggle; this time it was longer sustained than before,—but the +result was the same. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t!’ he wailed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I say you can,—and shall! If I pick you up, and carry you, +perhaps you will not find yourself so helpless as you wish me to +suppose.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did so, a +strange alteration took place in Mr Holt’s demeanour. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch30"> +CHAPTER XXX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I was</span> standing in the middle of the room, Sydney was between the door +and me; Mr Holt was in the hall, just outside the doorway, in which he, +so to speak, was framed. As Sydney advanced towards him he was seized +with a kind of convulsion,—he had to lean against the side of the door +to save himself from falling. Sydney paused, and watched. The spasm +went as suddenly as it came,—Mr Holt became as motionless as he had +just now been the other way. He stood in an attitude of febrile +expectancy,—his chin raised, his head thrown back, his eyes glancing +upwards,—with the dreadful fixed glare which had come into them ever +since we had entered the house. He looked to me as if his every faculty +was strained in the act of listening,—not a muscle in his body seemed +to move; he was as rigid as a figure carved in stone. Presently the +rigidity gave place to what, to an onlooker, seemed causeless agitation. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hear!’ he exclaimed, in the most curious voice I had ever heard. ‘I +come!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was as though he was speaking to someone who was far away. Turning, +he walked down the passage to the front door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo!’ cried Sydney. ‘Where are you off to?’ +</p> + +<p> +We both of us hastened to see. He was fumbling with the latch; before +we could reach him, the door was open, and he was through it. Sydney, +rushing after him, caught him on the step and held him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the meaning of this little caper?—Where do you think you’re +going now?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt did not condescend to turn and look at him. He said, in the +same dreamy, faraway, unnatural tone of voice,—and he kept his +unwavering gaze fixed on what was apparently some distant object which +was visible only to himself. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to him. He calls me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who calls you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The Lord of the Beetle.’ +</p> + +<p> +Whether Sydney released his arm or not I cannot say. As he spoke, he +seemed to me to slip away from Sydney’s grasp. Passing through the +gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the +direction we had come. Sydney stared after him in unequivocal +amazement. Then he looked at me. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well!—this is a pretty fix!—now what’s to be done?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter with him?’ I inquired. ‘Is he mad?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s method in his madness if he is. He’s in the same condition in +which he was that night I saw him come out of the Apostle’s window.’ +Sydney has a horrible habit of calling Paul ‘the Apostle’; I have +spoken to him about it over and over again,—but my words have not made +much impression. ‘He ought to be followed,—he may be sailing off to +that mysterious friend of his this instant.—But, on the other hand, he +mayn’t, and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the conjurer’s +to get us away from this elegant abode of his. He’s done me twice +already, I don’t want to be done again,—and I distinctly do not want +him to return and find me missing. He’s quite capable of taking the +hint, and removing himself into the <i>Ewigkeit</i>,—when the clue to as +pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can stay,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +‘You?—Alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +He eyed me doubtingly,—evidently not altogether relishing the +proposition. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not? You might send the first person you meet,—policeman, cabman, +or whoever it is—to keep me company. It seems a pity now that we +dismissed that cab.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, it does seem a pity.’ Sydney was biting his lip. ‘Confound that +fellow! how fast he moves.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt was already nearing the end of the road. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you think it necessary, by all means follow to see where he +goes,—you are sure to meet somebody whom you will be able to send +before you have gone very far.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose I shall.—You won’t mind being left alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should I?—I’m not a child.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holt, reaching the corner, turned it, and vanished out of sight. +Sydney gave an exclamation of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +‘If I don’t make haste I shall lose him. I’ll do as you +suggest—dispatch the first individual I come across to hold watch and +ward with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’ll be all right.’ +</p> + +<p> +He started off at a run,—shouting to me as he went. +</p> + +<p> +‘It won’t be five minutes before somebody comes!’ +</p> + +<p> +I waved my hand to him. I watched him till he reached the end of the +road. Turning, he waved his hand to me. Then he vanished, as Mr Holt +had done. +</p> + +<p> +And I was alone. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch31"> +CHAPTER XXXI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE TERROR BY DAY</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">My</span> first impulse, after Sydney’s disappearance, was to laugh. Why +should he display anxiety on my behalf merely because I was to be the +sole occupant of an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or +less,—and in broad daylight too! To say the least, the anxiety seemed +unwarranted. +</p> + +<p> +I lingered at the gate, for a moment or two, wondering what was at the +bottom of Mr Holt’s singular proceedings, and what Sydney really +proposed to gain by acting as a spy upon his wanderings. Then I turned +to re-enter the house. As I did so, another problem suggested itself to +my mind,—what connection, of the slightest importance, could a man in +Paul Lessingham’s position have with the eccentric being who had +established himself in such an unsatisfactory dwelling-place? Mr Holt’s +story I had only dimly understood,—it struck me that it would require +a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago of nonsense, an +outcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell the +truth, Sydney had taken it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to +see something in it which I emphatically did not. What was double Dutch +to me, seemed clear as print to him. So far as I could judge, he +actually had the presumption to imagine that Paul—my Paul!—Paul +Lessingham!—the great Paul Lessingham!—was mixed up in the very +mysterious adventures of poor, weak-minded, hysterical Mr Holt, in a +manner which was hardly to his credit. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, any idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash. +Exactly what bee Sydney had got in his bonnet, I could not guess. But I +did know Paul. Only let me find myself face to face with the fantastic +author of Mr Holt’s weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single-handed, +would do my best to show him that whoever played pranks with Paul +Lessingham trifled with edged tools. +</p> + +<p> +I had returned to that historical front room which, according to Mr +Holt, had been the scene of his most disastrous burglarious entry. +Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the resources of +modern upholstery. There was not a table in the place,—no chair or +couch, nothing to sit down upon except the bed. On the floor there was +a marvellous carpet which was apparently of eastern manufacture. It was +so thick, and so pliant to the tread, that moving over it was like +walking on thousand-year-old turf. It was woven in gorgeous colours, +and covered with— +</p> + +<p> +When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was conscious of +a disagreeable sense of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +It was covered with beetles! +</p> + +<p> +All over it, with only a few inches of space between each, were +representations of some peculiar kind of beetle,—it was the same +beetle, over, and over, and over. The artist had woven his undesirable +subject into the warp and woof of the material with such cunning skill +that, as one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if by any +possibility the creatures could be alive. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of the softness of the texture, and the art—of a kind!—which +had been displayed in the workmanship, I rapidly arrived at the +conclusion that it was the most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I +wagged my finger at the repeated portrayals of the—to me!—unspeakable +insect. +</p> + +<p> +‘If I had discovered that you were there before Sydney went, I think it +just possible that I should have hesitated before I let him go.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself. +</p> + +<p> +‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Lindon, to even think +such nonsense. Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings,—you who have +prided yourself on being so strong-minded! A pretty sort you are to do +battle for anyone.—Why, they’re only make-believes!’ +</p> + +<p> +Half involuntarily, I drew my foot over one of the creatures. Of +course, it was nothing but imagination; but I seemed to feel it squelch +beneath my shoe. It was disgusting. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come!’ I cried. ‘This won’t do! As Sydney would phrase it,—am I going +to make an idiot of myself?’ +</p> + +<p> +I turned to the window,—looking at my watch. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s more than five minutes ago since Sydney went. That companion of +mine ought to be already on the way. I’ll go and see if he is coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +I went to the gate. There was not a soul in sight. It was with such a +distinct sense of disappointment that I perceived this was so, that I +was in two minds what to do. To remain where I was, looking, with +gaping eyes, for the policeman, or the cabman, or whoever it was Sydney +was dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount to +acknowledging myself a simpleton,—while I was conscious of a most +unmistakable reluctance to return within the house. +</p> + +<p> +Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and, +after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again. +</p> + +<p> +This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on the +floor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity—and occupy my thoughts—in +an examination of the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination, +however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,—or +if it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was not +after the fashion of the Britons. There was no framework,—nothing to +represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparently +indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of them there seemed to +be; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,—and materials too. +</p> + +<p> +The top one was of white silk,—in quality, exquisite. It was of huge +size, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed it +through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted I spread +it out in front of me. In the middle was a picture,—whether it was +embroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite make +out. Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intended +to depict,—there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling. +By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,—and, +when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badly +imitated either. Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,—it was a +representation of a human sacrifice. In its way, as ghastly a piece of +realism as one could see. +</p> + +<p> +On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess. Her hands +were crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards. +I fancied it was meant for Isis. On her brow was perched a +gaily-apparelled beetle—that ubiquitous beetle!—forming a bright spot +of colour against her coppery skin,—it was an exact reproduction of +the creatures which were imaged on the carpet. In front of the idol was +an enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames was an +altar. On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive. There +could be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chains +in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom, +of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body into +shapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she was +enduring,—the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers in +his efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were +tormenting her. +</p> + +<p> +‘A pretty picture, on my word! A pleasant taste in art the garnitures +of this establishment suggest! The person who likes to live with this +kind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his own +notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.’ +</p> + +<p> +As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if the +woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous, but she appeared to +gather her limbs together, and turn half over. +</p> + +<p> +‘What can be the matter with me? Am I going mad? She can’t be moving!’ +</p> + +<p> +If she wasn’t, then certainly something was,—she was lifted right into +the air. An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rug aside. +</p> + +<p> +The mystery was explained! +</p> + +<p> +A thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was protruding from amidst the heap of +rugs,—it was its action which had caused the seeming movement of the +figure on the altar. I stared, confounded. The hand was followed by an +arm; the arm by a shoulder; the shoulder by a head,—and the most +awful, hideous, wicked-looking face I had ever pictured even in my most +dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up at mine. +</p> + +<p> +I understood the position in a flash of startled amazement. +</p> + +<p> +Sydney, in following Mr Holt, had started on a wild goose chase after +all. I was alone with the occupant of that mysterious house,—the chief +actor in Mr Holt’s astounding tale. He had been hidden in the heap of +rugs all the while. +</p> + + +<h2 id="b4"> +BOOK IV.<br/> +<span class="book_sub">In Pursuit</span> +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of the +Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent</i> +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch32"> +CHAPTER XXXII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A NEW CLIENT</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">On</span> the afternoon of Friday, June 2, 18—, I was entering in my +case-book some memoranda having reference to the very curious matter of +the Duchess of Datchet’s Deed-box. It was about two o’clock. Andrews +came in and laid a card upon my desk. On it was inscribed ‘Mr Paul +Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Show Mr Lessingham in.’ +</p> + +<p> +Andrews showed him in. I was, of course, familiar with Mr Lessingham’s +appearance, but it was the first time I had had with him any personal +communication. He held out his hand to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are Mr Champnell?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe that I have not had the honour of meeting you before, Mr +Champnell, but with your father, the Earl of Glenlivet, I have the +pleasure of some acquaintance.’ +</p> + +<p> +I bowed. He looked at me, fixedly, as if he were trying to make out +what sort of man I was. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are very young, Mr Champnell.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have been told that an eminent offender in that respect once +asserted that youth is not of necessity a crime.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you have chosen a singular profession,—one in which one hardly +looks for juvenility.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You yourself, Mr Lessingham, are not old. In a statesman one expects +grey hairs.—I trust that I am sufficiently ancient to be able to do +you service.’ +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think it possible. I have heard of you more than once, Mr Champnell, +always to your advantage. My friend, Sir John Seymour, was telling me, +only the other day, that you have recently conducted for him some +business, of a very delicate nature, with much skill and tact; and he +warmly advised me, if ever I found myself in a predicament, to come to +you. I find myself in a predicament now.’ +</p> + +<p> +Again I bowed. +</p> + +<p> +‘A predicament, I fancy, of an altogether unparalleled sort. I take it +that anything I may say to you will be as though it were said to a +father confessor.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You may rest assured of that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good.—Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by telling +you a story,—if I may trespass on your patience to that extent. I will +endeavour not to be more verbose than the occasion requires.’ +</p> + +<p> +I offered him a chair, placing it in such a position that the light +from the window would have shone full upon his face. With the calmest +possible air, as if unconscious of my design, he carried the chair to +the other side of my desk, twisting it right round before he sat on +it,—so that now the light was at his back and on my face. Crossing his +legs, clasping his hands about his knee, he sat in silence for some +moments, as if turning something over in his mind. He glanced round the +room. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told in +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by singularity. +It is my normal atmosphere.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And yet I should be disposed to wager that you have never listened to +so strange a story as that which I am about to tell you now. So +astonishing, indeed, is the chapter in my life which I am about to open +out to you, that I have more than once had to take myself to task, and +fit the incidents together with mathematical accuracy in order to +assure myself of its perfect truth.’ +</p> + +<p> +He paused. There was about his demeanour that suggestion of reluctance +which I not uncommonly discover in individuals who are about to take +the skeletons from their cupboards and parade them before my eyes. His +next remark seemed to point to the fact that he perceived what was +passing through my thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +‘My position is not rendered easier by the circumstance that I am not +of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the spirit of the +age which craves for personal advertisement. I hold that the private +life even of a public man should be held inviolate. I resent, with +peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to peer into matters +which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must, therefore, +bear with me, Mr Champnell, if I seem awkward in disclosing to you +certain incidents in my career which I had hoped would continue locked +in the secret depository of my own bosom, at any rate till I was +carried to the grave. I am sure you will suffer me to stand excused if +I frankly admit that it is only an irresistible chain of incidents +which has constrained me to make of you a confidant.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My experience tells me, Mr Lessingham, that no one ever does come to +me until they are compelled. In that respect I am regarded as something +worse even than a medical man.’ +</p> + +<p> +A wintry smile flitted across his features,—it was clear that he +regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man. Presently he began +to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had heard. As +he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural, had been his +desire for reticence. On the mere score of credibility he must have +greatly preferred to have kept his own counsel. For my part I own, +unreservedly, that I should have deemed the tale incredible had it been +told me by Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch33"> +CHAPTER XXXIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">He</span> began in accents which halted not a little. By degrees his voice +grew firmer. Words came from him with greater fluency. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not yet forty. So when I tell you that twenty years ago I was a +mere youth I am stating what is a sufficiently obvious truth. It is +twenty years ago since the events of which I am going to speak +transpired. +</p> + +<p> +‘I lost both my parents when I was quite a lad, and by their death I +was left in a position in which I was, to an unusual extent in one so +young, my own master. I was ever of a rambling turn of mind, and when, +at the mature age of eighteen, I left school, I decided that I should +learn more from travel than from sojourn at a university. So, since +there was no one to say me nay, instead of going either to Oxford or +Cambridge, I went abroad. After a few months I found myself in +Egypt,—I was down with fever at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. I had +caught it by drinking polluted water during an excursion with some +Bedouins to Palmyra. +</p> + +<p> +‘When the fever had left me I went out one night into the town in +search of amusement. I went, unaccompanied, into the native quarter, +not a wise thing to do, especially at night, but at eighteen one is not +always wise, and I was weary of the monotony of the sick-room, and +eager for something which had in it a spice of adventure. I found +myself in a street which I have reason to believe is no longer +existing. It had a French name, and was called the Rue de Rabagas,—I +saw the name on the corner as I turned into it, and it has left an +impress on the tablets of my memory which is never likely to be +obliterated. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was a narrow street, and, of course, a dirty one, ill-lit, and, +apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted. I had gone, +perhaps, half-way down its tortuous length, blundering more than once +into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had brought me into such +unsavoury quarters, and what would happen to me if, as seemed extremely +possible, I lost my way. On a sudden my ears were saluted by sounds +which proceeded from a house which I was passing,—sounds of music and +of singing. +</p> + +<p> +‘I paused. I stood awhile to listen. +</p> + +<p> +‘There was an open window on my right, which was screened by latticed +blinds. From the room which was behind these blinds the sounds were +coming. Someone was singing, accompanied by an instrument resembling a +guitar,—singing uncommonly well.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham stopped. A stream of recollection seemed to come flooding +over him. A dreamy look came into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘I remember it all as clearly as if it were yesterday. How it all comes +back,—the dirty street, the evil smells, the imperfect light, the +girl’s voice filling all at once the air. It was a girl’s voice,—full, +and round, and sweet; an organ seldom met with, especially in such a +place as that. She sang a little <i>chansonnette</i>, which, just then, half +Europe was humming,—it occurred in an opera which they were acting at +one of the Boulevard theatres,—“La P’tite Voyageuse.” The effect, +coming so unexpectedly, was startling. I stood and heard her to an end. +</p> + +<p> +‘Inspired by I know not what impulse of curiosity, when the song was +finished, I moved one of the lattice blinds a little aside, so as to +enable me to get a glimpse of the singer. I found myself looking into +what seemed to be a sort of café,—one of those places which are found +all over the Continent, in which women sing in order to attract custom. +There was a low platform at one end of the room, and on it were seated +three women. One of them had evidently just been accompanying her own +song,—she still had an instrument of music in her hands, and was +striking a few idle notes. The other two had been acting as audience. +They were attired in the fantastic apparel which the women who are +found in such places generally wear. An old woman was sitting knitting +in a corner, whom I took to be the inevitable <i>patronne</i>. With the +exception of these four the place was empty. +</p> + +<p> +‘They must have heard me touch the lattice, or seen it moving, for no +sooner did I glance within than the three pairs of eyes on the platform +were raised and fixed on mine. The old woman in the corner alone showed +no consciousness of my neighbourhood. We eyed one another in silence +for a second or two. Then the girl with the harp,—the instrument she +was manipulating proved to be fashioned more like a harp than a +guitar—called out to me, +</p> + +<p> +‘“<i>Entrez, monsieur!—Soyez le bienvenu!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +‘I was a little tired. Rather curious as to whereabouts I was,—the +place struck me, even at that first momentary glimpse, as hardly in the +ordinary line of that kind of thing. And not unwilling to listen to a +repetition of the former song, or to another sung by the same singer. +</p> + +<p> +‘“On condition,” I replied, “that you sing me another song.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ah, monsieur, with the greatest pleasure in the world I will sing you +twenty.” +</p> + +<p> +‘She was almost, if not quite, as good as her word. She entertained me +with song after song. I may safely say that I have seldom if ever heard +melody more enchanting. All languages seemed to be the same to her. She +sang in French and Italian, German and English,—in tongues with which +I was unfamiliar. It was in these Eastern harmonies that she was most +successful. They were indescribably weird and thrilling, and she +delivered them with a verve and sweetness which was amazing. I sat at +one of the little tables with which the room was dotted, listening +entranced. +</p> + +<p> +‘Time passed more rapidly than I supposed. While she sang I sipped the +liquor with which the old woman had supplied me. So enthralled was I by +the display of the girl’s astonishing gifts that I did not notice what +it was I was drinking. Looking back I can only surmise that it was some +poisonous concoction of the creature’s own. That one small glass had on +me the strangest effect. I was still weak from the fever which I had +only just succeeded in shaking off, and that, no doubt, had something +to do with the result. But, as I continued to sit, I was conscious that +I was sinking into a lethargic condition, against which I was incapable +of struggling. +</p> + +<p> +‘After a while the original performer ceased her efforts, and, her +companions taking her place, she came and joined me at the little +table. Looking at my watch I was surprised to perceive the lateness of +the hour. I rose to leave. She caught me by the wrist. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Do not go,” she said;—she spoke English of a sort, and with the +queerest accent. “All is well with you. Rest awhile.” +</p> + +<p> +‘You will smile,—I should smile, perhaps, were I the listener instead +of you, but it is the simple truth that her touch had on me what I can +only describe as a magnetic influence. As her fingers closed upon my +wrist, I felt as powerless in her grasp as if she held me with bands of +steel. What seemed an invitation was virtually a command. I had to stay +whether I would or wouldn’t. She called for more liquor, and at what +again was really her command I drank of it. I do not think that after +she touched my wrist I uttered a word. She did all the talking. And, +while she talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. Those eyes of +hers! They were a devil’s. I can positively affirm that they had on me +a diabolical effect. They robbed me of my consciousness, of my power of +volition, of my capacity to think,—they made me as wax in her hands. +My last recollection of that fatal night is of her sitting in front of +me, bending over the table, stroking my wrist with her extended +fingers, staring at me with her awful eyes. After that, a curtain seems +to descend. There comes a period of oblivion.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham ceased. His manner was calm and self-contained enough; +but, in spite of that I could see that the mere recollection of the +things which he told me moved his nature to its foundations. There was +eloquence in the drawn lines about his mouth, and in the strained +expression of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +So far his tale was sufficiently commonplace. Places such as the one +which he described abound in the Cairo of to-day; and many are the +Englishmen who have entered them to their exceeding bitter cost. With +that keen intuition which has done him yeoman’s service in the +political arena, Mr Lessingham at once perceived the direction my +thoughts were taking. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have heard this tale before?—No doubt. And often. The traps are +many, and the fools and the unwary are not a few. The singularity of my +experience is still to come. You must forgive me if I seem to stumble +in the telling. I am anxious to present my case as baldly, and with as +little appearance of exaggeration as possible. I say with as little +appearance, for some appearance of exaggeration I fear is unavoidable. +My case is so unique, and so out of the common run of our every-day +experience, that the plainest possible statement must smack of the +sensational. +</p> + +<p> +‘As, I fancy, you have guessed, when understanding returned to me, I +found myself in an apartment with which I was unfamiliar. I was lying, +undressed, on a heap of rugs in a corner of a low-pitched room which +was furnished in a fashion which, when I grasped the details, filled me +with amazement. By my side knelt the Woman of the Songs. Leaning over, +she wooed my mouth with kisses. I cannot describe to you the sense of +horror and of loathing with which the contact of her lips oppressed me. +There was about her something so unnatural, so inhuman, that I believe +even then I could have destroyed her with as little sense of moral +turpitude as if she had been some noxious insect. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Where am I?” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +‘“You are with the children of Isis,” she replied. What she meant I did +not know, and do not to this hour. “You are in the hands of the great +goddess,—of the mother of men.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“How did I come here?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“By the loving kindness of the great mother.” +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not, of course, pretend to give you the exact text of her words, +but they were to that effect. +</p> + +<p> +‘Half raising myself on the heap of rugs, I gazed about me,—and was +astounded at what I saw. +</p> + +<p> +‘The place in which I was, though the reverse of lofty, was of +considerable size,—I could not conceive whereabouts it could be. The +walls and roof were of bare stone,—as though the whole had been hewed +out of the solid rock. It seemed to be some sort of temple, and was +redolent with the most extraordinary odour. An altar stood about the +centre, fashioned out of a single block of stone. On it a fire burned +with a faint blue flame,—the fumes which rose from it were no doubt +chiefly responsible for the prevailing perfumes. Behind it was a huge +bronze figure, more than life size. It was in a sitting posture, and +represented a woman. Although it resembled no portrayal of her I have +seen either before or since, I came afterwards to understand that it +was meant for Isis. On the idol’s brow was poised a beetle. That the +creature was alive seemed clear, for, as I looked at it, it opened and +shut its wings. +</p> + +<p> +‘If the one on the forehead of the goddess was the only live beetle +which the place contained, it was not the only representation. It was +modelled in the solid stone of the roof, and depicted in flaming +colours on hangings which here and there were hung against the walls. +Wherever the eye turned it rested on a scarab. The effect was +bewildering. It was as though one saw things through the distorted +glamour of a nightmare. I asked myself if I were not still dreaming; if +my appearance of consciousness were not after all a mere delusion; if I +had really regained my senses. +</p> + +<p> +‘And, here, Mr Champnell, I wish to point out, and to emphasise the +fact, that I am not prepared to positively affirm what portion of my +adventures in that extraordinary, and horrible place, was actuality, +and what the product of a feverish imagination. Had I been persuaded +that all I thought I saw, I really did see, I should have opened my +lips long ago, let the consequences to myself have been what they +might. But there is the crux. The happenings were of such an incredible +character, and my condition was such an abnormal one,—I was never +really myself from the first moment to the last—that I have hesitated, +and still do hesitate, to assert where, precisely, fiction ended and +fact began. +</p> + +<p> +‘With some misty notion of testing my actual condition I endeavoured to +get off the heap of rugs on which I reclined. As I did so the woman at +my side laid her hand against my chest, lightly. But, had her gentle +pressure been the equivalent of a ton of iron, it could not have been +more effectual. I collapsed, sank back upon the rugs, and lay there, +panting for breath, wondering if I had crossed the border line which +divides madness from sanity. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Let me get up!—let me go!” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Nay,” she murmured, “stay with me yet awhile, O my beloved.” +</p> + +<p> +‘And again she kissed me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Once more Mr Lessingham paused. An involuntary shudder went all over +him. In spite of the evidently great effort which he was making to +retain his self-control his features were contorted by an anguished +spasm. For some seconds he seemed at a loss to find words to enable him +to continue. +</p> + +<p> +When he did go on, his voice was harsh and strained. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am altogether incapable of even hinting to you the nauseous nature +of that woman’s kisses. They filled me with an indescribable repulsion. +I look back at them with a feeling of physical, mental, and moral +horror, across an interval of twenty years. The most dreadful part of +it was that I was wholly incapable of offering even the faintest +resistance to her caresses. I lay there like a log. She did with me as +she would, and in dumb agony I endured.’ +</p> + +<p> +He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and, although the day was +cool, with it he wiped the perspiration from his brow. +</p> + +<p> +‘To dwell in detail on what occurred during my involuntary sojourn in +that fearful place is beyond my power. I cannot even venture to attempt +it. The attempt, were it made, would be futile, and, to me, painful +beyond measure. I seem to have seen all that happened as in a glass +darkly,—with about it all an element of unreality. As I have already +remarked, the things which revealed themselves, dimly, to my +perception, seemed too bizarre, too hideous, to be true. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was only afterwards, when I was in a position to compare dates, +that I was enabled to determine what had been the length of my +imprisonment. It appears that I was in that horrible den more than two +months,—two unspeakable months. And the whole time there were comings +and goings, a phantasmagoric array of eerie figures continually passed +to and fro before my hazy eyes. What I judge to have been religious +services took place; in which the altar, the bronze image, and the +beetle on its brow, figure largely. Not only were they conducted with a +bewildering confusion of mysterious rites, but, if my memory is in the +least degree trustworthy, they were orgies of nameless horrors. I seem +to have seen things take place at them at the mere thought of which the +brain reels and trembles. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed it is in connection with the cult of the obscene deity to whom +these wretched creatures paid their scandalous vows that my most awful +memories seem to have been associated. It may have been—I hope it was, +a mirage born of my half delirious state, but it seemed to me that they +offered human sacrifices.’ +</p> + +<p> +When Mr Lessingham said this, I pricked up my ears. For reasons of my +own, which will immediately transpire, I had been wondering if he would +make any reference to a human sacrifice. He noted my display of +interest,—but misapprehended the cause. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see you start, I do not wonder. But I repeat that unless I was the +victim of some extraordinary species of double sight—in which case the +whole business would resolve itself into the fabric of a dream, and I +should indeed thank God!—I saw, on more than one occasion, a human +sacrifice offered on that stone altar, presumably to the grim image +which looked down on it. And, unless I err, in each case the +sacrificial object was a woman, stripped to the skin, as white as you +or I,—and before they burned her they subjected her to every variety +of outrage of which even the minds of demons could conceive. More than +once since then I have seemed to hear the shrieks of the victims +ringing through the air, mingled with the triumphant cries of her +frenzied murderers, and the music of their harps. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was the cumulative horrors of such a scene which gave me the +strength, or the courage, or the madness, I know not which it was, to +burst the bonds which bound me, and which, even in the bursting, made +of me, even to this hour, a haunted man. +</p> + +<p> +‘There had been a sacrifice,—unless, as I have repeatedly observed, +the whole was nothing but a dream. A woman—a young and lovely +Englishwoman, if I could believe the evidence of my own eyes, had been +outraged, and burnt alive, while I lay there helpless, looking on. The +business was concluded. The ashes of the victim had been consumed by +the participants. The worshippers had departed. I was left alone with +the woman of the songs, who apparently acted as the guardian of that +worse than slaughterhouse. She was, as usual after such an orgie, +rather a devil than a human being, drunk with an insensate frenzy, +delirious with inhuman longings. As she approached to offer to me her +loathed caresses, I was on a sudden conscious of something which I had +not felt before when in her company. It was as though something had +slipped away from me,—some weight which had oppressed me, some bond by +which I had been bound. I was aroused, all at once, to a sense of +freedom; to a knowledge that the blood which coursed through my veins +was after all my own, that I was master of my own honour. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can only suppose that through all those weeks she had kept me there +in a state of mesmeric stupor. That, taking advantage of the weakness +which the fever had left behind, by the exercise of her diabolical +arts, she had not allowed me to pass out of a condition of hypnotic +trance. Now, for some reason, the cord was loosed. Possibly her +absorption in her religious duties had caused her to forget to tighten +it. Anyhow, as she approached me, she approached a man, and one who, +for the first time for many a day, was his own man. She herself seemed +wholly unconscious of anything of the kind. As she drew nearer to me, +and nearer, she appeared to be entirely oblivious of the fact that I +was anything but the fibreless, emasculated creature which, up to that +moment, she had made of me. +</p> + +<p> +‘But she knew it when she touched me,—when she stooped to press her +lips to mine. At that instant the accumulating rage which had been +smouldering in my breast through all those leaden torturing hours, +sprang into flame. Leaping off my couch of rugs, I flung my hands about +her throat,—and then she knew I was awake. Then she strove to tighten +the cord which she had suffered to become unduly loose. Her baleful +eyes were fixed on mine. I knew that she was putting out her utmost +force to trick me of my manhood. But I fought with her like one +possessed, and I conquered—in a fashion. I compressed her throat with +my two hands as with an iron vice. I knew that I was struggling for +more than life, that the odds were all against me, that I was staking +my all upon the casting of a die,—I stuck at nothing which could make +me victor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tighter and tighter my pressure grew,—I did not stay to think if I +was killing her—till on a sudden—’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham stopped. He stared with fixed, glassy eyes, as if the +whole was being re-enacted in front of him. His voice faltered. I +thought he would break down. But, with an effort, he continued. +</p> + +<p> +‘On a sudden, I felt her slipping from between my fingers. Without the +slightest warning, in an instant she had vanished, and where, not a +moment before, she herself had been, I found myself confronting a +monstrous beetle,—a huge, writhing creation of some wild nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +‘At first the creature stood as high as I did. But, as I stared at it, +in stupefied amazement,—as you may easily imagine,—the thing dwindled +while I gazed. I did not stop to see how far the process of dwindling +continued,—a stark raving madman for the nonce, I fled as if all the +fiends in hell were at my heels.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch34"> +CHAPTER XXXIV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">AFTER TWENTY YEARS</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +‘<span class="sc">How</span> I reached the open air I cannot tell you,—I do not know. I have +a confused recollection of rushing through vaulted passages, through +endless corridors, of trampling over people who tried to arrest my +passage,—and the rest is blank. +</p> + +<p> +‘When I again came to myself I was lying in the house of an American +missionary named Clements. I had been found, at early dawn, stark +naked, in a Cairo street, and picked up for dead. Judging from +appearances I must have wandered for miles, all through the night. +Whence I had come, or whither I was going, none could tell,—I could +not tell myself. For weeks I hovered between life and death. The +kindness of Mr and Mrs Clements was not to be measured by words. I was +brought to their house a penniless, helpless, battered stranger, and +they gave me all they had to offer, without money and without +price,—with no expectation of an earthly reward. Let no one pretend +that there is no Christian charity under the sun. The debt I owed that +man and woman I was never able to repay. Before I was properly myself +again, and in a position to offer some adequate testimony of the +gratitude I felt, Mrs Clements was dead, drowned during an excursion on +the Nile, and her husband had departed on a missionary expedition into +Central Africa, from which he never returned. +</p> + +<p> +‘Although, in a measure, my physical health returned, for months after +I had left the roof of my hospitable hosts, I was in a state of +semi-imbecility. I suffered from a species of aphasia. For days +together I was speechless, and could remember nothing,—not even my own +name. And, when that stage had passed, and I began to move more freely +among my fellows, for years I was but a wreck of my former self. I was +visited, at all hours of the day and night, by frightful—I know not +whether to call them visions, they were real enough to me, but since +they were visible to no one but myself, perhaps that is the word which +best describes them. Their presence invariably plunged me into a state +of abject terror, against which I was unable to even make a show of +fighting. To such an extent did they embitter my existence, that I +voluntarily placed myself under the treatment of an expert in mental +pathology. For a considerable period of time I was under his constant +supervision, but the visitations were as inexplicable to him as they +were to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘By degrees, however, they became rarer and rarer, until at last I +flattered myself that I had once more become as other men. After an +interval, to make sure, I devoted myself to politics. Thenceforward I +have lived, as they phrase it, in the public eye. Private life, in any +peculiar sense of the term, I have had none.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham ceased. His tale was not uninteresting, and, to say the +least of it, was curious. But I still was at a loss to understand what +it had to do with me, or what was the purport of his presence in my +room. Since he remained silent, as if the matter, so far as he was +concerned, was at an end, I told him so. +</p> + +<p> +‘I presume, Mr Lessingham, that all this is but a prelude to the play. +At present I do not see where it is that I come in.’ +</p> + +<p> +Still for some seconds he was silent. When he spoke his voice was grave +and sombre, as if he were burdened by a weight of woe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Unfortunately, as you put it, all this has been but a prelude to the +play. Were it not so I should not now stand in such pressing want of +the services of a confidential agent,—that is, of an experienced man +of the world, who has been endowed by nature with phenomenal perceptive +faculties, and in whose capacity and honour I can place the completest +confidence.’ +</p> + +<p> +I smiled,—the compliment was a pointed one. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope your estimate of me is not too high.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope not,—for my sake, as well as for your own. I have heard great +things of you. If ever man stood in need of all that human skill and +acumen can do for him, I certainly am he.’ +</p> + +<p> +His words aroused my curiosity. I was conscious of feeling more +interested than heretofore. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will do my best for you. Man can do no more. Only give my best a +trial.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will. At once.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me long and earnestly. Then, leaning forward, he said, +lowering his voice perhaps unconsciously, +</p> + +<p> +‘The fact is, Mr Champnell, that quite recently events have happened +which threaten to bridge the chasm of twenty years, and to place me +face to face with that plague spot of the past. At this moment I stand +in imminent peril of becoming again the wretched thing I was when I +fled from that den of all the devils. It is to guard me against this +that I have come to you. I want you to unravel the tangled thread which +threatens to drag me to my doom,—and, when unravelled to sunder +it—for ever, if God wills!—in twain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Explain.’ +</p> + +<p> +To be frank, for the moment I thought him mad. He went on. +</p> + +<p> +‘Three weeks ago, when I returned late one night from a sitting in the +House of Commons, I found, on my study table, a sheet of paper on which +there was a representation—marvellously like!—of the creature into +which, as it seemed to me, the woman of the songs was transformed as I +clutched her throat between my hands. The mere sight of it brought back +one of those visitations of which I have told you, and which I thought +I had done with for ever,—I was convulsed by an agony of fear, thrown +into a state approximating to a paralysis both of mind and body.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But why?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot tell you. I only know that I have never dared to allow my +thoughts to recur to that last dread scene, lest the mere recurrence +should drive me mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What was this you found upon your study table,—merely a drawing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was a representation, produced by what process I cannot say, which +was so wonderfully, so diabolically, like the original, that for a +moment I thought the thing itself was on my table.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who put it there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That is precisely what I wish you to find out,—what I wish you to +make it your instant business to ascertain. I have found the thing, +under similar circumstances, on three separate occasions, on my study +table,—and each time it has had on me the same hideous effect.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Each time after you have returned from a late sitting in the House of +Commons?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Exactly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where are these—what shall I call them—delineations?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, again, I cannot tell you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What I say. Each time, when I recovered, the thing had vanished.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sheet of paper and all?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Apparently,—though on that point I could not be positive. You will +understand that my study table is apt to be littered with sheets of +paper, and I could not absolutely determine that the thing had not +stared at me from one of those. The delineation itself, to use your +word, certainly had vanished.’ +</p> + +<p> +I began to suspect that this was a case rather for a doctor than for a +man of my profession. And hinted as much. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you think it is possible, Mr Lessingham, that you have been +overworking yourself—that you have been driving your brain too hard, +and that you have been the victim of an optical delusion?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought so myself; I may say that I almost hoped so. But wait till I +have finished. You will find that there is no loophole in that +direction.’ +</p> + +<p> +He appeared to be recalling events in their due order. His manner was +studiously cold,—as if he were endeavouring, despite the strangeness +of his story, to impress me with the literal accuracy of each syllable +he uttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘The night before last, on returning home, I found in my study a +stranger.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A stranger?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.—In other words, a burglar.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A burglar?—I see.—Go on.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had paused. His demeanour was becoming odder and odder. +</p> + +<p> +‘On my entry he was engaged in forcing an entry into my bureau. I need +hardly say that I advanced to seize him. But—I could not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You could not?—How do you mean you could not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean simply what I say. You must understand that this was no +ordinary felon. Of what nationality he was I cannot tell you. He only +uttered two words, and they were certainly in English, but apart from +that he was dumb. He wore no covering on his head or feet. Indeed, his +only garment was a long dark flowing cloak which, as it fluttered about +him, revealed that his limbs were bare.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘An unique costume for a burglar.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The instant I saw him I realised that he was in some way connected +with that adventure in the Rue de Rabagas. What he said and did, proved +it to the hilt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What did he say and do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As I approached to effect his capture, he pronounced aloud two words +which recalled that awful scene the recollection of which always +lingers in my brain, and of which I never dare to permit myself to +think. Their very utterance threw me into a sort of convulsion.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What were the words?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham opened his mouth,—and shut it. A marked change took +place in the expression of his countenance. His eyes became fixed and +staring,—resembling the glassy orbs of the somnambulist. For a moment +I feared that he was going to give me an object lesson in the +‘visitations’ of which I had heard so much. I rose, with a view of +offering him assistance. He motioned me back. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.—It will pass away.’ +</p> + +<p> +His voice was dry and husky,—unlike his usual silvern tones. After an +uncomfortable interval he managed to continue. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see for yourself, Mr Champnell, what a miserable weakling, when +this subject is broached, I still remain. I cannot utter the words the +stranger uttered, I cannot even write them down. For some inscrutable +reason they have on me an effect similar to that which spells and +incantations had on people in tales of witchcraft.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose, Mr Lessingham, that there is no doubt that this mysterious +stranger was not himself an optical delusion?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Scarcely. There is the evidence of my servants to prove the contrary.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did your servants see him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some of them,—yes. Then there is the evidence of the bureau. The +fellow had smashed the top right in two. When I came to examine the +contents I learned that a packet of letters was missing. They were +letters which I had received from Miss Lindon, a lady whom I hope to +make my wife. This, also, I state to you in confidence.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What use would he be likely to make of them?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If matters stand as I fear they do, he might make a very serious +misuse of them. If the object of these wretches, after all these years, +is a wild revenge, they would be capable, having discovered what she is +to me, of working Miss Lindon a fatal mischief,—or, at the very least, +of poisoning her mind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see.—How did the thief escape,—did he, like the delineation, +vanish into air?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He escaped by the much more prosaic method of dashing through the +drawing-room window, and clambering down from the verandah into the +street, where he ran right into someone’s arms.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Into whose arms,—a constable’s?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; into Mr Atherton’s,—Sydney Atherton’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The inventor?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The same.—Do you know him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do. Sydney Atherton and I are friends of a good many years’ +standing.—But Atherton must have seen where he came from;—and, +anyhow, if he was in the state of undress which you have described, why +didn’t he stop him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton’s reasons were his own. He did not stop him, and, so far +as I can learn, he did not attempt to stop him. Instead, he knocked at +my hall door to inform me that he had seen a man climb out of my +window.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer +fish,—but that sounds very queer indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The truth is, Mr Champnell, that, if it were not for Mr Atherton, I +doubt if I should have troubled you even now. The accident of his being +an acquaintance of yours makes my task easier.’ +</p> + +<p> +He drew his chair closer to me with an air of briskness which had been +foreign to him before. For some reason, which I was unable to fathom, +the introduction of Atherton’s name seemed to have enlivened him. +However, I was not long to remain in darkness. In half a dozen +sentences he threw more light on the real cause of his visit to me than +he had done in all that had gone before. His bearing, too, was more +businesslike and to the point. For the first time I had some +glimmerings of the politician,—alert, keen, eager,—as he is known to +all the world. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Atherton, like myself, has been a postulant for Miss Lindon’s hand. +Because I have succeeded where he has failed, he has chosen to be +angry. It seems that he has had dealings, either with my visitor of +Tuesday night, or with some other his acquaintance, and he proposes to +use what he has gleaned from him to the disadvantage of my character. I +have just come from Mr Atherton. From hints he dropped I conclude that, +probably during the last few hours, he has had an interview with +someone who was connected in some way with that lurid patch in my +career; that this person made so-called revelations, which were nothing +but a series of monstrous lies; and these so-called revelations Mr +Atherton has threatened, in so many words, to place before Miss Lindon. +That is an eventuality which I wish to avoid. My own conviction is that +there is at this moment in London an emissary from that den in the +whilom Rue de Rabagas—for all I know it may be the Woman of the Songs +herself. Whether the sole purport of this individual’s presence is to +do me injury, I am, as yet, in no position to say, but that it is +proposed to work me mischief, at any rate, by the way, is plain. I +believe that Mr Atherton knows more about this person’s individuality +and whereabouts than he has been willing, so far, to admit. I want you, +therefore, to ascertain these things on my behalf; to find out what, +and where, this person is, to drag her!—or him;—out into the light of +day. In short, I want you to effectually protect me from the terrorism +which threatens once more to overwhelm my mental and my physical +powers,—which bids fair to destroy my intellect, my career, my life, +my all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What reason have you for suspecting that Mr Atherton has seen this +individual of whom you speak,—has he told you so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Practically,—yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know Atherton well. In his not infrequent moments of excitement he +is apt to use strong language, but it goes no further. I believe him to +be the last person in the world to do anyone an intentional injustice, +under any circumstances whatever. If I go to him, armed with +credentials from you, when he understands the real gravity of the +situation,—which it will be my business to make him do, I believe +that, spontaneously, of his own accord, he will tell me as much about +this mysterious individual as he knows himself.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then go to him at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +I rose from my seat. As I did so, someone rushed into the outer office +with a din and a clatter. Andrews’ voice, and another, became +distinctly audible,—Andrews’ apparently raised in vigorous +expostulation. Raised, seemingly, in vain, for presently the door of my +own particular sanctum was thrown open with a crash, and Mr Sydney +Atherton himself came dashing in,—evidently conspicuously under the +influence of one of those not infrequent ‘moments of excitement’ of +which I had just been speaking. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch35"> +CHAPTER XXXV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">A BRINGER OF TIDINGS</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Atherton</span> did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, +without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the +instant,—as is occasionally his wont. +</p> + +<p> +‘Champnell!—Thank goodness I’ve found you in!—I want you!—At +once!—Don’t stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best +foot forward,—I’ll tell you all about it in the cab.’ +</p> + +<p> +I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr Lessingham’s presence,—but +without success. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear fellow—’ +</p> + +<p> +When I had got as far as that he cut me short. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t “dear fellow” me!—None of your jabber! And none of your excuses +either! I don’t care if you’ve got an engagement with the Queen, you’ll +have to chuck it. Where’s that dashed hat of yours,—or are you going +without it? Don’t I tell you that every second cut to waste may mean +the difference between life and death?—Do you want me to drag you down +to the cab by the hair of your head?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource,—and I +was coming to you at once in any case. I only want to call your +attention to the fact that I am not alone.—Here is Mr Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +In his harum-scarum haste Mr Lessingham had gone unnoticed. Now that +his observation was particularly directed to him, Atherton started, +turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely +flattering. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!—It’s you, is it?—What the deuce are you doing here?’ +</p> + +<p> +Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, +Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you seen her?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other’s curious conduct, +stared at him in unmistakable amazement. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have I seen whom?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie Lindon!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the inquiry +meant. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then Heaven help us!—As I’m a living man I believe he, she, or it has +got her!’ +</p> + +<p> +His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of +explanation,—as Mr Lessingham plainly thought. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is it that you mean, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What I say,—I believe that that Oriental friend of yours has got her +in her clutches,—if it is a “her;” goodness alone knows what the +infernal conjurer’s real sex may be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Atherton!—Explain yourself!’ +</p> + +<p> +On a sudden Lessingham’s tones rang out like a trumpet call. +</p> + +<p> +‘If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat,—and yours!’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham’s next proceeding surprised me,—I imagine it surprised +Atherton still more. Springing at Sydney like a tiger, he caught him by +the throat. +</p> + +<p> +‘You——you hound! Of what wretched folly have you been guilty? If +so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten +thousandfold!—You mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!’ +</p> + +<p> +He shook Sydney as if he had been a rat,—then flung him from him +headlong on to the floor. It reminded me of nothing so much as +Othello’s treatment of Iago. Never had I seen a man so transformed by +rage. Lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. As he +stood glowering down at the prostrate Sydney, he might have stood for a +materialistic conception of human retribution. +</p> + +<p> +Sydney, I take it, was rather surprised than hurt. For a moment or two +he lay quite still. Then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. +Then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself,—as if with a view +of learning if all his bones were whole. Putting his hands up to his +neck, he rubbed it, gently. And he grinned. +</p> + +<p> +‘By God, Lessingham, there’s more in you than I thought. After all, you +are a man. There’s some holding power in those wrists of +yours,—they’ve nearly broken my neck. When this business is finished, +I should like to put on the gloves with you, and fight it out. You’re +clean wasted upon politics.—Damn it, man, give me your hand!’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham did not give him his hand. Atherton took it,—and gave it +a hearty shake with both of his. +</p> + +<p> +If the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, Lessingham was still +sufficiently stern. +</p> + +<p> +‘Be so good as not to trifle, Mr Atherton. If what you say is correct, +and the wretch to whom you allude really has Miss Lindon at her mercy, +then the woman I love—and whom you also pretend to love!—stands in +imminent peril not only of a ghastly death, but of what is infinitely +worse than death.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The deuce she does!’ Atherton wheeled round towards me. ‘Champnell, +haven’t you got that dashed hat of yours yet? Don’t stand there like a +tailor’s dummy, keeping me on tenter-hooks,—move yourself! I’ll tell +you all about it in the cab.—And, Lessingham, if you’ll come with us +I’ll tell you too.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch36"> +CHAPTER XXXVI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Three</span> in a hansom cab is not, under all circumstances, the most +comfortable method of conveyance,—when one of the trio happens to be +Sydney Atherton in one of his ‘moments of excitement’ it is distinctly +the opposite; as, on that occasion, Mr Lessingham and I both quickly +found. Sometimes he sat on my knees, sometimes on Lessingham’s, and +frequently, when he unexpectedly stood up, and all but precipitated +himself on to the horse’s back, on nobody’s. In the eagerness of his +gesticulations, first he knocked off my hat, then he knocked off +Lessingham’s, then his own, then all three together,—once, his own hat +rolling into the mud, he sprang into the road, without previously going +through the empty form of advising the driver of his intention, to pick +it up. When he turned to speak to Lessingham, he thrust his elbow into +my eye; and when he turned to speak to me, he thrust it into +Lessingham’s. Never, for one solitary instant, was he at rest, or +either of us at ease. The wonder is that the gymnastics in which he +incessantly indulged did not sufficiently attract public notice to +induce a policeman to put at least a momentary period to our progress. +Had speed not been of primary importance I should have insisted on the +transference of the expedition to the somewhat wider limits of a +four-wheeler. +</p> + +<p> +His elucidation of the causes of his agitation was apparently more +comprehensible to Lessingham than it was to me. I had to piece this and +that together under considerable difficulties. By degrees I did arrive +at something like a clear notion of what had actually taken place. +</p> + +<p> +He commenced by addressing Lessingham,—and thrusting his elbow into my +eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did Marjorie tell you about the fellow she found in the street?’ Up +went his arm to force the trap-door open overhead,—and off went my +hat. ‘Now then, William Henry!—let her go!—if you kill the horse I’ll +buy you another!’ +</p> + +<p> +We were already going much faster than, legally, we ought to have +done,—but that, seemingly to him was not a matter of the slightest +consequence. Lessingham replied to his inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +‘She did not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know the fellow I saw coming out of your drawing-room window?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Marjorie found him the morning after in front of her +breakfast-room window—in the middle of the street. Seems he had been +wandering about all night, unclothed,—in the rain and the mud, and all +the rest of it,—in a condition of hypnotic trance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is the——gentleman you are alluding to?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Says his name’s Holt, Robert Holt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Holt?—Is he an Englishman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very much so,—City quilldriver out of a shop,—stony broke +absolutely! Got the chuck from the casual ward,—wouldn’t let him +in,—house full, and that sort of thing,—poor devil! Pretty passes you +politicians bring men to!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of what?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure that this man, Robert Holt, is the same person whom, as +you put it, you saw coming out of my drawing-room window?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sure!—Of course I’m sure!—Think I didn’t recognise him?—Besides, +there was the man’s own tale,—owned to it himself,—besides all the +rest, which sent one rushing Fulham way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You must remember, Mr Atherton, that I am wholly in the dark as to +what has happened. What has the man, Holt, to do with the errand on +which we are bound?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I not coming to it? If you would let me tell the tale in my own way +I should get there in less than no time, but you will keep on cutting +in,—how the deuce do you suppose Champnell is to make head or tail of +the business if you will persist in interrupting?—Marjorie took the +beggar in,—he told his tale to her,—she sent for me—that was just +now; caught me on the steps after I had been lunching with Dora +Grayling. Holt re-dished his yarn—I smelt a rat—saw that a connection +possibly existed between the thief who’d been playing confounded +conjuring tricks off on to me and this interesting party down Fulham +way—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What party down Fulham way?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This friend of Holt’s—am I not telling you? There you are, you +see,—won’t let me finish! When Holt slipped through the window—which +is the most sensible thing he seems to have done; if I’d been in his +shoes I’d have slipped through forty windows!—dusky coloured charmer +caught him on the hop,—doctored him—sent him out to commit burglary +by deputy. I said to Holt, “Show us this agreeable little crib, young +man.” Holt was game—then Marjorie chipped in—she wanted to go and see +it too. I said, “You’ll be sorry if you do,”—that settled it! After +that she’d have gone if she’d died,—I never did have a persuasive way +with women. So off we toddled, Marjorie, Holt, and I, in a +growler,—spotted the crib in less than no time,—invited ourselves in +by the kitchen window—house seemed empty. Presently Holt became +hypnotised before my eyes,—the best established case of hypnotism by +suggestion I ever yet encountered—started off on a pilgrimage of one. +Like an idiot I followed, leaving Marjorie to wait for me—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Alone!—Am I not telling you?—Great Scott, Lessingham, in the House +of Commons they must be hazy to think you smart! I said, “I’ll send the +first sane soul I meet to keep you company.” As luck would have it, I +never met one,—only kids, and a baker, who wouldn’t leave his cart, or +take it with him either. I’d covered pretty nearly two miles before I +came across a peeler,—and when I did the man was cracked—and he +thought me mad, or drunk, or both. By the time I’d got myself within +nodding distance of being run in for obstructing the police in the +execution of their duty, without inducing him to move a single one of +his twenty-four-inch feet, Holt was out of sight. So, since all my +pains in his direction were clean thrown away, there was nothing left +for me but to scurry back to Marjorie,—so I scurried, and I found the +house empty, no one there, and Marjorie gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, I don’t quite follow—’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton impetuously declined to allow Mr Lessingham to conclude. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course you don’t quite follow, and you’ll follow still less if you +will keep getting in front. I went upstairs and downstairs, inside and +out—shouted myself hoarse as a crow—nothing was to be seen of +Marjorie,—or heard; until, as I was coming down the stairs for about +the five-and-fiftieth time, I stepped on something hard which was lying +in the passage. I picked it up,—it was a ring; this ring. Its shape is +not just what it was,—I’m not as light as gossamer, especially when I +come jumping downstairs six at a time,—but what’s left of it is here.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney held something in front of him. Mr Lessingham wriggled to one +side to enable him to see. Then he made a snatch at it. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s mine!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney dodged it out of his reach. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean, it’s yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the ring I gave Marjorie for an engagement ring. Give it me, you +hound!—unless you wish me to do you violence in the cab.’ +</p> + +<p> +With complete disregard of the limitations of space,—or of my +comfort,—Lessingham thrust him vigorously aside. Then gripping Sydney +by the wrist, he seized the gaud,—Sydney yielding it just in time to +save himself from being precipitated into the street. Ravished of his +treasure, Sydney turned and surveyed the ravisher with something like a +glance of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hang me, Lessingham, if I don’t believe there is some warm blood in +those fishlike veins of yours. Please the piper, I’ll live to fight you +after all,—with the bare ones, sir, as a gentleman should do.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham seemed to pay no attention to him whatever. He was surveying +the ring, which Sydney had trampled out of shape, with looks of the +deepest concern. +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie’s ring!—The one I gave her! Something serious must have +happened to her before she would have dropped my ring, and left it +lying where it fell.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton went on. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s it!—What has happened to her!—I’ll be dashed if I know!—When +it was clear that there she wasn’t, I tore off to find out where she +was. Came across old Lindon,—he knew nothing;—I rather fancy I +startled him in the middle of Pall Mall, when I left he stared after me +like one possessed, and his hat was lying in the gutter. Went +home,—she wasn’t there. Asked Dora Grayling,—she’d seen nothing of +her. No one had seen anything of her,—she had vanished into air. Then +I said to myself, “You’re a first-class idiot, on my honour! While +you’re looking for her, like a lost sheep, the betting is that the +girl’s in Holt’s friend’s house the whole jolly time. When you were +there, the chances are that she’d just stepped out for a stroll, and +that now she’s back again, and wondering where on earth you’ve gone!” +So I made up my mind that I’d fly back and see,—because the idea of +her standing on the front doorstep looking for me, while I was going +off my nut looking for her, commended itself to what I call my sense of +humour; and on my way it struck me that it would be the part of wisdom +to pick up Champnell, because if there is a man who can be backed to +find a needle in any amount of haystacks it is the great +Augustus.—That horse has moved itself after all, because here we are. +Now, cabman, don’t go driving further on,—you’ll have to put a girdle +round the earth if you do; because you’ll have to reach this point +again before you get your fare.—This is the magician’s house!’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch37"> +CHAPTER XXXVII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> cab pulled up in front of a tumbledown cheap ‘villa’ in an +unfinished cheap neighbourhood,—the whole place a living monument of +the defeat of the speculative builder. +</p> + +<p> +Atherton leaped out on to the grass-grown rubble which was meant for a +footpath. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t see Marjorie looking for me on the doorstep.’ +</p> + +<p> +Nor did I,—I saw nothing but what appeared to be an unoccupied +ramshackle brick abomination. Suddenly Sydney gave an exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hullo!—The front door’s closed!’ +</p> + +<p> +I was hard at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, when I went I left the front door open. It looks as if I’ve made +an idiot of myself after all, and Marjorie’s returned,—let’s hope to +goodness that I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +He knocked. While we waited for a response I questioned him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why did you leave the door open when you went?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hardly know,—I imagine that it was with some dim idea of Marjorie’s +being able to get in if she returned while I was absent,—but the truth +is I was in such a condition of helter skelter that I am not prepared +to swear that I had any reasonable reason.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose there is no doubt that you did leave it open?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Absolutely none,—on that I’ll stake my life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was it open when you returned from your pursuit of Holt?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Wide open,—I walked straight in expecting to find her waiting for me +in the front room,—I was struck all of a heap when I found she wasn’t +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Were there any signs of a struggle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘None,—there were no signs of anything. Everything was just as I had +left it, with the exception of the ring which I trod on in the passage, +and which Lessingham has.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If Miss Lindon has returned, it does not look as if she were in the +house at present.’ +</p> + +<p> +It did not,—unless silence had such meaning. Atherton had knocked +loudly three times without succeeding in attracting the slightest +notice from within. +</p> + +<p> +‘It strikes me that this is another case of seeking admission through +that hospitable window at the back.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton led the way to the rear. Lessingham and I followed. There was +not even an apology for a yard, still less a garden,—there was not +even a fence of any sort, to serve as an enclosure, and to shut off the +house from the wilderness of waste land. The kitchen window was open. I +asked Sydney if he had left it so. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know,—I dare say we did; I don’t fancy that either of us +stood on the order of his coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +While he spoke, he scrambled over the sill. We followed. When he was +in, he shouted at the top of his voice, +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie! Marjorie! Speak to me, Marjorie,—it is I,—Sydney!’ +</p> + +<p> +The words echoed through the house. Only silence answered. He led the +way to the front room. Suddenly he stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo!’ he cried. ‘The blind’s down!’ I had noticed, when we were +outside, that the blind was down at the front room window. ‘It was up +when I went, that I’ll swear. That someone has been here is pretty +plain,—let’s hope it’s Marjorie.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had only taken a step forward into the room when he again stopped +short to exclaim. +</p> + +<p> +‘My stars!—here’s a sudden clearance!—Why, the place is +empty,—everything’s clean gone!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?—was it furnished when you left?’ +</p> + +<p> +The room was empty enough then. +</p> + +<p> +‘Furnished?—I don’t know that it was exactly what you’d call +furnished,—the party who ran this establishment had a taste in +upholstery which was all his own,—but there was a carpet, and a bed, +and—and lots of things,—for the most part, I should have said, +distinctly Eastern curiosities. They seem to have evaporated into +smoke,—which may be a way which is common enough among Eastern +curiosities, though it’s queer to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton was staring about him as if he found it difficult to credit +the evidence of his own eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘How long ago is it since you left?’ +</p> + +<p> +He referred to his watch. +</p> + +<p> +‘Something over an hour,—possibly an hour and a half; I couldn’t swear +to the exact moment, but it certainly isn’t more.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you notice any signs of packing up?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a sign.’ Going to the window he drew up the blind,—speaking as he +did so. ‘The queer thing about this business is that when we first got +in this blind wouldn’t draw up a little bit, so, since it wouldn’t go +up I pulled it down, roller and all, now it draws up as easily and +smoothly as if it had always been the best blind that ever lived.’ +</p> + +<p> +Standing at Sydney’s back I saw that the cabman on his box was +signalling to us with his outstretched hand. Sydney perceived him too. +He threw up the sash. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter with you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Excuse me, sir, but who’s the old gent?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What old gent?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why the old gent peeping through the window of the room upstairs?’ +</p> + +<p> +The words were hardly out of the driver’s mouth when Sydney was through +the door and flying up the staircase. I followed rather more +soberly,—his methods were a little too flighty for me. When I reached +the landing, dashing out of the front room he rushed into the one at +the back,—then through a door at the side. He came out shouting. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the idiot mean!—with his old gent! I’d old gent him if I got +him!—There’s not a creature about the place!’ +</p> + +<p> +He returned into the front room,—I at his heels. That certainly was +empty,—and not only empty, but it showed no traces of recent +occupation. The dust lay thick upon the floor,—there was that mouldy, +earthy smell which is so frequently found in apartments which have been +long untenanted. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure, Atherton, that there is no one at the back?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I’m sure,—you can go and see for yourself if you like; do +you think I’m blind? Jehu’s drunk.’ Throwing up the sash he addressed +the driver. ‘What do you mean with your old gent at the window?—what +window?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That window, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Go to!—you’re dreaming, man!—there’s no one here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there was someone there not a minute +ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Imagination, cabman,—the slant of the light on the glass,—or your +eyesight’s defective.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Excuse me, sir, but it’s not my imagination, and my eyesight’s as good +as any man’s in England,—and as for the slant of the light on the +glass, there ain’t much glass for the light to slant on. I saw him +peeping through that bottom broken pane on your left hand as plainly as +I see you. He must be somewhere about,—he can’t have got away,—he’s +at the back. Ain’t there a cupboard nor nothing where he could hide?’ +</p> + +<p> +The cabman’s manner was so extremely earnest that I went myself to see. +There was a cupboard on the landing, but the door of that stood wide +open, and that obviously was bare. The room behind was small, and, +despite the splintered glass in the window frame, stuffy. Fragments of +glass kept company with the dust on the floor, together with a choice +collection of stones, brickbats, and other missiles,—which not +improbably were the cause of their being there. In the corner stood a +cupboard,—but a momentary examination showed that that was as bare as +the other. The door at the side, which Sydney had left wide open, +opened on to a closet, and that was empty. I glanced up,—there was no +trap door which led to the roof. No practicable nook or cranny, in +which a living being could lie concealed, was anywhere at hand. +</p> + +<p> +I returned to Sydney’s shoulder to tell the cabman so. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is no place in which anyone could hide, and there is no one in +either of the rooms,—you must have been mistaken, driver.’ +</p> + +<p> +The man waxed wroth. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t tell me! How could I come to think I saw something when I +didn’t?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One’s eyes are apt to play us tricks;—how could you see what wasn’t +there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s what I want to know. As I drove up, before you told me to stop, +I saw him looking through the window,—the one at which you are. He’d +got his nose glued to the broken pane, and was staring as hard as he +could stare. When I pulled up, off he started,—I saw him get up off +his knees, and go to the back of the room. When the gentleman took to +knocking, back he came,—to the same old spot, and flopped down on his +knees. I didn’t know what caper you was up to,—you might be bum +bailiffs for all I knew!—and I supposed that he wasn’t so anxious to +let you in as you might be to get inside, and that was why he didn’t +take no notice of your knocking, while all the while he kept a eye on +what was going on. When you goes round to the back, up he gets again, +and I reckoned that he was going to meet yer, and perhaps give yer a +bit of his mind, and that presently I should hear a shindy, or that +something would happen. But when you pulls up the blind downstairs, to +my surprise back he come once more. He shoves his old nose right +through the smash in the pane, and wags his old head at me like a +chattering magpie. That didn’t seem to me quite the civil thing to +do,—I hadn’t done no harm to him; so I gives you the office, and lets +you know that he was there. But for you to say that he wasn’t there, +and never had been,—blimey! that cops the biscuit. If he wasn’t there, +all I can say is I ain’t here, and my ’orse ain’t here, and my cab +ain’t neither,—damn it!—the house ain’t here, and nothing ain’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +He settled himself on his perch with an air of the most extreme ill +usage,—he had been standing up to tell his tale. That the man was +serious was unmistakable. As he himself suggested, what inducement +could he have had to tell a lie like that? That he believed himself to +have seen what he declared he saw was plain. But, on the other hand, +what could have become—in the space of fifty seconds!—of his ‘old +gent’? +</p> + +<p> +Atherton put a question. +</p> + +<p> +‘What did he look like,—this old gent of yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that I shouldn’t hardly like to say. It wasn’t much of his face +I could see, only his face and his eyes,—and they wasn’t pretty. He +kept a thing over his head all the time, as if he didn’t want too much +to be seen.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of a thing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why,—one of them cloak sort of things, like them Arab blokes used to +wear what used to be at Earl’s Court Exhibition,—you know!’ +</p> + +<p> +This piece of information seemed to interest my companions more than +anything he had said before. +</p> + +<p> +‘A burnoose do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How am I to know what the thing’s called? I ain’t up in foreign +languages,—’tain’t likely! All I know that them Arab blokes what was +at Earl’s Court used to walk about in them all over the +place,—sometimes they wore them over their heads, and sometimes they +didn’t. In fact if you’d asked me, instead of trying to make out as I +sees double, or things what was only inside my own noddle, or something +or other, I should have said this here old gent what I’ve been telling +you about was a Arab bloke,—when he gets off his knees to sneak away +from the window, I could see that he had his cloak thing, what was over +his head, wrapped all round him.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham turned to me, all quivering with excitement. +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe that what he says is true!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then where can this mysterious old gentleman have got to,—can you +suggest an explanation? It is strange, to say the least of it, that the +cabman should be the only person to see or hear anything of him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some devil’s trick has been played,—I know it, I feel it!—my +instinct tells me so!’ +</p> + +<p> +I stared. In such a matter one hardly expects a man of Paul +Lessingham’s stamp to talk of ‘instinct.’ Atherton stared too. Then, on +a sudden, he burst out, +</p> + +<p> +‘By the Lord, I believe the Apostle’s right,—the whole place reeks to +me of hankey-pankey,—it did as soon as I put my nose inside. In +matters of prestidigitation, Champnell, we Westerns are among the +rudiments,—we’ve everything to learn,—Orientals leave us at the post. +If their civilisation’s what we’re pleased to call extinct, their +conjuring—when you get to know it!—is all alive oh!’ +</p> + +<p> +He moved towards the door. As he went he slipped, or seemed to, all but +stumbling on to his knees. +</p> + +<p> +‘Something tripped me up,—what’s this?’ He was stamping on the floor +with his foot. ‘Here’s a board loose. Come and lend me a hand, one of +you fellows, to get it up. Who knows what mystery’s beneath?’ +</p> + +<p> +I went to his aid. As he said, a board in the floor was loose. His +stepping on it unawares had caused his stumble. Together we prised it +out of its place,—Lessingham standing by and watching us the while. +Having removed it, we peered into the cavity it disclosed. +</p> + +<p> +There was something there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why,’ cried Atherton, ‘it’s a woman’s clothing!’ +</p> + +<div class="fig"> +<a href="images/img_279.jpg"> +<img alt="" src="images/img_279_th.jpg" /> +</a> +<div class="caption"> +THEY STARED AT ME IN SILENCE AS I DRAGGED THESE OUT AND LAID THEM ON +THE FLOOR. +</div></div> + + +<h3 id="ch38"> +CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE REST OF THE FIND</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> was a woman’s clothing, beyond a doubt, all thrown in anyhow,—as if +the person who had placed it there had been in a desperate hurry. An +entire outfit was there, shoes, stockings, body linen, corsets, and +all,—even to hat, gloves, and hairpins;—these latter were mixed up +with the rest of the garments in strange confusion. It seemed plain +that whoever had worn those clothes had been stripped to the skin. +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham and Sydney stared at me in silence as I dragged them out and +laid them on the floor. The dress was at the bottom,—it was an alpaca, +of a pretty shade in blue, bedecked with lace and ribbons, as is the +fashion of the hour, and lined with sea-green silk. It had perhaps been +a ‘charming confection’ once—and that a very recent one!—but now it +was all soiled and creased and torn and tumbled. The two spectators +made a simultaneous pounce at it as I brought it to the light. +</p> + +<p> +‘My God!’ cried Sydney, ‘it’s Marjorie’s!—she was wearing it when I +saw her last!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s Marjorie’s!’ gasped Lessingham,—he was clutching at the ruined +costume, staring at it like a man who has just received sentence of +death. ‘She wore it when she was with me yesterday,—I told her how it +suited her, and how pretty it was!’ +</p> + +<p> +There was silence,—it was an eloquent find; it spoke for itself. The +two men gazed at the heap of feminine glories,—it might have been the +most wonderful sight they ever had seen. Lessingham was the first to +speak,—his face had all at once grown grey and haggard. +</p> + +<p> +‘What has happened to her?’ +</p> + +<p> +I replied to his question with another. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure this is Miss Lindon’s dress?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure,—and were proof needed, here it is.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had found the pocket, and was turning out the contents. There was a +purse, which contained money and some visiting cards on which were her +name and address; a small bunch of keys, with her nameplate attached; a +handkerchief, with her initials in a corner. The question of ownership +was placed beyond a doubt. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see,’ said Lessingham, exhibiting the money which was in the +purse, ‘it is not robbery which has been attempted. Here are two +ten-pound notes, and one for five, besides gold and silver,—over +thirty pounds in all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton, who had been turning over the accumulation of rubbish between +the joists, proclaimed another find. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here are her rings, and watch, and a bracelet,—no, it certainly does +not look as if theft had been an object.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham was glowering at him with knitted brows. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have to thank you for this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney was unwontedly meek. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are hard on me, Lessingham, harder than I deserve,—I had rather +have thrown away my own life than have suffered misadventure to have +come to her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yours are idle words. Had you not meddled this would not have +happened. A fool works more mischief with his folly than of malice +prepense. If hurt has befallen Marjorie Lindon you shall account for it +to me with your life’s blood.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let it be so,’ said Sydney. ‘I am content. If hurt has come to +Marjorie, God knows that I am willing enough that death should come to +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +While they wrangled, I continued to search. A little to one side, under +the flooring which was still intact, I saw something gleam. By +stretching out my hand, I could just manage to reach it,—it was a long +plait of woman’s hair. It had been cut off at the roots,—so close to +the head in one place that the scalp itself had been cut, so that the +hair was clotted with blood. +</p> + +<p> +They were so occupied with each other that they took no notice of me. I +had to call their attention to my discovery. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gentlemen, I fear that I have here something which will distress +you,—is not this Miss Lindon’s hair?’ +</p> + +<p> +They recognised it on the instant. Lessingham, snatching it from my +hands, pressed it to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is mine,—I shall at least have something.’ He spoke with a +grimness which was a little startling. He held the silken tresses at +arm’s length. ‘This points to murder,—foul, cruel, causeless murder. +As I live, I will devote my all,—money, time, reputation!—to gaining +vengeance on the wretch who did this deed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton chimed in. +</p> + +<p> +‘To that I say, Amen!’ He lifted his hand. ‘God is my witness!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seems to me, gentlemen, that we move too fast,—to my mind it does +not by any means of necessity point to murder. On the contrary, I doubt +if murder has been done. Indeed, I don’t mind owning that I have a +theory of my own which points all the other way.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham caught me by the sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Champnell, tell me your theory.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will, a little later. Of course it may be altogether wrong;—though +I fancy it is not; I will explain my reasons when we come to talk of +it. But, at present, there are things which must be done.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I vote for tearing up every board in the house!’ cried Sydney. ‘And +for pulling the whole infernal place to pieces. It’s a conjurer’s +den.—I shouldn’t be surprised if cabby’s old gent is staring at us all +the while from some peephole of his own.’ +</p> + +<p> +We examined the entire house, methodically, so far as we were able, +inch by inch. Not another board proved loose,—to lift those which were +nailed down required tools, and those we were without. We sounded all +the walls,—with the exception of the party walls they were the usual +lath and plaster constructions, and showed no signs of having been +tampered with. The ceilings were intact; if anything was concealed in +them it must have been there some time,—the cement was old and dirty. +We took the closet to pieces; examined the chimneys; peered into the +kitchen oven and the copper;—in short, we pried into everything which, +with the limited means at our disposal, could be pried into,—without +result. At the end we found ourselves dusty, dirty, and discomfited. +The cabman’s ‘old gent’ remained as much a mystery as ever, and no +further trace had been discovered of Miss Lindon. +</p> + +<p> +Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now what’s to be done? There seems to be just nothing in the place at +all, and yet that there is, and that it’s the key to the whole +confounded business I should be disposed to swear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case I would suggest that you should stay and look for it. The +cabman can go and look for the requisite tools, or a workman to assist +you, if you like. For my part it appears to me that evidence of another +sort is, for the moment, of paramount importance; and I propose to +commence my search for it by making a call at the house which is over +the way.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had observed, on our arrival, that the road only contained two houses +which were in anything like a finished state,—that which we were in, +and another, some fifty or sixty yards further down, on the opposite +side. It was to this I referred. The twain immediately proffered their +companionship. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will come with you,’ said Mr Lessingham. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I,’ echoed Sydney. ‘We’ll leave this sweet homestead in charge of +the cabman,—I’ll pull it to pieces afterwards.’ He went out and spoke +to the driver. ‘Cabby, we’re going to pay a visit to the little crib +over there,—you keep an eye on this one. And if you see a sign of +anyone being about the place,—living, or dead, or anyhow—you give me +a yell. I shall be on the lookout, and I’ll be with you before you can +say Jack Robinson.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You bet I’ll yell,—I’ll raise the hair right off you.’ The fellow +grinned. ‘But I don’t know if you gents are hiring me by the day,—I +want to change my horse; he ought to have been in his stable a couple +of hours ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind your horse,—let him rest a couple of hours extra to-morrow +to make up for those he has lost to-day. I’ll take care you don’t lose +anything by this little job,—or your horse either.—By the way, look +here,—this will be better than yelling.’ +</p> + +<p> +Taking a revolver out of his trousers’ pocket he handed it up to the +grinning driver. +</p> + +<p> +‘If that old gent of yours does appear, you have a pop at him,—I shall +hear that easier than a yell. You can put a bullet through him if you +like,—I give you my word it won’t be murder.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t care if it is,’ declared the cabman, handling the weapon like +one who was familiar with arms of precision. ‘I used to fancy my +revolver shooting when I was with the colours, and if I do get a chance +I’ll put a shot through the old hunks, if only to prove to you that I’m +no liar.’ +</p> + +<p> +Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell,—nor whether +Atherton meant what he said in answer. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you shoot him I’ll give you fifty pounds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right!’ The driver laughed. ‘I’ll do my best to earn that fifty!’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch39"> +CHAPTER XXXIX.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">MISS LOUISA COLEMAN</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">That</span> the house over the way was tenanted was plain to all the +world,—at least one occupant sat gazing through the window of the +first floor front room. An old woman in a cap,—one of those large +old-fashioned caps which our grandmothers used to wear, tied with +strings under the chin. It was a bow window, and as she was seated in +the bay looking right in our direction she could hardly have failed to +see us as we advanced,—indeed she continued to stare at us all the +while with placid calmness. Yet I knocked once, twice, and yet again +without the slightest notice being taken of my summons. +</p> + +<p> +Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein. +</p> + +<p> +‘Knockers in this part of the world seem intended for ornament +only,—nobody seems to pay any attention to them when they’re used. The +old lady upstairs must be either deaf or dotty.’ He went out into the +road to see if she still was there. ‘She’s looking at me as calmly as +you please,—what does she think we’re doing here, I wonder; playing a +tune on her front door by way of a little amusement?—Madam!’ He took +off his hat and waved it to her. ‘Madam! might I observe that if you +won’t condescend to notice that we’re here your front door will run the +risk of being severely injured!—She don’t care for me any more than if +I was nothing at all,—sound another tattoo upon that knocker. Perhaps +she’s so deaf that nothing short of a cataclysmal uproar will reach her +auditory nerves.’ +</p> + +<p> +She immediately proved, however, that she was nothing of the sort. +Hardly had the sounds of my further knocking died away than, throwing +up the window, she thrust out her head and addressed me in a fashion +which, under the circumstances, was as unexpected as it was uncalled +for. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, young man, you needn’t be in such a hurry!’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney explained. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pardon me, madam, it’s not so much a hurry we’re in as pressed for +time,—this is a matter of life and death.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned her attention to Sydney,—speaking with a frankness for +which, I imagine, he was unprepared. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want none of your imperence, young man. I’ve seen you +before,—you’ve been hanging about here the whole day long!—and I +don’t like the looks of you, and so I’ll let you know. That’s my front +door, and that’s my knocker,—I’ll come down and open when I like, but +I’m not going to be hurried, and if the knocker’s so much as touched +again, I won’t come down at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between mirth +and indignation. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s a nice old lady, on my honour,—one of the good old crusty +sort. Agreeable characters this neighbourhood seems to grow,—a sojourn +hereabouts should do one good. Unfortunately I don’t feel disposed just +now to stand and kick my heels in the road.’ Again saluting the old +dame by raising his hat he shouted to her at the top of his voice. +‘Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for troubling you, but this is a +matter in which every second is of vital importance,—would you allow +me to ask you one or two questions?’ +</p> + +<p> +Up went the window; out came the old lady’s head. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, young man, you needn’t put yourself out to holler at me,—I won’t +be hollered at! I’ll come down and open that door in five minutes by +the clock on my mantelpiece, and not a moment before.’ +</p> + +<p> +The fiat delivered, down came the window. Sydney looked rueful,—he +consulted his watch. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what you think, Champnell, but I really doubt if this +comfortable creature can tell us anything worth waiting another five +minutes to hear. We mustn’t let the grass grow under our feet, and time +is getting on.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was of a different opinion,—and said so. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m afraid, Atherton, that I can’t agree with you. She seems to have +noticed you hanging about all day; and it is at least possible that she +has noticed a good deal which would be well worth our hearing. What +more promising witness are we likely to find?—her house is the only +one which overlooks the one we have just quitted. I am of opinion that +it may not only prove well worth our while to wait five minutes, but +also that it would be as well, if possible, not to offend her by the +way. She’s not likely to afford us the information we require if you +do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good. If that’s what you think I’m sure I’m willing to wait,—only +it’s to be hoped that that clock upon her mantelpiece moves quicker +than its mistress.’ +</p> + +<p> +Presently, when about a minute had gone, he called to the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Seen a sign of anything?’ +</p> + +<p> +The cabman shouted back. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ne’er a sign,—you’ll hear a sound of popguns when I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +Those five minutes did seem long ones. But at last Sydney, from his +post of vantage in the road, informed us that the old lady was moving. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s getting up;—she’s leaving the window;—let’s hope to goodness +she’s coming down to open the door. That’s been the longest five +minutes I’ve known.’ +</p> + +<p> +I could hear uncertain footsteps descending the stairs. They came along +the passage. The door was opened—‘on the chain.’ The old lady peered +at us through an aperture of about six inches. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what you young men think you’re after, but have all three +of you in my house I won’t. I’ll have him and you’—a skinny finger was +pointed to Lessingham and me; then it was directed towards +Atherton—‘but have him I won’t. So if it’s anything particular you +want to say to me, you’ll just tell him to go away.’ +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this Sydney’s humility was abject. His hat was in his +hand,—he bent himself double. +</p> + +<p> +‘Suffer me to make you a million apologies, madam, if I have in any way +offended you; nothing, I assure you, could have been farther from my +intention, or from my thoughts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want none of your apologies, and I don’t want none of you +neither; I don’t like the looks of you, and so I tell you. Before I let +anybody into my house you’ll have to sling your hook.’ +</p> + +<p> +The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney. +</p> + +<p> +‘The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for us +over the way.’ +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders, and groaned,—half in jest, half in earnest. +</p> + +<p> +‘If I must I suppose I must,—it’s the first time I’ve been refused +admittance to a lady’s house in all my life! What have I done to +deserve this thing?—If you keep me waiting long I’ll tear that +infernal den to pieces!’ +</p> + +<p> +He sauntered across the road, viciously kicking the stones as he went. +The door reopened. +</p> + +<p> +‘Has that other young man gone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He has.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then now I’ll let you in. Have him inside my house I won’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +The chain was removed. Lessingham and I entered. Then the door was +refastened and the chain replaced. Our hostess showed us into the front +room on the ground floor; it was sparsely furnished and not too +clean,—but there were chairs enough for us to sit upon; which she +insisted on our occupying. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sit down, do,—I can’t abide to see folks standing; it gives me the +fidgets.’ +</p> + +<p> +So soon as we were seated, without any overture on our parts she +plunged <i>in medias res</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know what it is you’ve come about,—I know! You want me to tell you +who it is as lives in the house over the road. Well, I can tell +you,—and I dare bet a shilling that I’m about the only one who can.’ +</p> + +<p> +I inclined my head. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed. Is that so, madam?’ +</p> + +<p> +She was huffed at once. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t madam me,—I can’t bear none of your lip service. I’m a +plain-spoken woman, that’s what I am, and I like other people’s tongues +to be as plain as mine. My name’s Miss Louisa Coleman; but I’m +generally called Miss Coleman,—I’m only called Louisa by my relatives.’ +</p> + +<p> +Since she was apparently between seventy and eighty—and looked every +year of her apparent age—I deemed that possible. Miss Coleman was +evidently a character. If one was desirous of getting information out +of her it would be necessary to allow her to impart it in her own +manner,—to endeavour to induce her to impart it in anybody else’s +would be time clean wasted. We had Sydney’s fate before our eyes. +</p> + +<p> +She started with a sort of roundabout preamble. +</p> + +<p> +‘This property is mine; it was left me by my uncle, the late George +Henry Jobson,—he’s buried in Hammersmith Cemetery just over the +way,—he left me the whole of it. It’s one of the finest building sites +near London, and it increases in value every year, and I’m not going to +let it for another twenty, by which time the value will have more than +trebled,—so if that is what you’ve come about, as heaps of people do, +you might have saved yourselves the trouble. I keep the boards +standing, just to let people know that the ground is to let,—though, +as I say, it won’t be for another twenty years, when it’ll be for the +erection of high-class mansions only, same as there is in Grosvenor +Square,—no shops or public houses, and none of your shanties. I live +in this place just to keep an eye upon the property,—and as for the +house over the way, I’ve never tried to let it, and it never has been +let, not until a month ago, when, one morning, I had this letter. You +can see it if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +She handed me a greasy envelope which she ferreted out of a capacious +pocket which was suspended from her waist, and which she had to lift up +her skirt to reach. The envelope was addressed, in unformed characters, +‘Miss Louisa Coleman, The Rhododendrons, Convolvulus Avenue, High Oaks +Park, West Kensington.’—I felt, if the writer had not been of a +humorous turn of mind, and drawn on his imagination, and this really +was the lady’s correct address, then there must be something in a name. +</p> + +<p> +The letter within was written in the same straggling, characterless +caligraphy,—I should have said, had I been asked offhand, that the +whole thing was the composition of a servant girl. The composition was +about on a par with the writing. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘The undersigned would be oblidged if Miss Coleman would let her empty +house. I do not know the rent but send fifty pounds. If more will send. +Please address, Mohamed el Kheir, Post Office, Sligo Street, London.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +It struck me as being as singular an application for a tenancy as I +remembered to have encountered. When I passed it on to Lessingham, he +seemed to think so too. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is a curious letter, Miss Coleman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So I thought,—and still more so when I found the fifty pounds inside. +There were five ten-pound notes, all loose, and the letter not even +registered. If I had been asked what was the rent of the house, I +should have said, at the most, not more than twenty pounds,—because, +between you and me, it wants a good bit of doing up, and is hardly fit +to live in as it stands.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had had sufficient evidence of the truth of this altogether apart +from the landlady’s frank admission. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, for all he could have done to help himself I might have kept the +money, and only sent him a receipt for a quarter. And some folks would +have done,—but I’m not one of that sort myself, and shouldn’t care to +be. So I sent this here party,—I never could pronounce his name, and +never shall—a receipt for a year.’ +</p> + +<p> +Miss Coleman paused to smooth her apron, and consider. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, the receipt should have reached this here party on the Thursday +morning, as it were,—I posted it on the Wednesday night, and on the +Thursday, after breakfast, I thought I’d go over the way to see if +there was any little thing I could do,—because there wasn’t hardly a +whole pane of glass in the place,—when I all but went all of a heap. +When I looked across the road, blessed if the party wasn’t in +already,—at least as much as he ever was in, which, so far as I can +make out, never has been anything particular,—though how he had got +in, unless it was through a window in the middle of the night, is more +than I should care to say,—there was nobody in the house when I went +to bed, that I could pretty nearly take my Bible oath,—yet there was +the blind up at the parlour, and, what’s more, it was down, and it’s +been down pretty nearly ever since. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well,” I says to myself, “for right down imperence this beats +anything,—why he’s in the place before he knows if I’ll let him have +it. Perhaps he thinks I haven’t got a word to say in the matter,—fifty +pounds or no fifty pounds, I’ll soon show him.” So I slips on my +bonnet, and I walks over the road, and I hammers at the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I have seen people hammering since then, many a one, and how +they’ve kept it up has puzzled me,—for an hour, some of them,—but I +was the first one as begun it. I hammers, and I hammers, and I kept on +hammering, but it wasn’t no more use than if I’d been hammering at a +tombstone. So I starts rapping at the window, but that wasn’t no use +neither. So I goes round behind, and I hammers at the back door,—but +there, I couldn’t make anyone hear nohow. So I says to myself, “Perhaps +the party as is in, ain’t in, in a manner of speaking; but I’ll keep an +eye on the house, and when he is in I’ll take care that he ain’t out +again before I’ve had a word to say.” +</p> + +<p> +‘So I come back home, and as I said I would, I kept an eye on the house +the whole of that livelong day, but never a soul went either out or in. +But the next day, which it was a Friday, I got out of bed about five +o’clock, to see if it was raining, through my having an idea of taking +a little excursion if the weather was fine, when I see a party coming +down the road. He had on one of them dirty-coloured bed-cover sort of +things, and it was wrapped all over his head and round his body, like, +as I have been told, them there Arabs wear,—and, indeed, I’ve seen +them in them myself at West Brompton, when they was in the exhibition +there. It was quite fine, and broad day, and I see him as plainly as I +see you,—he comes skimming along at a tear of a pace, pulls up at the +house over the way, opens the front door, and lets himself in. +</p> + +<p> +‘“So,” I says to myself, “there you are. Well, Mr Arab, or whatever, or +whoever, you may be, I’ll take good care that you don’t go out again +before you’ve had a word from me. I’ll show you that landladies have +their rights, like other Christians, in this country, however it may be +in yours.” So I kept an eye on the house, to see that he didn’t go out +again, and nobody never didn’t, and between seven and eight I goes and +I knocks at the door,—because I thought to myself that the earlier I +was the better it might be. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you’ll believe me, no more notice was taken of me than if I was one +of the dead. I hammers, and I hammers, till my wrist was aching, I +daresay I hammered twenty times,—and then I went round to the back +door, and I hammers at that,—but it wasn’t the least good in the +world. I was that provoked to think I should be treated as if I was +nothing and nobody, by a dirty foreigner, who went about in a bed-gown +through the public streets, that it was all I could do to hold myself. +</p> + +<p> +‘I comes round to the front again, and I starts hammering at the +window, with every knuckle on my hands, and I calls out, “I’m Miss +Louisa Coleman, and I’m the owner of this house, and you can’t deceive +me,—I saw you come in, and you’re in now, and if you don’t come and +speak to me this moment I’ll have the police.” +</p> + +<p> +‘All of a sudden, when I was least expecting it, and was hammering my +very hardest at the pane, up goes the blind, and up goes the window +too, and the most awful-looking creature ever I heard of, not to +mention seeing, puts his head right into my face,—he was more like a +hideous baboon than anything else, let alone a man. I was struck all of +a heap, and plumps down on the little wall, and all but tumbles head +over heels backwards. And he starts shrieking, in a sort of a kind of +English, and in such a voice as I’d never heard the like,—it was like +a rusty steam engine. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Go away! go away! I don’t want you! I will not have you,—never! You +have your fifty pounds,—you have your money,—that is the whole of +you,—that is all you want! You come to me no more!—never!—never no +more!—or you be sorry!—Go away!” +</p> + +<p> +‘I did go away, and that as fast as ever my legs would carry me,—what +with his looks, and what with his voice, and what with the way that he +went on, I was nothing but a mass of trembling. As for answering him +back, or giving him a piece of my mind, as I had meant to, I wouldn’t +have done it not for a thousand pounds. I don’t mind confessing, +between you and me, that I had to swallow four cups of tea, right +straight away, before my nerves was steady. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well,” I says to myself, when I did feel, as it might be, a little +more easy, “you never have let that house before, and now you’ve let it +with a vengeance,—so you have. If that there new tenant of yours isn’t +the greatest villain that ever went unhung it must be because he’s got +near relations what’s as bad as himself,—because two families like his +I’m sure there can’t be. A nice sort of Arab party to have sleeping +over the road he is!” +</p> + +<p> +‘But after a time I cools down, as it were,—because I’m one of them +sort as likes to see on both sides of a question. “After all,” I says +to myself, “he has paid his rent, and fifty pounds is fifty pounds,—I +doubt if the whole house is worth much more, and he can’t do much +damage to it whatever he does.” +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t have minded, so far as that went, if he’d set fire to the +place, for, between ourselves, it’s insured for a good bit over its +value. So I decided that I’d let things be as they were, and see how +they went on. But from that hour to this I’ve never spoken to the man, +and never wanted to, and wouldn’t, not of my own free will, not for a +shilling a time,—that face of his will haunt me if I live till Noah, +as the saying is. I’ve seen him going in and out at all hours of the +day and night,—that Arab party’s a mystery if ever there was one,—he +always goes tearing along as if he’s flying for his life. Lots of +people have come to the house, all sorts and kinds, men and +women—they’ve been mostly women, and even little children. I’ve seen +them hammer and hammer at that front door, but never a one have I seen +let in,—or yet seen taken any notice of, and I think I may say, and +yet tell no lie, that I’ve scarcely took my eye off the house since +he’s been inside it, over and over again in the middle of the night +have I got up to have a look, so that I’ve not missed much that has +took place. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s puzzled me is the noises that’s come from the house. Sometimes +for days together there’s not been a sound, it might have been a house +of the dead; and then, all through the night, there’ve been yells and +screeches, squawks and screams,—I never heard nothing like it. I have +thought, and more than once, that the devil himself must be in that +front room, let alone all the rest of his demons. And as for +cats!—where they’ve come from I can’t think. I didn’t use to notice +hardly a cat in the neighbourhood till that there Arab party +came,—there isn’t much to attract them; but since he came there’s been +regiments. Sometimes at night there’s been troops about the place, +screeching like mad,—I’ve wished them farther, I can tell you. That +Arab party must be fond of ’em. I’ve seen them inside the house, at the +windows, upstairs and downstairs, as it seemed to me, a dozen at a time.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch40"> +CHAPTER XL.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">As</span> Miss Coleman had paused, as if her narrative was approaching a +conclusion, I judged it expedient to make an attempt to bring the +record as quickly as possible up to date. +</p> + +<p> +‘I take it, Miss Coleman, that you have observed what has occurred in +the house to-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +She tightened her nut-cracker jaws and glared at me disdainfully,—her +dignity was ruffled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m coming to it, aren’t I?—if you’ll let me. If you’ve got no +manners I’ll learn you some. One doesn’t like to be hurried at my time +of life, young man.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was meekly silent;—plainly, if she was to talk, every one else must +listen. +</p> + +<p> +‘During the last few days there have been some queer goings on over the +road,—out of the common queer, I mean, for goodness knows that they +always have been queer enough. That Arab party has been flitting about +like a creature possessed,—I’ve seen him going in and out twenty times +a day. This morning—’ +</p> + +<p> +She paused,—to fix her eyes on Lessingham. She apparently observed his +growing interest as she approached the subject which had brought us +there,—and resented it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t look at me like that, young man, because I won’t have it. And as +for questions, I may answer questions when I’m done, but don’t you dare +to ask me one before, because I won’t be interrupted.’ +</p> + +<p> +Up to then Lessingham had not spoken a word,—but it seemed as if she +was endowed with the faculty of perceiving the huge volume of the words +which he had left unuttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘This morning—as I’ve said already,—’ she glanced at Lessingham as if +she defied his contradiction—‘when that Arab party came home it was +just on the stroke of seven. I know what was the exact time because, +when I went to the door to the milkman, my clock was striking the half +hour, and I always keep it thirty minutes fast. As I was taking the +milk, the man said to me, “Hollo, Miss Coleman, here’s your friend +coming along.” “What friend?” I says,—for I ain’t got no friends, as I +know, round here, nor yet, I hope no enemies neither. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I looks round, and there was the Arab party coming tearing down +the road, his bedcover thing all flying in the wind, and his arms +straight out in front of him,—I never did see anyone go at such a +pace. “My goodness,” I says, “I wonder he don’t do himself an injury.” +“I wonder someone else don’t do him an injury,” says the milkman. “The +very sight of him is enough to make my milk go sour.” And he picked up +his pail and went away quite grumpy,—though what that Arab party’s +done to him is more than I can say.—I have always noticed that +milkman’s temper’s short like his measure. I wasn’t best pleased with +him for speaking of that Arab party as my friend, which he never has +been, and never won’t be, and never could be neither. +</p> + +<p> +‘Five persons went to the house after the milkman was gone, and that +there Arab party was safe inside,—three of them was commercials, that +I know, because afterwards they came to me. But of course they none of +them got no chance with that there Arab party except of hammering at +his front door, which ain’t what you might call a paying game, nor nice +for the temper, but for that I don’t blame him, for if once those +commercials do begin talking they’ll talk for ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now I’m coming to this afternoon.’ +</p> + +<p> +I thought it was about time,—though for the life of me, I did not dare +to hint as much. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, it might have been three, or it might have been half past, +anyhow it was thereabouts, when up there comes two men and a woman, +which one of the men was that young man what’s a friend of yours. “Oh,” +I says to myself, “here’s something new in callers, I wonder what it is +they’re wanting.” That young man what was a friend of yours, he starts +hammering, and hammering, as the custom was with every one who came, +and, as usual, no more notice was taken of him than nothing,—though I +knew that all the time the Arab party was indoors.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a question. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are sure he was indoors?’ +</p> + +<p> +She took it better than I feared she might. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I’m sure,—hadn’t I seen him come in at seven, and he never +hadn’t gone out since, for I don’t believe that I’d taken my eyes off +the place not for two minutes together, and I’d never had a sight of +him. If he wasn’t indoors, where was he then?’ +</p> + +<p> +For the moment, so far as I was concerned, the query was unanswerable. +She triumphantly continued: +</p> + +<p> +‘Instead of doing what most did, when they’d had enough of hammering, +and going away, these three they went round to the back, and I’m +blessed if they mustn’t have got through the kitchen window, woman and +all, for all of a sudden the blind in the front room was pulled not up, +but down—dragged down it was, and there was that young man what’s a +friend of yours standing with it in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well,” I says to myself, “if that ain’t cool I should like to know +what is. If, when you ain’t let in, you can let yourself in, and that +without so much as saying by your leave, or with your leave, things is +coming to a pretty pass. Wherever can that Arab party be, and whatever +can he be thinking of, to let them go on like that because that he’s +the sort to allow a liberty to be took with him, and say nothing, I +don’t believe.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Every moment I expects to hear a noise and see a row begin, but, so +far as I could make out, all was quiet and there wasn’t nothing of the +kind. So I says to myself, “There’s more in this than meets the eye, +and them three parties must have right upon their side, or they +wouldn’t be doing what they are doing in the way they are, there’d be a +shindy.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Presently, in about five minutes, the front door opens, and a young +man—not the one what’s your friend, but the other—comes sailing out, +and through the gate, and down the road, as stiff and upright as a +grenadier,—I never see anyone walk more upright, and few as fast. At +his heels comes the young man what is your friend, and it seems to me +that he couldn’t make out what this other was a-doing of. I says to +myself, “There’s been a quarrel between them two, and him as has gone +has hooked it.” This young man what is your friend he stood at the +gate, all of a fidget, staring after the other with all his eyes, as if +he couldn’t think what to make of him, and the young woman, she stood +on the doorstep, staring after him too. +</p> + +<p> +‘As the young man what had hooked it turned the corner, and was out of +sight, all at once your friend he seemed to make up his mind, and he +started off running as hard as he could pelt,—and the young woman was +left alone. I expected, every minute, to see him come back with the +other young man, and the young woman, by the way she hung about the +gate, she seemed to expect it too. But no, nothing of the kind. So +when, as I expect, she’d had enough of waiting, she went into the house +again, and I see her pass the front room window. After a while, back +she comes to the gate, and stands looking and looking, but nothing was +to be seen of either of them young men. When she’d been at the gate, I +daresay five minutes, back she goes into the house,—and I never saw +nothing of her again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You never saw anything of her again?—Are you sure she went back into +the house?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As sure as I am that I see you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose that you didn’t keep a constant watch upon the premises?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But that’s just what I did do. I felt something queer was going on, +and I made up my mind to see it through. And when I make up my mind to +a thing like that I’m not easy to turn aside. I never moved off the +chair at my bedroom window, and I never took my eyes off the house, not +till you come knocking at my front door.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, since the young lady is certainly not in the house at present, +she must have eluded your observation, and, in some manner, have left +it without your seeing her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t believe she did, I don’t see how she could have done,—there’s +something queer about that house, since that Arab party’s been inside +it. But though I didn’t see her, I did see someone else.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who was that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A young man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A young man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, a young man, and that’s what puzzled me, and what’s been puzzling +me ever since, for see him go in I never did do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you describe him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not as to the face, for he wore a dirty cloth cap pulled down right +over it, and he walked so quickly that I never had a proper look. But I +should know him anywhere if I saw him, if only because of his clothes +and his walk.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What was there peculiar about his clothes and his walk?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, his clothes were that old, and torn, and dirty, that a ragman +wouldn’t have given a thank you for them,—and as for fit,—there +wasn’t none, they hung upon him like a scarecrow—he was a regular +figure of fun; I should think the boys would call after him if they saw +him in the street. As for his walk, he walked off just like the first +young man had done, he strutted along with his shoulders back, and his +head in the air, and that stiff and straight that my kitchen poker +would have looked crooked beside of him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did nothing happen to attract your attention between the young lady’s +going back into the house and the coming out of this young man?’ +</p> + +<p> +Miss Coleman cogitated. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now you mention it there did,—though I should have forgotten all +about it if you hadn’t asked me,—that comes of your not letting me +tell the tale in my own way. About twenty minutes after the young woman +had gone in someone put up the blind in the front room, which that +young man had dragged right down, I couldn’t see who it was for the +blind was between us, and it was about ten minutes after that that +young man came marching out.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And then what followed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, in about another ten minutes that Arab party himself comes +scooting through the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The Arab party?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, the Arab party! The sight of him took me clean aback. Where he’d +been, and what he’d been doing with himself while them there people +played hi-spy-hi about his premises I’d have given a shilling out of my +pocket to have known, but there he was, as large as life, and carrying +a bundle.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A bundle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A bundle, on his head, like a muffin-man carries his tray. It was a +great thing, you never would have thought he could have carried it, and +it was easy to see that it was as much as he could manage; it bent him +nearly double, and he went crawling along like a snail,—it took him +quite a time to get to the end of the road.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham leaped up from his seat, crying, +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie was in that bundle!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I doubt it,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +He moved about the room distractedly, wringing his hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was! she must have been! God help us all!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I repeat that I doubt it. If you will be advised by me you will wait +awhile before you arrive at any such conclusion.’ +</p> + +<p> +All at once there was a tapping at the window pane. Atherton was +staring at us from without. +</p> + +<p> +He shouted through the glass, +</p> + +<p> +‘Come out of that, you fossils!—I’ve news for you!’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch41"> +CHAPTER XLI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE CONSTABLE,—HIS CLUE,—AND THE CAB</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Miss Coleman</span>, getting up in a fluster, went hurrying to the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘I won’t have that young man in my house. I won’t have him! Don’t let +him dare to put his nose across my doorstep.’ +</p> + +<p> +I endeavoured to appease her perturbation. +</p> + +<p> +‘I promise you that he shall not come in, Miss Coleman. My friend here, +and I, will go and speak to him outside.’ +</p> + +<p> +She held the front door open just wide enough to enable Lessingham and +me to slip through, then she shut it after us with a bang. She +evidently had a strong objection to any intrusion on Sydney’s part. +</p> + +<p> +Standing just without the gate he saluted us with a characteristic +vigour which was scarcely flattering to our late hostess. Behind him +was a constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope you two have been mewed in with that old pussy long enough. +While you’ve been tittle-tattling I’ve been doing,—listen to what this +bobby’s got to say.’ +</p> + +<p> +The constable, his thumbs thrust inside his belt, wore an indulgent +smile upon his countenance. He seemed to find Sydney amusing. He spoke +in a deep bass voice,—as if it issued from his boots. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know that I’ve got anything to say.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was plain that Sydney thought otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +‘You wait till I’ve given this pretty pair of gossips a lead, officer, +then I’ll trot you out.’ He turned to us. +</p> + +<p> +‘After I’d poked my nose into every dashed hole in that infernal den, +and been rewarded with nothing but a pain in the back for my trouble, I +stood cooling my heels on the doorstep, wondering if I should fight the +cabman, or get him to fight me, just to pass the time away,—for he +says he can box, and he looks it,—when who should come strolling along +but this magnificent example of the metropolitan constabulary.’ He +waved his hand towards the policeman, whose grin grew wider. ‘I looked +at him, and he looked at me, and then when we’d had enough of admiring +each other’s fine features and striking proportions, he said to me, +“Has he gone?” I said, “Who?—Baxter?—or Bob Brown?” He said, “No, the +Arab.” I said, “What do you know about any Arab?” He said, “Well, I saw +him in the Broadway about three-quarters of an hour ago, and then, +seeing you here, and the house all open, I wondered if he had gone for +good.” With that I almost jumped out of my skin, though you can bet +your life I never showed it. I said, “How do you know it was he?” He +said, “It was him right enough, there’s no doubt about that. If you’ve +seen him once, you’re not likely to forget him.” “Where was he going?” +“He was talking to a cabman,—four-wheeler. He’d got a great bundle on +his head,—wanted to take it inside with him. Cabman didn’t seem to see +it.” That was enough for me,—I picked this most deserving officer up +in my arms, and carried him across the road to you two fellows like a +flash of lightning.’ +</p> + +<p> +Since the policeman was six feet three or four, and more than +sufficiently broad in proportion, his scarcely seemed the kind of +figure to be picked up in anybody’s arms and carried like a ‘flash of +lightning,’ which,—as his smile grew more indulgent, he himself +appeared to think. +</p> + +<p> +Still, even allowing for Atherton’s exaggeration, the news which he had +brought was sufficiently important. I questioned the constable upon my +own account. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is my card, officer, probably, before the day is over, a charge +of a very serious character will be preferred against the person who +has been residing in the house over the way. In the meantime it is of +the utmost importance that a watch should be kept upon his movements. I +suppose you have no sort of doubt that the person you saw in the +Broadway was the one in question?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a morsel. I know him as well as I do my own brother,—we all do +upon this beat. He’s known amongst us as the Arab. I’ve had my eye on +him ever since he came to the place. A queer fish he is. I always have +said that he’s up to some game or other. I never came across one like +him for flying about in all sorts of weather, at all hours of the +night, always tearing along as if for his life. As I was telling this +gentleman I saw him in the Broadway,—well, now it’s about an hour +since, perhaps a little more. I was coming on duty when I saw a crowd +in front of the District Railway Station,—and there was the Arab, +having a sort of argument with the cabman. He had a great bundle on his +head, five or six feet long, perhaps longer. He wanted to take this +great bundle with him into the cab, and the cabman, he didn’t see it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You didn’t wait to see him drive off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—I hadn’t time. I was due at the station,—I was cutting it pretty +fine as it was.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You didn’t speak to him,—or to the cabman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, it wasn’t any business of mine you understand. The whole thing +just caught my eye as I was passing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you didn’t take the cabman’s number?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, well, as far as that goes it wasn’t needful. I know the cabman, +his name and all about him, his stable’s in Bradmore.’ +</p> + +<p> +I whipped out my note-book. +</p> + +<p> +‘Give me his address.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what his Christian name is, Tom, I believe, but I’m not +sure. Anyhow his surname’s Ellis and his address is Church Mews, St +John’s Road, Bradmore,—I don’t know his number, but any one will tell +you which is his place, if you ask for Four-Wheel Ellis,—that’s the +name he’s known by among his pals because of his driving a +four-wheeler.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, officer. I am obliged to you.’ Two half-crowns changed +hands. ‘If you will keep an eye on the house and advise me at the +address which you will find on my card, of any thing which takes place +there during the next few days, you will do me a service.’ +</p> + +<p> +We had clambered back into the hansom, the driver was just about to +start, when the constable was struck by a sudden thought. +</p> + +<p> +‘One moment, sir,—blessed if I wasn’t going to forget the most +important bit of all. I did hear him tell Ellis where to drive him +to,—he kept saying it over and over again, in that queer lingo of his. +“Waterloo Railway Station, Waterloo Railway Station.” “All right,” said +Ellis, “I’ll drive you to Waterloo Railway Station right enough, only +I’m not going to have that bundle of yours inside my cab. There isn’t +room for it, so you put it on the roof.” “To Waterloo Railway Station,” +said the Arab, “I take my bundle with me to Waterloo Railway +Station,—I take it with me.” “Who says you don’t take it with you?” +said Ellis. “You can take it, and twenty more besides, for all I care, +only you don’t take it inside my cab,—put it on the roof.” “I take it +with me to Waterloo Railway Station,” said the Arab, and there they +were, wrangling and jangling, and neither seeming to be able to make +out what the other was after, and the people all laughing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Waterloo Railway Station,—you are sure that was what he said?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll take my oath to it, because I said to myself, when I heard it, “I +wonder what you’ll have to pay for that little lot, for the District +Railway Station’s outside the four-mile radius.”’ +</p> + +<p> +As we drove off I was inclined to ask myself, a little bitterly—and +perhaps unjustly—if it were not characteristic of the average London +policeman to almost forget the most important part of his +information,—at any rate to leave it to the last and only to bring it +to the front on having his palm crossed with silver. +</p> + +<p> +As the hansom bowled along we three had what occasionally approached a +warm discussion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Marjorie was in that bundle,’ began Lessingham, in the most lugubrious +of tones, and with the most woebegone of faces. +</p> + +<p> +‘I doubt it,’ I observed. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was,—I feel it,—I know it. She was either dead and mutilated, or +gagged and drugged and helpless. All that remains is vengeance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I repeat that I doubt it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton struck in. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am bound to say, with the best will in the world to think otherwise, +that I agree with Lessingham.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are wrong.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s all very well for you to talk in that cocksure way, but it’s +easier for you to say I’m wrong than to prove it. If I am wrong, and if +Lessingham’s wrong, how do you explain his extraordinary insistence on +taking it inside the cab with him, which the bobby describes? If there +wasn’t something horrible, awful in that bundle of his, of which he +feared the discovery, why was he so reluctant to have it placed upon +the roof?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There probably was something in it which he was particularly anxious +should not be discovered, but I doubt if it was anything of the kind +which you suggest.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here is Marjorie in a house alone—nothing has been seen of her +since,—her clothing, her hair, is found hidden away under the floor. +This scoundrel sallies forth with a huge bundle on his head,—the bobby +speaks of it being five or six feet long, or longer,—a bundle which he +regards with so much solicitude that he insists on never allowing it to +go, for a single instant, out of his sight and reach. What is in the +thing? don’t all the facts most unfortunately point in one direction?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Lessingham covered his face with his hands, and groaned. +</p> + +<p> +‘I fear that Mr Atherton is right.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I differ from you both.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney at once became heated. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then perhaps you can tell us what was in the bundle?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I fancy I could make a guess at the contents.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh you could, could you, then, perhaps, for our sakes, you’ll make +it,—and not play the oracular owl!—Lessingham and I are interested in +this business, after all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It contained the bearer’s personal property: that, and nothing more. +Stay! before you jeer at me, suffer me to finish. If I am not mistaken +as to the identity of the person whom the constable describes as the +Arab, I apprehend that the contents of that bundle were of much more +importance to him than if they had consisted of Miss Lindon, either +dead or living. More. I am inclined to suspect that if the bundle was +placed on the roof of the cab, and if the driver did meddle with it, +and did find out the contents, and understand them, he would have been +driven, out of hand, stark staring mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney was silent, as if he reflected. I imagine he perceived there was +something in what I said. +</p> + +<p> +‘But what has become of Miss Lindon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I fancy that Miss Lindon, at this moment, is—somewhere; I don’t, just +now, know exactly where, but I hope very shortly to be able to give you +a clearer notion,—attired in a rotten, dirty pair of boots; a filthy, +tattered pair of trousers; a ragged, unwashed apology for a shirt; a +greasy, ancient, shapeless coat; and a frowsy peaked cloth cap.’ +</p> + +<p> +They stared at me, opened-eyed. Atherton was the first to speak. +</p> + +<p> +‘What on earth do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean that it seems to me that the facts point in the direction of my +conclusions rather than yours—and that very strongly too. Miss Coleman +asserts that she saw Miss Lindon return into the house; that within a +few minutes the blind was replaced at the front window; and that +shortly after a young man, attired in the costume I have described, +came walking out of the front door. I believe that young man was Miss +Marjorie Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham and Atherton both broke out into interrogations, with +Sydney, as usual, loudest. +</p> + +<p> +‘But—man alive! what on earth should make her do a thing like that? +Marjorie, the most retiring, modest girl on all God’s earth, walk about +in broad daylight, in such a costume, and for no reason at all! my dear +Champnell, you are suggesting that she first of all went mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She was in a state of trance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good God!—Champnell!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you think that—juggling villain did get hold of her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Undoubtedly. Here is my view of the case, mind it is only a hypothesis +and you must take it for what it is worth. It seems to me quite clear +that the Arab, as we will call the person for the sake of +identification, was somewhere about the premises when you thought he +wasn’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But—where? We looked upstairs, and downstairs, and everywhere—where +could he have been?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That, as at present advised, I am not prepared to say, but I think you +may take it for granted that he was there. He hypnotised the man Holt, +and sent him away, intending you to go after him, and so being rid of +you both—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The deuce he did, Champnell! You write me down an ass!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As soon as the coast was clear he discovered himself to Miss Lindon, +who, I expect, was disagreeably surprised, and hypnotised her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The hound!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The devil!’ +</p> + +<p> +The first exclamation was Lessingham’s, the second Sydney’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘He then constrained her to strip herself to the skin—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The wretch!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The fiend!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He cut off her hair; he hid it and her clothes under the floor where +we found them—where I think it probable that he had already some +ancient masculine garments concealed—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By Jove! I shouldn’t be surprised if they were Holt’s. I remember the +man saying that that nice joker stripped him of his duds,—and +certainly when I saw him,—and when Marjorie found him!—he had +absolutely nothing on but a queer sort of cloak. Can it be possible +that that humorous professor of hankey-pankey—may all the maledictions +of the accursed alight upon his head!—can have sent Marjorie Lindon, +the daintiest damsel in the land!—into the streets of London rigged +out in Holt’s old togs!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As to that, I am not able to give an authoritative opinion, but, if I +understand you aright, it at least is possible. Anyhow I am disposed to +think that he sent Miss Lindon after the man Holt, taking it for +granted that he had eluded you.—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s it. Write me down an ass again!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That he did elude you, you have yourself admitted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s because I stopped talking with that mutton-headed bobby,—I’d +have followed the man to the ends of the earth if it hadn’t been for +that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Precisely; the reason is immaterial, it is the fact with which we are +immediately concerned. He did elude you. And I think you will find that +Miss Lindon and Mr Holt are together at this moment.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In men’s clothing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Both in men’s clothing, or, rather, Miss Lindon is in a man’s rags.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Great Potiphar! To think of Marjorie like that!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And where they are, the Arab is not very far off either.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham caught me by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘And what diabolical mischief do you imagine that he proposes to do to +her?’ +</p> + +<p> +I shirked the question. +</p> + +<p> +‘Whatever it is, it is our business to prevent his doing it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And where do you think they have been taken?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That it will be our immediate business to endeavour to discover,—and +here, at any rate, we are at Waterloo.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch42"> +CHAPTER XLII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE QUARRY DOUBLES</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I turned</span> towards the booking-office on the main departure platform. As +I went, the chief platform inspector, George Bellingham, with whom I +had some acquaintance, came out of his office. I stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Bellingham, will you be so good as to step with me to the +booking-office, and instruct the clerk in charge to answer one or two +questions which I wish to put to him. I will explain to you afterwards +what is their exact import, but you know me sufficiently to be able to +believe me when I say that they refer to a matter in which every moment +is of the first importance.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned and accompanied us into the interior of the booking-case. +</p> + +<p> +‘To which of the clerks, Mr Champnell, do you wish to put your +questions?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To the one who issues third-class tickets to Southampton.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bellingham beckoned to a man who was counting a heap of money, and +apparently seeking to make it tally with the entries in a huge ledger +which lay open before him,—he was a short, slightly-built young +fellow, with a pleasant face and smiling eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Stone, this gentleman wishes to ask you one or two questions.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am at his service.’ +</p> + +<p> +I put my questions. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to know, Mr Stone, if, in the course of the day, you have +issued any tickets to a person dressed in Arab costume?’ +</p> + +<p> +His reply was prompt. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have—by the last train, the 7.25,—three singles.’ +</p> + +<p> +Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you describe the person?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Stone’s eyes twinkled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know that I can, except in a general way,—he was uncommonly +old and uncommonly ugly, and he had a pair of the most extraordinary +eyes I ever saw,—they gave me a sort of all-overish feeling when I saw +them glaring at me through the pigeon hole. But I can tell you one +thing about him, he had a great bundle on his head, which he steadied +with one hand, and as it bulged out in all directions its presence +didn’t make him popular with other people who wanted tickets too.’ +</p> + +<p> +Undoubtedly this was our man. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are sure he asked for three tickets?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certain. He said three tickets to Southampton; laid down the exact +fare,—nineteen and six—and held up three fingers—like that. Three +nasty looking fingers they were, with nails as long as talons.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You didn’t see who were his companions?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t,—I didn’t try to look. I gave him his tickets and off he +went,—with the people grumbling at him because that bundle of his kept +getting in their way.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bellingham touched me on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can tell you about the Arab of whom Mr Stone speaks. My attention +was called to him by his insisting on taking his bundle with him into +the carriage,—it was an enormous thing, he could hardly squeeze it +through the door; it occupied the entire seat. But as there weren’t as +many passengers as usual, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t be made to +understand that his precious bundle would be safe in the luggage van +along with the rest of the luggage, and as he wasn’t the sort of person +you could argue with to any advantage, I had him put into an empty +compartment, bundle and all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was he alone then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought so at the time, he said nothing about having more than one +ticket, or any companions, but just before the train started two other +men—English men—got into his compartment; and as I came down the +platform, the ticket inspector at the barrier informed me that these +two men were with him, because he held tickets for the three, which, as +he was a foreigner, and they seemed English, struck the inspector as +odd.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Could you describe the two men?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I couldn’t, not particularly, but the man who had charge of the +barrier might. I was at the other end of the train when they got in. +All I noticed was that one seemed to be a commonplace looking +individual and that the other was dressed like a tramp, all rags and +tatters, a disreputable looking object he appeared to be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That,’ I said to myself, ‘was Miss Marjorie Lindon, the lovely +daughter of a famous house; the wife-elect of a coming statesman.’ +</p> + +<p> +To Bellingham I remarked aloud: +</p> + +<p> +‘I want you to strain a point, Mr Bellingham, and to do me a service +which I assure you you shall never have any cause to regret. I want you +to wire instructions down the line to detain this Arab and his +companions and to keep them in custody until the receipt of further +instructions. They are not wanted by the police as yet, but they will +be as soon as I am able to give certain information to the authorities +at Scotland Yard,—and wanted very badly. But, as you will perceive for +yourself, until I am able to give that information every moment is +important.—Where’s the Station Superintendent?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s gone. At present I’m in charge.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then will you do this for me? I repeat that you shall never have any +reason to regret it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will if you’ll accept all responsibility.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll do that with the greatest pleasure.’ +</p> + +<p> +Bellingham looked at his watch. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s about twenty minutes to nine. The train’s scheduled for +Basingstoke at 9.6. If we wire to Basingstoke at once they ought to be +ready for them when they come.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good!’ +</p> + +<p> +The wire was sent. +</p> + +<p> +We were shown into Bellingham’s office to await results. Lessingham +paced agitatedly to and fro; he seemed to have reached the limits of +his self-control, and to be in a condition in which movement of some +sort was an absolute necessity. The mercurial Sydney, on the contrary, +leaned back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his +hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, and stared at Lessingham, +as if he found relief to his feelings in watching his companion’s +restlessness. I, for my part, drew up as full a précis of the case as I +deemed advisable, and as time permitted, which I despatched by one of +the company’s police to Scotland Yard. +</p> + +<p> +Then I turned to my associates. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, gentlemen, it’s past dinner time. We may have a journey in front +of us. If you take my advice you’ll have something to eat.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor I,’ echoed Sydney. +</p> + +<p> +I started up. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must pardon my saying nonsense, but surely you of all men, Mr +Lessingham, should be aware that you will not improve the situation by +rendering yourself incapable of seeing it through. Come and dine.’ +</p> + +<p> +I haled them off with me, willy nilly, to the refreshment room. I +dined,—after a fashion; Mr Lessingham swallowed with difficulty, a +plate of soup; Sydney nibbled at a plate of the most unpromising +looking ‘chicken and ham,’—he proved, indeed, more intractable than +Lessingham, and was not to be persuaded to tackle anything easier of +digestion. +</p> + +<p> +I was just about to take cheese after chop when Bellingham came +hastening in, in his hand an open telegram. +</p> + +<p> +‘The birds have flown,’ he cried. +</p> + +<p> +‘Flown!—How?’ +</p> + +<p> +In reply he gave me the telegram. I glanced at it. It ran: +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Persons described not in the train. Guard says they got out at +Vauxhall. Have wired Vauxhall to advise you.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +‘That’s a level-headed chap,’ said Bellingham. ‘The man who sent that +telegram. His wiring to Vauxhall should save us a lot of time,—we +ought to hear from there directly. Hollo! what’s this? I shouldn’t be +surprised if this is it.’ +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke a porter entered,—he handed an envelope to Bellingham. We +all three kept our eyes fixed on the inspector’s face as he opened it. +When he perceived the contents he gave an exclamation of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘This Arab of yours, and his two friends, seem rather a curious lot, Mr +Champnell.’ +</p> + +<p> +He passed the paper on to me. It took the form of a report. Lessingham +and Sydney, regardless of forms and ceremonies, leaned over my shoulder +as I read it. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Passengers by 7.30 Southampton, on arrival of train, complained of +noises coming from a compartment in coach 8964. Stated that there had +been shrieks and yells ever since the train left Waterloo, as if +someone was being murdered. An Arab and two Englishmen got out of the +compartment in question, apparently the party referred to in wire just +to hand from Basingstoke. All three declared that there was nothing the +matter. That they had been shouting for fun. Arab gave up three third +singles for Southampton, saying, in reply to questions, that they had +changed their minds, and did not want to go any farther. As there were +no signs of a struggle or of violence, nor, apparently, any definite +cause for detention, they were allowed to pass. They took a +four-wheeler, No. 09435. The Arab and one man went inside, and the +other man on the box. They asked to be driven to Commercial Road, +Limehouse. The cab has since returned. Driver says he put the three men +down, at their request, in Commercial Road, at the corner of Sutcliffe +Street, near the East India Docks. They walked up Sutcliffe Street, the +Englishmen in front, and the Arab behind, took the first turning to the +right, and after that he saw nothing of them. The driver further states +that all the way the Englishman inside, who was so ragged and dirty +that he was reluctant to carry him, kept up a sort of wailing noise +which so attracted his attention that he twice got off his box to see +what was the matter, and each time he said it was nothing. The cabman +is of opinion that both the Englishmen were of weak intellect. We were +of the same impression here. They said nothing, except at the seeming +instigation of the Arab, but when spoken to stared and gaped like +lunatics. +</p> + +<p> +‘It may be mentioned that the Arab had with him an enormous bundle, +which he persisted, in spite of all remonstrances, on taking with him +inside the cab.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +As soon as I had mastered the contents of the report, and perceived +what I believed to be—unknown to the writer himself—its hideous inner +meaning, I turned to Bellingham. +</p> + +<p> +‘With your permission, Mr Bellingham, I will keep this +communication,—it will be safe in my hands, you will be able to get a +copy, and it may be necessary that I should have the original to show +to the police. If any inquiries are made for me from Scotland Yard, +tell them that I have gone to the Commercial Road, and that I will +report my movements from Limehouse Police Station.’ +</p> + +<p> +In another minute we were once more traversing the streets of +London,—three in a hansom cab. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch43"> +CHAPTER XLIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MURDER AT MRS ’ENDERSON’S</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> is something of a drive from Waterloo to Limehouse,—it seems longer +when all your nerves are tingling with anxiety to reach your journey’s +end; and the cab I had hit upon proved to be not the fastest I might +have chosen. For some time after our start, we were silent. Each was +occupied with his own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +Then Lessingham, who was sitting at my side, said to me, +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Champnell, you have that report.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you let me see it once more?’ +</p> + +<p> +I gave it to him. He read it once, twice,—and I fancy yet again. I +purposely avoided looking at him as he did so. Yet all the while I was +conscious of his pallid cheeks, the twitched muscles of his mouth, the +feverish glitter of his eyes,—this Leader of Men, whose predominate +characteristic in the House of Commons was immobility, was rapidly +approximating to the condition of a hysterical woman. The mental strain +which he had been recently undergoing was proving too much for his +physical strength. This disappearance of the woman he loved bade fair +to be the final straw. I felt convinced that unless something was done +quickly to relieve the strain upon his mind he was nearer to a state of +complete mental and moral collapse than he himself imagined. Had he +been under my orders I should have commanded him to at once return +home, and not to think; but conscious that, as things were, such a +direction would be simply futile, I decided to do something else +instead. Feeling that suspense was for him the worst possible form of +suffering I resolved to explain, so far as I was able, precisely what +it was I feared, and how I proposed to prevent it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently there came the question for which I had been waiting, in a +harsh, broken voice which no one who had heard him speak on a public +platform, or in the House of Commons, would have recognised as his. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Champnell,—who do you think this person is of whom the report from +Vauxhall Station speaks as being all in rags and tatters?’ +</p> + +<p> +He knew perfectly well,—but I understood the mental attitude which +induced him to prefer that the information should seem to come from me. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope that it will prove to be Miss Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hope!’ He gave a sort of gasp. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, hope,—because if it is I think it possible, nay probable, that +within a few hours you will have her again enfolded in your arms.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray God that it may be so! pray God!—pray the good God!’ +</p> + +<p> +I did not dare to look round for, from the tremor which was in his +tone, I was persuaded that in the speaker’s eyes were tears. Atherton +continued silent. He was leaning half out of the cab, staring straight +ahead, as if he saw in front a young girl’s face, from which he could +not remove his glance, and which beckoned him on. +</p> + +<p> +After a while Lessingham spoke again, as if half to himself and half to +me. +</p> + +<p> +‘This mention of the shrieks on the railway, and of the wailing noise +in the cab,—what must this wretch have done to her? How my darling +must have suffered!’ +</p> + +<p> +That was a theme on which I myself scarcely ventured to allow my +thoughts to rest. The notion of a gently-nurtured girl being at the +mercy of that fiend incarnate, possessed—as I believed that so-called +Arab to be possessed—of all the paraphernalia of horror and of dread, +was one which caused me tangible shrinkings of the body. Whence had +come those shrieks and yells, of which the writer of the report spoke, +which had caused the Arab’s fellow-passengers to think that murder was +being done? What unimaginable agony had caused them? what speechless +torture? And the ‘wailing noise,’ which had induced the prosaic, +indurated London cabman to get twice off his box to see what was the +matter, what anguish had been provocative of that? The helpless girl +who had already endured so much, endured, perhaps, that to which death +would have been preferred!—shut up in that rattling, jolting box on +wheels, alone with that diabolical Asiatic, with the enormous bundle, +which was but the lurking place of nameless terrors,—what might she +not, while being borne through the heart of civilised London, have been +made to suffer? What had she not been made to suffer to have kept up +that continued ‘wailing noise’? +</p> + +<p> +It was not a theme on which it was wise to permit one’s thoughts to +linger,—and particularly was it clear that it was one from which +Lessingham’s thoughts should have been kept as far as possible away. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, Mr Lessingham, neither you nor I will do himself any good by +permitting his reflections to flow in a morbid channel. Let us talk of +something else. By the way, weren’t you due to speak in the House +to-night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Due!—Yes, I was due,—but what does it matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But have you acquainted no one with the cause of your non-attendance?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Acquaint!—whom should I acquaint?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My good sir! Listen to me, Mr Lessingham. Let me entreat you very +earnestly, to follow my advice. Call another cab,—or take this! and go +at once to the House. It is not too late. Play the man, deliver the +speech you have undertaken to deliver, perform your political duties. +By coming with me you will be a hindrance rather than a help, and you +may do your reputation an injury from which it never may recover. Do as +I counsel you, and I will undertake to do my very utmost to let you +have good news by the time your speech is finished.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned on me with a bitterness for which I was unprepared. +</p> + +<p> +‘If I were to go down to the House, and try to speak in the state in +which I am now, they would laugh at me, I should be ruined.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you not run an equally great risk of being ruined by staying away?’ +</p> + +<p> +He gripped me by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Champnell, do you know that I am on the verge of madness? Do you +know that as I am sitting here by your side I am living in a dual +world? I am going on and on to catch that—that fiend, and I am back +again in that Egyptian den, upon that couch of rugs, with the Woman of +the Songs beside me, and Marjorie is being torn and tortured, and burnt +before my eyes! God help me! Her shrieks are ringing in my ears!’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak loudly, but his voice was none the less impressive on +that account. I endeavoured my hardest to be stern. +</p> + +<p> +‘I confess that you disappoint me, Mr Lessingham. I have always +understood that you were a man of unusual strength; you appear instead, +to be a man of extraordinary weakness; with an imagination so +ill-governed that its ebullitions remind me of nothing so much as +feminine hysterics. Your wild language is not warranted by +circumstances. I repeat that I think it quite possible that by +to-morrow morning she will be returned to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—but how? as the Marjorie I have known, as I saw her last,—or +how?’ +</p> + +<p> +That was the question which I had already asked myself, in what +condition would she be when we had succeeded in snatching her from her +captor’s grip? It was a question to which I had refused to supply an +answer. To him I lied by implication. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us hope that, with the exception of being a trifle scared, she +will be as sound and hale and hearty as ever in her life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you yourself believe that she’ll be like that,—untouched, +unchanged, unstained?’ +</p> + +<p> +Then I lied right out,—it seemed to me necessary to calm his growing +excitement. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lessingham!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think that I can’t see your face and read in it the same +thoughts which trouble me? As a man of honour do you care to deny that +when Marjorie Lindon is restored to me,—if she ever is!—you fear she +will be but the mere soiled husk of the Marjorie whom I knew and loved?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Even supposing that there may be a modicum of truth in what you +say,—which I am far from being disposed to admit—what good purpose do +you propose to serve by talking in such a strain?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘None,—no good purpose,—unless it be the desire of looking the truth +in the face. For, Mr Champnell, you must not seek to play with me the +hypocrite, nor try to hide things from me as if I were a child. If my +life is ruined—it is ruined,—let me know it, and look the knowledge +in the face. That, to me, is to play the man.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was silent. +</p> + +<p> +The wild tale he had told me of that Cairene inferno, oddly enough—yet +why oddly, for the world is all coincidence!—had thrown a flood of +light on certain events which had happened some three years previously +and which ever since had remained shrouded in mystery. The conduct of +the business afterwards came into my hands,—and briefly, what had +occurred was this: +</p> + +<p> +Three persons,—two sisters and their brother, who was younger than +themselves, members of a decent English family, were going on a trip +round the world. They were young, adventurous, and—not to put too fine +a point on it—foolhardy. The evening after their arrival in Cairo, by +way of what is called ‘a lark,’ in spite of the protestations of people +who were better informed than themselves, they insisted on going, +alone, for a ramble through the native quarter. +</p> + +<p> +They went,—but they never returned. Or, rather the two girls never +returned. After an interval the young man was found again,—what was +left of him. A fuss was made when there were no signs of their +re-appearance, but as there were no relations, nor even friends of +theirs, but only casual acquaintances on board the ship by which they +had travelled, perhaps not so great a fuss as might have been was made. +Anyhow, nothing was discovered. Their widowed mother, alone in England, +wondering how it was that beyond the receipt of a brief wire, +acquainting her with their arrival at Cairo, she had heard nothing +further of their wanderings, placed herself in communication with the +diplomatic people over there,—to learn that, to all appearances, her +three children had vanished from off the face of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +Then a fuss was made,—with a vengeance. So far as one can judge the +whole town and neighbourhood was turned pretty well upside down. But +nothing came of it,—so far as any results were concerned, the +authorities might just as well have left the mystery of their +vanishment alone. It continued where it was in spite of them. +</p> + +<p> +However, some three months afterwards a youth was brought to the +British Embassy by a party of friendly Arabs who asserted that they had +found him naked and nearly dying in some remote spot in the Wady Halfa +desert. It was the brother of the two lost girls. He was as nearly +dying as he very well could be without being actually dead when they +brought him to the Embassy,—and in a state of indescribable +mutilation. He seemed to rally for a time under careful treatment, but +he never again uttered a coherent word. It was only from his delirious +ravings that any idea was formed of what had really occurred. +</p> + +<p> +Shorthand notes were taken of some of the utterances of his delirium. +Afterwards they were submitted to me. I remembered the substance of +them quite well, and when Mr Lessingham began to tell me of his own +hideous experiences they came back to me more clearly still. Had I laid +those notes before him I have little doubt but that he would have +immediately perceived that seventeen years after the adventure which +had left such an indelible scar upon his own life, this youth—he was +little more than a boy—had seen the things which he had seen, and +suffered the nameless agonies and degradations which he had suffered. +The young man was perpetually raving about some indescribable den of +horror which was own brother to Lessingham’s temple and about some +female monster, whom he regarded with such fear and horror that every +allusion he made to her was followed by a convulsive paroxysm which +taxed all the ingenuity of his medical attendants to bring him out of. +He frequently called upon his sisters by name, speaking of them in a +manner which inevitably suggested that he had been an unwilling and +helpless witness of hideous tortures which they had undergone; and then +he would rise in bed, screaming, ‘They’re burning them! they’re burning +them! Devils! devils!’ And at those times it required all the strength +of those who were in attendance to restrain his maddened frenzy. +</p> + +<p> +The youth died in one of these fits of great preternatural excitement, +without, as I have previously written, having given utterance to one +single coherent word, and by some of those who were best able to judge +it was held to have been a mercy that he did die without having been +restored to consciousness. And, presently, tales began to be whispered, +about some idolatrous sect, which was stated to have its headquarters +somewhere in the interior of the country—some located it in this +neighbourhood, and some in that—which was stated to still practise, +and to always have practised, in unbroken historical continuity, the +debased, unclean, mystic, and bloody rites, of a form of idolatry which +had had its birth in a period of the world’s story which was so remote, +that to all intents and purposes it might be described as pre-historic. +</p> + +<p> +While the ferment was still at its height, a man came to the British +Embassy who said that he was a member of a tribe which had its habitat +on the banks of the White Nile. He asserted that he was in association +with this very idolatrous sect,—though he denied that he was one of +the actual sectaries. He did admit, however, that he had assisted more +than once at their orgies, and declared that it was their constant +practice to offer young women as sacrifices—preferably white Christian +women, with a special preference, if they could get them, to young +English women. He vowed that he himself had seen with his own eyes, +English girls burnt alive. The description which he gave of what +preceded and followed these foul murders appalled those who listened. +He finally wound up by offering, on payment of a stipulated sum of +money, to guide a troop of soldiers to this den of demons, so that they +should arrive there at a moment when it was filled with worshippers, +who were preparing to participate in an orgie which was to take place +during the next few days. +</p> + +<p> +His offer was conditionally accepted. He was confined in an apartment +with one man on guard inside and another on guard outside the room. +That night the sentinel without was startled by hearing a great noise +and frightful screams issuing from the chamber in which the native was +interned. He summoned assistance. The door was opened. The soldier on +guard within was stark, staring mad,—he died within a few months, a +gibbering maniac to the end. The native was dead. The window, which was +a very small one, was securely fastened inside and strongly barred +without. There was nothing to show by what means entry had been gained. +Yet it was the general opinion of those who saw the corpse that the man +had been destroyed by some wild beast. A photograph was taken of the +body after death, a copy of which is still in my possession. In it are +distinctly shown lacerations about the neck and the lower portion of +the abdomen, as if they had been produced by the claws of some huge and +ferocious animal. The skull is splintered in half-a-dozen places, and +the face is torn to rags. +</p> + +<p> +That was more than three years ago. The whole business has remained as +great a mystery as ever. But my attention has once or twice been caught +by trifling incidents, which have caused me to more than suspect that +the wild tale told by that murdered native had in it at least the +elements of truth; and which have even led me to wonder if the trade in +kidnapping was not being carried on to this very hour, and if women of +my own flesh and blood were not still being offered up on that infernal +altar. And now, here was Paul Lessingham, a man of world-wide +reputation, of great intellect, of undoubted honour, who had come to me +with a wholly unconscious verification of all my worst suspicions! +</p> + +<p> +That the creature spoken of as an Arab,—and who was probably no more +an Arab than I was, and whose name was certainly not Mohamed el +Kheir!—was an emissary from that den of demons, I had no doubt. What +was the exact purport of the creature’s presence in England was another +question. Possibly part of the intention was the destruction of Paul +Lessingham, body, soul and spirit; possibly another part was the +procuration of fresh victims for that long-drawn-out holocaust. That +this latter object explained the disappearance of Miss Lindon I felt +persuaded. That she was designed by the personification of evil who was +her captor, to suffer all the horrors at which the stories pointed, and +then to be burned alive, amidst the triumphant yells of the attendant +demons, I was certain. That the wretch, aware that the pursuit was in +full cry, was tearing, twisting, doubling, and would stick at nothing +which would facilitate the smuggling of the victim out of England, was +clear. +</p> + +<p> +My interest in the quest was already far other than a merely +professional one. The blood in my veins tingled at the thought of such +a woman as Miss Lindon being in the power of such a monster. I may +assuredly claim that throughout the whole business I was urged forward +by no thought of fee or of reward. To have had a share in rescuing that +unfortunate girl, and in the destruction of her noxious persecutor, +would have been reward enough for me. +</p> + +<p> +One is not always, even in strictly professional matters, influenced by +strictly professional instincts. +</p> + +<p> +The cab slowed. A voice descended through the trap door. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is Commercial Road, sir,—what part of it do you want?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Drive me to Limehouse Police Station.’ +</p> + +<p> +We were driven there. I made my way to the usual inspector behind the +usual pigeon-hole. +</p> + +<p> +‘My name is Champnell. Have you received any communication from +Scotland Yard to-night having reference to a matter in which I am +interested?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you mean about the Arab? We received a telephonic message about +half an hour ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Since communicating with Scotland Yard this has come to hand from the +authorities at Vauxhall Station. Can you tell me if anything has been +seen of the person in question by the men of your division?’ +</p> + +<p> +I handed the Inspector the ‘report.’ His reply was laconic. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will inquire.’ +</p> + +<p> +He passed through a door into an inner room and the ‘report’ went with +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Beg pardon, sir, but was that a Harab you was a-talking about to the +Hinspector?’ +</p> + +<p> +The speaker was a gentleman unmistakably of the guttersnipe class. He +was seated on a form. Close at hand hovered a policeman whose special +duty it seemed to be to keep an eye upon his movements. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you ask?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I saw a Harab myself about a hour +ago,—leastways he looked like as if he was a Harab.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of a looking person was he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t ’ardly tell you that, sir, because I didn’t never have a +proper look at him,—but I know he had a bloomin’ great bundle on ’is +’ead.… It was like this, ’ere. I was comin’ round the corner, as he +was passin’, I never see ’im till I was right atop of ’im, so that I +haccidentally run agin ’im,—my heye! didn’t ’e give me a downer! I was +down on the back of my ’ead in the middle of the road before I knew +where I was and ’e was at the other end of the street. If ’e ’adn’t +knocked me more’n ’arf silly I’d been after ’im, sharp,—I tell you! +and hasked ’im what ’e thought ’e was a-doin’ of, but afore my senses +was back agin ’e was out o’ sight,—clean!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are sure he had a bundle on his head?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I noticed it most particular.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How long ago do you say this was? and where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘About a hour ago,—perhaps more, perhaps less.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was he alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It seemed to me as if a cove was a follerin’ ’im, leastways there was +a bloke as was a-keepin’ close at ’is ’eels,—though I don’t know what +’is little game was, I’m sure. Ask the pleesman—he knows, he knows +everythink, the pleesman do.’ +</p> + +<p> +I turned to the ‘pleesman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is this man?’ +</p> + +<p> +The ‘pleesman’ put his hands behind his back, and threw out his chest. +His manner was distinctly affable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—he’s being detained upon suspicion. He’s given us an address at +which to make inquiries, and inquiries are being made. I shouldn’t pay +too much attention to what he says if I were you. I don’t suppose he’d +be particular about a lie or two.’ +</p> + +<p> +This frank expression of opinion re-aroused the indignation of the +gentleman on the form. +</p> + +<p> +‘There you hare! at it again! That’s just like you peelers,—you’re all +the same! What do you know about me?—Nuffink! This gen’leman ain’t got +no call to believe me, not as I knows on,—it’s all the same to me if +’e do or don’t, but it’s trewth what I’m sayin’, all the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this point the Inspector re-appeared at the pigeon-hole. He cut +short the flow of eloquence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now then, not so much noise outside there!’ He addressed me. ‘None of +our men have seen anything of the person you’re inquiring for, so far +as we’re aware. But, if you like, I will place a man at your disposal, +and he will go round with you, and you will be able to make your own +inquiries.’ +</p> + +<p> +A capless, wildly excited young ragamuffin came dashing in at the +street door. He gasped out, as clearly as he could for the speed which +he had made: +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s been murder done, Mr Pleesman,—a Harab’s killed a bloke.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Pleesman’ gripped him by the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +The youngster put up his arm, and ducked his head, instinctively, as if +to ward off a blow. +</p> + +<p> +‘Leave me alone! I don’t want none of your ’andling!—I ain’t done +nuffink to you! I tell you ’e ’as!’ +</p> + +<p> +The Inspector spoke through the pigeon-hole. +</p> + +<p> +‘He has what, my lad? What do you say has happened?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s been murder done—it’s right enough!—there ’as!—up at Mrs +’Enderson’s, in Paradise Place,—a Harab’s been and killed a bloke!’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch44"> +CHAPTER XLIV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> Inspector spoke to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘If what the boy says is correct it sounds as if the person whom you +are seeking may have had a finger in the pie.’ +</p> + +<p> +I was of the same opinion, as, apparently, were Lessingham and Sydney. +Atherton collared the youth by the shoulder which Mr Pleesman had left +disengaged. +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of looking bloke is it who’s been murdered?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I dunno! I ’aven’t seen ’im! Mrs ’Enderson, she says to me! “’Gustus +Barley,” she says, “a bloke’s been murdered. That there Harab what I +chucked out ’alf a hour ago been and murdered ’im, and left ’im behind +up in my back room. You run as ’ard as you can tear and tell them there +dratted pleese what’s so fond of shovin’ their dirty noses into +respectable people’s ’ouses.” So I comes and tells yer. That’s all I +knows about it.’ +</p> + +<p> +We went four in the hansom which had been waiting in the street to Mrs +Henderson’s in Paradise Place,—the Inspector and we three. ‘Mr +Pleesman’ and ‘’Gustus Barley’ followed on foot. The Inspector was +explanatory. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs Henderson keeps a sort of lodging-house,—a “Sailors’ Home” she +calls it, but no one could call it sweet. It doesn’t bear the best of +characters, and if you asked me what I thought of it, I should say in +plain English that it was a disorderly house.’ +</p> + +<p> +Paradise Place proved to be within three or four hundred yards of the +Station House. So far as could be seen in the dark it consisted of a +row of houses of considerable dimensions,—and also of considerable +antiquity. They opened on to two or three stone steps which led +directly into the street. At one of the doors stood an old lady with a +shawl drawn over her head. This was Mrs Henderson. She greeted us with +garrulous volubility. +</p> + +<p> +‘So you ’ave come, ’ave you? I thought you never was a-comin’ that I +did.’ She recognised the Inspector. ‘It’s you, Mr Phillips, is it?’ +Perceiving us, she drew a little back. ‘Who’s them ’ere parties? They +ain’t coppers?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr Phillips dismissed her inquiry, curtly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never you mind who they are. What’s this about someone being murdered.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ssh!’ The old lady glanced round. ‘Don’t you speak so loud, Mr +Phillips. No one don’t know nothing about it as yet. The parties what’s +in my ’ouse is most respectable,—most! and they couldn’t abide the +notion of there being police about the place.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We quite believe that, Mrs Henderson.’ +</p> + +<p> +The Inspector’s tone was grim. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Henderson led the way up a staircase which would have been +distinctly the better for repairs. It was necessary to pick one’s way +as one went, and as the light was defective stumbles were not +infrequent. +</p> + +<p> +Our guide paused outside a door on the topmost landing. From some +mysterious recess in her apparel she produced a key. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s in ’ere. I locked the door so that nothing mightn’t be disturbed. +I knows ’ow particular you pleesmen is.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned the key. We all went in—we, this time, in front, and she +behind. +</p> + +<p> +A candle was guttering on a broken and dilapidated single washhand +stand. A small iron bedstead stood by its side, the clothes on which +were all tumbled and tossed. There was a rush-seated chair with a hole +in the seat,—and that, with the exception of one or two chipped pieces +of stoneware, and a small round mirror which was hung on a nail against +the wall, seemed to be all that the room contained. I could see nothing +in the shape of a murdered man. Nor, it appeared, could the Inspector +either. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the meaning of this, Mrs Henderson? I don’t see anything here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s be’ind the bed, Mr Phillips. I left ’im just where I found ’im, I +wouldn’t ’ave touched ’im not for nothing, nor yet ’ave let nobody else +’ave touched ’im neither, because, as I say, I know ’ow particular you +pleesmen is.’ +</p> + +<p> +We all four went hastily forward. Atherton and I went to the head of +the bed, Lessingham and the Inspector, leaning right across the bed, +peeped over the side. There, on the floor in the space which was +between the bed and the wall, lay the murdered man. +</p> + +<p> +At sight of him an exclamation burst from Sydney’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s Holt!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank God!’ cried Lessingham. ‘It isn’t Marjorie!’ +</p> + +<p> +The relief in his tone was unmistakable. That the one was gone was +plainly nothing to him in comparison with the fact that the other was +left. +</p> + +<p> +Thrusting the bed more into the centre of the room I knelt down beside +the man on the floor. A more deplorable spectacle than he presented I +have seldom witnessed. He was decently clad in a grey tweed suit, white +hat, collar and necktie, and it was perhaps that fact which made his +extreme attenuation the more conspicuous. I doubt if there was an ounce +of flesh on the whole of his body. His cheeks and the sockets of his +eyes were hollow. The skin was drawn tightly over his cheek bones,—the +bones themselves were staring through. Even his nose was wasted, so +that nothing but a ridge of cartilage remained. I put my arm beneath +his shoulder and raised him from the floor; no resistance was offered +by the body’s gravity,—he was as light as a little child. +</p> + +<p> +‘I doubt,’ I said, ‘if this man has been murdered. It looks to me like +a case of starvation, or exhaustion,—possibly a combination of both.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that on his neck?’ asked the Inspector,—he was kneeling at my +side. +</p> + +<p> +He referred to two abrasions of the skin,—one on either side of the +man’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +‘They look to me like scratches. They seem pretty deep, but I don’t +think they’re sufficient in themselves to cause death.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They might be, joined to an already weakened constitution. Is there +anything in his pockets?—let’s lift him on to the bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +We lifted him on to the bed,—a featherweight he was to lift. While the +Inspector was examining his pockets—to find them empty—a tall man +with a big black beard came bustling in. He proved to be Dr Glossop, +the local police surgeon, who had been sent for before our quitting the +Station House. +</p> + +<p> +His first pronouncement, made as soon as he commenced his examination, +was, under the circumstances, sufficiently startling. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t believe the man’s dead. Why didn’t you send for me directly +you found him?’ +</p> + +<p> +The question was put to Mrs Henderson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Dr Glossop, I wouldn’t touch ’im myself, and I wouldn’t ’ave ’im +touched by no one else, because, as I’ve said afore, I know ’ow +particular them pleesmen is.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then in that case, if he does die you’ll have had a hand in murdering +him,—that’s all.’ +</p> + +<p> +The lady sniggered. ‘Of course Dr Glossop, we all knows that you’ll +always ’ave your joke.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll find it a joke if you have to hang, as you ought to, you——’ +The doctor said what he did say to himself, under his breath. I doubt +if it was flattering to Mrs Henderson. ‘Have you got any brandy in the +house?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ve got everythink in the ’ouse for them as likes to pay for +it,—everythink.’ Then, suddenly remembering that the police were +present, and that hers were not exactly licensed premises, ‘Leastways +we can send out for it for them parties as gives us the money, being, +as is well known, always willing to oblige.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then send for some,—to the tap downstairs, if that’s the nearest! If +this man dies before you’ve brought it I’ll have you locked up as sure +as you’re a living woman.’ +</p> + +<p> +The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed,—but the man on the bed +had regained consciousness before it came. Opening his eyes he looked +up at the doctor bending over him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo, my man! that’s more like the time of day! How are you feeling?’ +</p> + +<p> +The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of +perception was not yet completely restored,—as if this big bearded man +was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt. You know me don’t you? +I’ve been running about after you all day long.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are—you are—’ The man’s eyes closed, as if the effort at +recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to +speak. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know who you are. You are—the gentleman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, that’s it, I’m the gentleman,—name of Atherton.—Miss Lindon’s +friend. And I daresay you’re feeling pretty well done up, and in want +of something to eat and drink,—here’s some brandy for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient’s head, +allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it +mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was +doing. His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their +condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attenuation, to +be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, +feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +‘If you want him to make a statement he’ll have to make it now, he’s +going fast. You won’t be able to get much out of him,—he’s too far +gone, and I shouldn’t bustle him, but get what you can.’ +</p> + +<p> +The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘I understand from this gentleman—’ signifying Atherton—‘that your +name’s Robert Holt. I’m an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell +me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been assaulting +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he +could not see him clearly,—still less understand what it was that he +was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain. +</p> + +<p> +‘The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing +anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?’ +</p> + +<p> +The man’s eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and +wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look +of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came. +</p> + +<p> +‘The beetle!’ He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. ‘The +beetle!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s he mean?’ asked the Inspector. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think I understand,’ Sydney answered; then turning again to the man +in the bed. ‘Yes, I hear what you say,—the beetle. Well, has the +beetle done anything to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It took me by the throat!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The beetle killed me.’ +</p> + +<p> +The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The +Inspector was puzzled;—and said so. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s he mean about a beetle?’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton replied. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think I understand what he means,—and my friends do too. We’ll +explain afterwards. In the meantime I think I’d better get as much out +of him as I can,—while there’s time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said the doctor, his hand upon the patient’s pulse, ‘while +there’s time. There isn’t much—only seconds.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ve been with Miss Lindon all the afternoon and evening, haven’t +you, Mr Holt?’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton had reached a chord in the man’s consciousness. His lips +moved,—in painful articulation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—all the afternoon—and evening—God help me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope God will help you my poor fellow; you’ve been in need of His +help if ever man was. Miss Lindon is disguised in your old clothes, +isn’t she?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—in my old clothes. My God!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And where is Miss Lindon now?’ +</p> + +<p> +The man had been speaking with his eyes closed. Now he opened them, +wide; there came into them the former staring horror. He became +possessed by uncontrollable agitation,—half raising himself in bed. +Words came from his quivering lips as if they were only drawn from him +by the force of his anguish. +</p> + +<p> +‘The beetle’s going to kill Miss Lindon.’ +</p> + +<p> +A momentary paroxysm seemed to shake the very foundations of his being. +His whole frame quivered. He fell back on to the bed,—ominously. The +doctor examined him in silence—while we too were still. +</p> + +<p> +‘This time he’s gone for good, there’ll be no conjuring him back again.’ +</p> + +<p> +I felt a sudden pressure on my arm, and found that Lessingham was +clutching me with probably unconscious violence. The muscles of his +face were twitching. He trembled. I turned to the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it +for my friend?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the ‘shillings worth.’ I rather +fancy it saved us from a scene. +</p> + +<p> +The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, Mrs Henderson, perhaps you’ll tell us what all this means. Who is +this man, and how did he come in here, and who came in with him, and +what do you know about it altogether? If you’ve got anything to say, +say it, only you’d better be careful, because it’s my duty to warn you +that anything you do say may be used against you.’ +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch45"> +CHAPTER XLV.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">ALL THAT MRS ’ENDERSON KNEW</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Mrs Henderson</span> put her hands under her apron and smirked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Mr Phillips, it do sound strange to ’ear you talkin’ to me like +that. Anybody’d think I’d done something as I didn’t ought to ’a’ done +to ’ear you going on. As for what’s ’appened, I’ll tell you all I know +with the greatest willingness on earth. And as for bein’ careful, there +ain’t no call for you to tell me to be that, for that I always am, as +by now you ought to know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,—I do know. Is that all you have to say?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Rilly, Mr Phillips, what a man you are for catching people up, you +rilly are. O’ course that ain’t all I’ve got to say,—ain’t I just +a-comin’ to it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then come.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you presses me so you’ll muddle of me up, and then if I do ’appen +to make a herror, you’ll say I’m a liar, when goodness knows there +ain’t no more truthful woman not in Limehouse.’ +</p> + +<p> +Words plainly trembled on the Inspector’s lips,—which he refrained +from uttering. Mrs Henderson cast her eyes upwards, as if she sought +for inspiration from the filthy ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +‘So far as I can swear it might ’ave been a hour ago, or it might ’ave +been a hour and a quarter, or it might ’ave been a hour and twenty +minutes—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We’re not particular as to the seconds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘When I ’ears a knockin’ at my front door, and when I comes to open it, +there was a Harab party, with a great bundle on ’is ’ead, bigger nor +’isself, and two other parties along with him. This Harab party says, +in that queer foreign way them Harab parties ’as of talkin’, “A room +for the night, a room.” Now I don’t much care for foreigners, and never +did, especially them Harabs, which their ’abits ain’t my own,—so I as +much ’ints the same. But this ’ere Harab party, he didn’t seem to quite +foller of my meaning, for all he done was to say as he said afore, “A +room for the night, a room.” And he shoves a couple of ’arf crowns into +my ’and. Now it’s always been a motter o’ mine, that money is money, +and one man’s money is as good as another man’s. So, not wishing to be +disagreeable—which other people would have taken ’em if I ’adn’t, I +shows ’em up ’ere. I’d been downstairs it might ’ave been ’arf a hour, +when I ’ears a shindy a-coming from this room—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What sort of a shindy?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yelling and shrieking—oh my gracious, it was enough to set your blood +all curdled,—for ear-piercingness I never did ’ear nothing like it. We +do ’ave troublesome parties in ’ere, like they do elsewhere, but I +never did ’ear nothing like that before. I stood it for about a minute, +but it kep’ on, and kep’ on, and every moment I expected as the other +parties as was in the ’ouse would be complainin’, so up I comes and I +thumps at the door, and it seemed that thump I might for all the notice +that was took of me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did the noise keep on?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep on! I should think it did keep on! Lord love you! shriek after +shriek, I expected to see the roof took off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Were there any other noises? For instance, were there any sounds of +struggling, or of blows?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There weren’t no sounds except of the party hollering.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One party only?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One party only. As I says afore, shriek after shriek,—when you put +your ear to the panel there was a noise like some other party +blubbering, but that weren’t nothing, as for the hollering you wouldn’t +have thought that nothing what you might call ’umin could ’ave kep’ up +such a screechin’. I thumps and thumps and at last when I did think +that I should ’ave to ’ave the door broke down, the Harab says to me +from inside, “Go away! I pay for the room! go away!” I did think that +pretty good, I tell you that. So I says, “Pay for the room or not pay +for the room, you didn’t pay to make that shindy!” And what’s more I +says, “If I ’ear it again,” I says, “out you goes! And if you don’t go +quiet I’ll ’ave somebody in as’ll pretty quickly make you!”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then was there silence?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So to speak there was,—only there was this sound as if some party was +a-blubbering, and another sound as if a party was a-panting for his +breath.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then what happened?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Seeing that, so to speak, all was quiet, down I went again. And in +another quarter of a hour, or it might ’ave been twenty minutes, I went +to the front door to get a mouthful of hair. And Mrs Barker, what lives +over the road, at No. 24, she comes to me and says, “That there Arab +party of yours didn’t stop long.” I looks at ’er, “I don’t quite foller +you,” I says,—which I didn’t. “I saw him come in,” she says, “and +then, a few minutes back, I see ’im go again, with a great bundle on +’is ’ead he couldn’t ’ardly stagger under!” “Oh,” I says, “that’s news +to me, I didn’t know ’e’d gone, nor see him neither—” which I didn’t. +So, up I comes again, and, sure enough, the door was open, and it seems +to me that the room was empty, till I come upon this poor young man +what was lying be’ind the bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a growl from the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you’d had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have been +alive at this moment.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’Ow was I to know that, Dr Glossop? I couldn’t tell. My finding ’im +there murdered was quite enough for me. So I runs downstairs, and I +nips ’old of ’Gustus Barley, what was leaning against the wall, and I +says to him, “’Gustus Barley, run to the station as fast as you can and +tell ’em that a man’s been murdered,—that Harab’s been and killed a +bloke.” And that’s all I know about it, and I couldn’t tell you no +more, Mr Phillips, not if you was to keep on asking me questions not +for hours and hours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you think it was this man’—with a motion towards the bed—‘who +was shrieking?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To tell you the truth, Mr Phillips, about that I don’t ’ardly know +what to think. If you ’ad asked me I should ’ave said it was a woman. I +ought to know a woman’s holler when I ’ear it, if any one does, I’ve +’eard enough of ’em in my time, goodness knows. And I should ’ave said +that only a woman could ’ave hollered like that and only ’er when she +was raving mad. But there weren’t no woman with him. There was only +this man what’s murdered, and the other man,—and as for the other man +I will say this, that ’e ’adn’t got twopennyworth of clothes to cover +’im. But, Mr Phillips, howsomever that may be, that’s the last Harab +I’ll ’ave under my roof, no matter what they pays, and you may mark my +words I’ll ’ave no more.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Henderson, once more glancing upward, as if she imagined herself to +have made some declaration of a religious nature, shook her head with +much solemnity. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch46"> +CHAPTER XLVI.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE SUDDEN STOPPING</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">As</span> we were leaving the house a constable gave the Inspector a note. +Having read it he passed it to me. It was from the local office. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Message received that an Arab with a big bundle on his head has been +noticed loitering about the neighbourhood of St Pancras Station. He +seemed to be accompanied by a young man who had the appearance of a +tramp. Young man seemed ill. They appeared to be waiting for a train, +probably to the North. Shall I advise detention?’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in +readiness.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +In a minute we were again in the cab. I endeavoured to persuade +Lessingham and Atherton to allow me to conduct the pursuit alone,—in +vain. I had no fear of Atherton’s succumbing, but I was afraid for +Lessingham. What was more almost than the expectation of his collapse +was the fact that his looks and manner, his whole bearing, so eloquent +of the agony and agitation of his mind, was beginning to tell upon my +nerves. A catastrophe of some sort I foresaw. Of the curtain’s fall +upon one tragedy we had just been witnesses. That there was worse—much +worse, to follow I did not doubt. Optimistic anticipations were out of +the question,—that the creature we were chasing would relinquish the +prey uninjured, no one, after what we had seen and heard, could by any +possibility suppose. Should a necessity suddenly arise for prompt and +immediate action, that Lessingham would prove a hindrance rather than a +help I felt persuaded. +</p> + +<p> +But since moments were precious, and Lessingham was not to be persuaded +to allow the matter to proceed without him, all that remained was to +make the best of his presence. +</p> + +<p> +The great arch of St Pancras was in darkness. An occasional light +seemed to make the darkness still more visible. The station seemed +deserted. I thought, at first, that there was not a soul about the +place, that our errand was in vain, that the only thing for us to do +was to drive to the police station and to pursue our inquiries there. +But as we turned towards the booking-office, our footsteps ringing out +clearly through the silence and the night, a door opened, a light shone +out from the room within, and a voice inquired: +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My name’s Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the +Limehouse Police Station?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Step this way.’ +</p> + +<p> +We stepped that way,—into a snug enough office, of which one of the +railway inspectors was apparently in charge. He was a big man, with a +fair beard. He looked me up and down, as if doubtfully. Lessingham he +recognised at once. He took off his cap to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr Lessingham, I believe?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me?’ +</p> + +<p> +I fancy, by his looks,—that the official was struck by the pallor of +the speaker’s face,—and by his tremulous voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus +Champnell.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am Mr Champnell. What’s your information?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With reference to the Arab about whom you have been making inquiries. +A foreigner, dressed like an Arab, with a great bundle on his head, +took two single thirds for Hull by the midnight express.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was he alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is believed that he was accompanied by a young man of very +disreputable appearance. They were not together at the booking-office, +but they had been seen together previously. A minute or so after the +Arab had entered the train this young man got into the same +compartment—they were in the front waggon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why were they not detained?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We had no authority to detain them, nor any reason. Until your message +was received a few minutes ago we at this station were not aware that +inquiries were being made for them.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You say he booked to Hull,—does the train run through to Hull?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No—it doesn’t go to Hull at all. Part of it’s the Liverpool and +Manchester Express, and part of it’s for Carlisle. It divides at Derby. +The man you’re looking for will change either at Sheffield or at +Cudworth Junction and go on to Hull by the first train in the morning. +There’s a local service.’ +</p> + +<p> +I looked at my watch. +</p> + +<p> +‘You say the train left at midnight. It’s now nearly five-and-twenty +past. Where’s it now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nearing St Albans, it’s due there 12.35.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hardly,—and anyhow there’ll only be enough railway officials about +the place to receive and despatch the train. They’ll be fully occupied +with their ordinary duties. There won’t be time to get the police +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the +train?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That could be done,—certainly. I’ll have it done at once if you like.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then where’s the next stoppage?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, they’re at Luton at 12.51. But that’s another case of St Albans. +You see there won’t be much more than twenty minutes by the time you’ve +got your wire off, and I don’t expect there’ll be many people awake at +Luton. At these country places sometimes there’s a policeman hanging +about the station to see the express go through, but, on the other +hand, very often there isn’t, and if there isn’t, probably at this time +of night it’ll take a good bit of time to get the police on the +premises. I tell you what I should advise.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The train is due at Bedford at 1.29—send your wire there. There ought +to be plenty of people about at Bedford, and anyhow there’ll be time to +get the police to the station.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special +ready,—have you got one?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s an engine with steam up in the shed,—we’ll have all ready for +you in less than ten minutes. And I tell you what,—you’ll have about +fifty minutes before the train is due at Bedford. It’s a fifty mile +run. With luck you ought to get there pretty nearly as soon as the +express does.—Shall I tell them to get ready?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘At once.’ +</p> + +<p> +While he issued directions through a telephone to what, I presume, was +the engine shed, I drew up a couple of telegrams. Having completed his +orders he turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘They’re coming out of the siding now—they’ll be ready in less than +ten minutes. I’ll see that the line’s kept clear. Have you got those +wires?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here is one,—this is for Bedford.’ +</p> + +<p> +It ran: +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Arrest the Arab who is in train due at 1.29. When leaving St Pancras +he was in a third-class compartment in front waggon. He has a large +bundle, which detain. He took two third singles for Hull. Also detain +his companion, who is dressed like a tramp. This is a young lady whom +the Arab has disguised and kidnapped while in a condition of hypnotic +trance. Let her have medical assistance and be taken to a hotel. All +expenses will be paid on the arrival of the undersigned who is +following by special train. As the Arab will probably be very violent a +sufficient force of police should be in waiting. +</p> + +<p class="sign2"> +‘<span class="sc">Augustus Champnell</span>.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +‘And this is the other. It is probably too late to be of any use at St +Albans,—but send it there, and also to Luton.’ +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Is Arab with companion in train which left St Pancras at 12.0? If so, +do not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where instructions +are being wired for arrest.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +The Inspector rapidly scanned them both. +</p> + +<p> +‘They ought to do your business, I should think. Come along with +me—I’ll have them sent at once, and we’ll see if your train’s ready.’ +</p> + +<p> +The train was not ready,—nor was it ready within the prescribed ten +minutes. There was some hitch, I fancy, about a saloon. Finally we had +to be content with an ordinary old-fashioned first-class carriage. The +delay, however, was not altogether time lost. Just as the engine with +its solitary coach was approaching the platform someone came running up +with an envelope in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Telegram from St Albans.’ +</p> + +<p> +I tore it open. It was brief and to the point. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> + +<p> +‘Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring Luton.’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +‘That’s all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes place, +we ought to have them.’ +</p> + +<p> +That unforeseen! +</p> + +<p> +I went forward with the Inspector and the guard of our train to +exchange a few final words with the driver. The Inspector explained +what instructions he had given. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve told the driver not to spare his coal but to take you into +Bedford within five minutes after the arrival of the express. He says +he thinks that he can do it.’ +</p> + +<p> +The driver leaned over his engine, rubbing his hands with the usual +oily rag. He was a short, wiry man with grey hair and a grizzled +moustache, with about him that bearing of semi-humorous, frank-faced +resolution which one notes about engine-drivers as a class. +</p> + +<p> +‘We ought to do it, the gradients are against us, but it’s a clear +night and there’s no wind. The only thing that will stop us will be if +there’s any shunting on the road, or any luggage trains; of course, if +we are blocked, we are blocked, but the Inspector says he’ll clear the +way for us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said the Inspector, ‘I’ll clear the way. I’ve wired down the +road already.’ +</p> + +<p> +Atherton broke in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Driver, if you get us into Bedford within five minutes of the arrival +of the mail there’ll be a five-pound note to divide between your mate +and you.’ +</p> + +<p> +The driver grinned. +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ll get you there in time, sir, if we have to go clear through the +shunters. It isn’t often we get a chance of a five-pound note for a run +to Bedford, and we’ll do our best to earn it.’ +</p> + +<p> +The fireman waved his hand in the rear. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s right, sir!’ he cried. ‘We’ll have to trouble you for that +five-pound note.’ +</p> + +<p> +So soon as we were clear of the station it began to seem probable that, +as the fireman put it, Atherton would be ‘troubled.’ Journeying in a +train which consists of a single carriage attached to an engine which +is flying at topmost speed is a very different business from being an +occupant of an ordinary train which is travelling at ordinary express +rates. I had discovered that for myself before. That night it was +impressed on me more than ever. A tyro—or even a nervous +‘season’—might have been excused for expecting at every moment we were +going to be derailed. It was hard to believe that the carriage had any +springs,—it rocked and swung, and jogged and jolted. Of smooth +travelling had we none. Talking was out of the question;—and for that, +I, personally, was grateful. Quite apart from the difficulty we +experienced in keeping our seats—and when every moment our position +was being altered and we were jerked backwards and forwards up and +down, this way and that, that was a business which required care,—the +noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a legion +of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons. +</p> + +<p> +‘George!’ shrieked Atherton, ‘he does mean to earn that fiver. I hope +I’ll be alive to pay it him!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was only at the other end of the carriage, but though I could see by +the distortion of his visage that he was shouting at the top of his +voice,—and he has a voice,—I only caught here and there a word or two +of what he was saying. I had to make sense of the whole. +</p> + +<p> +Lessingham’s contortions were a study. Few of that large multitude of +persons who are acquainted with him only by means of the portraits +which have appeared in the illustrated papers, would then have +recognised the rising statesman. Yet I believe that few things could +have better fallen in with his mood than that wild travelling. He might +have been almost shaken to pieces,—but the very severity of the +shaking served to divert his thoughts from the one dread topic which +threatened to absorb them to the exclusion of all else beside. Then +there was the tonic influence of the element of risk. The pick-me-up +effect of a spice of peril. Actual danger there quite probably was +none; but there very really seemed to be. And one thing was absolutely +certain, that if we did come to smash while going at that speed we +should come to as everlasting smash as the heart of man could by any +possibility desire. It is probable that the knowledge that this was so +warmed the blood in Lessingham’s veins. At any rate as—to use what in +this case, was simply a form of speech—I sat and watched him, it +seemed to me that he was getting a firmer hold of the strength which +had all but escaped him, and that with every jog and jolt he was +becoming more and more of a man. +</p> + +<p> +On and on we went dashing, crashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling. +Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window, +strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where the devil are we?’ +</p> + +<p> +Looking at my watch I screamed back at him. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s nearly one, so I suppose we’re somewhere in the neighbourhood of +Luton.—Hollo! What’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +That something was the matter seemed certain. There was a shrill +whistle from the engine. In a second we were conscious—almost too +conscious—of the application of the Westinghouse brake. Of all the +jolting that was ever jolted! the mere reverberation of the carriage +threatened to resolve our bodies into their component parts. Feeling +what we felt then helped us to realise the retardatory force which that +vacuum brake must be exerting,—it did not seem at all surprising that +the train should have been brought to an almost instant standstill. +</p> + +<p> +Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my window +and Atherton let down his,—he shouting out, +</p> + +<p> +‘I should think that Inspector’s wire hasn’t had it’s proper effect, +looks as if we’re blocked—or else we’ve stopped at Luton. It can’t be +Bedford.’ +</p> + +<p> +It wasn’t Bedford—so much seemed clear. Though at first from my window +I could make out nothing. I was feeling more than a trifle +dazed,—there was a singing in my ears,—the sudden darkness was +impenetrable. Then I became conscious that the guard was opening the +door of his compartment. He stood on the step for a moment, seeming to +hesitate. Then, with a lamp in his hand, he descended on to the line. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road. What’s +up there?’ +</p> + +<p> +This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘Someone in front there’s waving a red light like mad,—lucky I caught +sight of him, we should have been clean on top of him in another +moment. Looks as if there was something wrong. Here he comes.’ +</p> + +<p> +As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness I became aware that +someone was making what haste he could along the six-foot way, swinging +a red light as he came. Our guard advanced to meet him, shouting as he +went: +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter! Who’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +A voice replied, +</p> + +<p> +‘My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on top +of us!’ +</p> + +<p> +Our guard again. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! Jim Branson! What the devil are you doing here, what’s wrong? I +thought you were on the twelve out, we’re chasing you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you? Then you’ve caught us. Thank God for it!—We’re a wreck.’ +</p> + +<p> +I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three +clambered out on to the line. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch47"> +CHAPTER XLVII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">I moved</span> to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in official +uniform. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where’s your train? What’s happened?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what’s left of +it. As to what’s happened, why, we’re wrecked.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean by you’re wrecked?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came +running down the hill on top of us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How long ago was it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the signal +box, it’s a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My God! I +thought there was going to be another smash.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Much damage done?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Seems to me as if we’re all smashed up. As far as I can make out +they’re matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up inside +of me. I’ve been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is +the first accident I’ve been in.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was too dark to see the man’s face, but judging from his tone he was +either crying or very near to it. +</p> + +<p> +Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine, +</p> + +<p> +‘You’d better go back to the box and let ’em know!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right!’ came echoing back. +</p> + +<p> +The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as +it went. All the country side must have heard the engine shrieking, and +all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was +seriously wrong. +</p> + +<p> +The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had +put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering candle, there the +glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the +scene. People were piling up débris by the side of the line, for the +purpose of making a fire,—more for illumination than for warmth. +</p> + +<p> +Many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were +moving hither and thither about the line. But the majority appeared to +be still imprisoned. The carriage doors were jammed. Without the +necessary tools it was impossible to open them. Every step we took our +ears were saluted by piteous cries. Men, women, children, appealed to +us for help. +</p> + +<p> +‘Open the door, sir!’ ‘In the name of God, sir, open the door!’ +</p> + +<p> +Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of +violence, the supplication was repeated. +</p> + +<p> +The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, +half-frenzied creatures. +</p> + +<p> +‘All right, sir! If you’ll only wait a minute or two, madam! We can’t +get the doors open without tools, a special train’s just started off to +get them. If you’ll only have patience there’ll be plenty of help for +everyone of you directly. You’ll be quite safe in there, if you’ll only +keep still.’ +</p> + +<p> +But that was just what they found it most difficult to do—keep still! +</p> + +<p> +In the front of the train all was chaos. The trucks which had done the +mischief—there were afterwards shown to be six of them, together with +two guards’ vans—appeared to have been laden with bags of Portland +cement. The bags had burst, and everything was covered with what seemed +gritty dust. The air was full of the stuff, it got into our eyes, half +blinding us. The engine of the express had turned a complete +somersault. It vomited forth smoke, and steam, and flames,—every +moment it seemed as if the woodwork of the carriages immediately behind +and beneath would catch fire. +</p> + +<p> +The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, ‘matchboxed.’ They +were nothing but a heap of débris,—telescoped into one another in a +state of apparently inextricable confusion. It was broad daylight +before access was gained to what had once been the interiors. The +condition of the first third-class compartment revealed an +extraordinary state of things. +</p> + +<p> +Scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially burnt +rags, and fragments of silk and linen. I have those fragments now. +Experts have assured me that they are actually neither of silk nor +linen! but of some material—animal rather than vegetable—with which +they are wholly unacquainted. On the cushions and woodwork—especially +on the woodwork of the floor—were huge blotches,—stains of some sort. +When first noticed they were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant +smell. One of the pieces of woodwork is yet in my possession,—with the +stain still on it. Experts have pronounced upon it too,—with the +result that opinions are divided. Some maintain that the stain was +produced by human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and, +so to speak, parboiled. Others declare that it is the blood of some +wild animal,—possibly of some creature of the cat species. Yet others +affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. While a fourth +describes it as—I quote the written opinion which lies in front of +me—‘caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of viscid matter, +probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.’ +</p> + +<p> +In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young man +costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon. +</p> + +<p> +So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the compartment +contained. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch48"> +CHAPTER XLVIII.<br/> +<span class="chap_sub">THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> is several years since I bore my part in the events which I have +rapidly sketched,—or I should not have felt justified in giving them +publicity. Exactly how many years, for reasons which should be +sufficiently obvious, I must decline to say. +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in her, +when she was extricated from among the débris of the wrecked express, +was fanned again into flame. Her restoration was, however, not merely +an affair of weeks or months, it was a matter of years. I believe that, +even after her physical powers were completely restored—in itself a +tedious task—she was for something like three years under medical +supervision as a lunatic. But all that skill and money could do was +done, and in course of time—the great healer—the results were +entirely satisfactory. +</p> + +<p> +Her father is dead,—and has left her in possession of the family +estates. She is married to the individual who, in these pages, has been +known as Paul Lessingham. Were his real name divulged she would be +recognised as the popular and universally reverenced wife of one of the +greatest statesmen the age has seen. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing has been said to her about the fateful day on which she +was—consciously or unconsciously—paraded through London in the +tattered masculine habiliments of a vagabond. She herself has never +once alluded to it. With the return of reason the affair seems to have +passed from her memory as wholly as if it had never been, which, +although she may not know it, is not the least cause she has for +thankfulness. Therefore what actually transpired will never, in all +human probability, be certainly known and particularly what precisely +occurred in the railway carriage during that dreadful moment of sudden +passing from life unto death. What became of the creature who all but +did her to death; who he was—if it was a ‘he,’ which is extremely +doubtful; whence he came; whither he went; what was the purport of his +presence here,—to this hour these things are puzzles. +</p> + +<p> +Paul Lessingham has not since been troubled by his old tormentor. He +has ceased to be a haunted man. None the less he continues to have what +seems to be a constitutional disrelish for the subject of beetles, nor +can he himself be induced to speak of them. Should they be mentioned in +a general conversation, should he be unable to immediately bring about +a change of theme, he will, if possible, get up and leave the room. +More, on this point he and his wife are one. +</p> + +<p> +The fact may not be generally known, but it is so. Also I have reason +to believe that there still are moments in which he harks back, with +something like physical shrinking, to that awful nightmare of the past, +and in which he prays God, that as it is distant from him now so may it +be kept far off from him for ever. +</p> + +<p> +Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale has +never been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for its +authenticity. +</p> + +<p> +During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body of +native troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert was +aroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud explosion. +The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of miles from the +camp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground,—as if blasting +operations, on an enormous scale, had recently been carried on. In the +hole itself, and round about it, were found fragments of what seemed +bodies; credible witnesses have assured me that they were bodies +neither of men nor women, but of creatures of some monstrous growth. I +prefer to believe, since no scientific examination of the remains took +place, that these witnesses ignorantly, though innocently, erred. +</p> + +<p> +One thing is sure. Numerous pieces, both of stone and of metal, were +seen, which went far to suggest that some curious subterranean building +had been blown up by the force of the explosion. Especially were there +portions of moulded metal which seemed to belong to what must have been +an immense bronze statue. There were picked up also, more than a dozen +replicas in bronze of the whilom sacred scarabaeus. +</p> + +<p> +That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that night, +at last come to an end, and that these things which lay scattered, here +and there, on that treeless plain, were the evidences of its final +destruction, is not a hypothesis which I should care to advance with +any degree of certainty. But, putting this and that together, the facts +seem to point that way,—and it is a consummation devoutly to be +desired. +</p> + +<p> +By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling. Her wealth +has made him one of the richest men in England. She began, the story +goes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact that he has +ended by loving her as much. Their devotion to each other contradicts +the pessimistic nonsense which supposes that every marriage must be of +necessity a failure. He continues his career of an inventor. His +investigations into the subject of aërial flight, which have brought +the flying machine within the range of practical politics, are on +everybody’s tongue. +</p> + +<p> +The best man at Atherton’s wedding was Percy Woodville, now the Earl of +Barnes. Within six months afterwards he married one of Mrs Atherton’s +bridesmaids. +</p> + +<p> +It was never certainly shown how Robert Holt came to his end. At the +inquest the coroner’s jury was content to return a verdict of ‘Died of +exhaustion.’ He lies buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, under a handsome +tombstone, the cost of which, had he had it in his pockets, might have +indefinitely prolonged his days. +</p> + +<p> +It should be mentioned that that portion of this strange history which +purports to be The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt was compiled +from the statements which Holt made to Atherton, and to Miss Lindon, as +she then was, when, a mud-stained, shattered derelict he lay at the +lady’s father’s house. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Lindon’s contribution towards the elucidation of the mystery was +written with her own hand. After her physical strength had come back to +her, and, while mentally, she still hovered between the darkness and +the light, her one relaxation was writing. Although she would never +speak of what she had written, it was found that her theme was always +the same. She confided to pen and paper what she would not speak of +with her lips. She told, and re-told, and re-told again, the story of +her love, and of her tribulation so far as it is contained in the +present volume. Her MSS. invariably began and ended at the same point. +They have all of them been destroyed, with one exception. That +exception is herein placed before the reader. +</p> + +<p> +On the subject of the Mystery of the Beetle I do not propose to +pronounce a confident opinion. Atherton and I have talked it over many +and many a time, and at the end we have got no ‘forrarder.’ So far as I +am personally concerned, experience has taught me that there are indeed +more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy, +and I am quite prepared to believe that the so-called Beetle, which +others saw, but I never, was—or is, for it cannot be certainly shown +that the Thing is not still existing—a creature born neither of God +nor man. +</p> + +<p class="end">THE END</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Alterations to the text: +</p> + +<p> +Reformat TOC. +</p> + +<p> +Change several instances of <i>anyrate</i> to <i>any rate</i> and <i>Sidney</i> to +<i>Sydney</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Minor punctuation corrections. +</p> + +<p> +Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies (e.g. +“bedclothes”/“bed-clothes”, “pigeon-hole”/“pigeon hole”, etc.) have +been preserved. Ligatured Latin characters have been modernized. +</p> + +<p> +Interior images provided by the British Library via Wikipedia. Images +that divided a paragraph were moved to the end of said paragraph. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter IX] +</p> + +<p> +Change “his yellow fangs gleamed <i>though</i> his parted lips” to +<i>through</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVI] +</p> + +<p> +“to <i>skeddadle</i> towards the door” to <i>skedaddle</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XXIII] +</p> + +<p> +“association is <i>synonymus</i> with logic” to <i>synonymous</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XXXIX] +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Coleman would let her <i>emptey</i> house” to <i>empty</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLI] +</p> + +<p> +“the most <i>woe-begone</i> of faces” to <i>woebegone</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“explain his extraordinary <i>insistance</i> on taking it” to <i>insistence</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“talk in that <i>cock-sure</i> way” to <i>cocksure</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLII] +</p> + +<p> +“bulged out in all directions <i>it’s</i> presence didn’t” to <i>its</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLIV] +</p> + +<p> +“indeed, extravagant <i>attentuation</i>, to be more...” to <i>attenuation</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLV] +</p> + +<p> +“till I come upon this <i>pore</i> young man” to <i>poor</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XLVII] +</p> + +<p> +“probably the <i>execretion</i> of some variety of lizard” to <i>excretion</i>. +</p> + +<p class="end"> +[End of Text] +</p> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEETLE ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 5164-h.htm or 5164-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/5164/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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