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Title: The Beetle
       A Mystery

Author: Richard Marsh

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5164]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on May 27, 2002]
[Date last updated: July 18, 2005]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEETLE ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY

BY

RICHARD MARSH


WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN WILLIAMSON






CONTENTS


BOOK I

The House with the Open Window


CHAPTER I, OUTSIDE

CHAPTER II, INSIDE

CHAPTER III, THE MAN IN THE BED

CHAPTER IV, A LONELY VIGIL

CHAPTER V, AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY

CHAPTER VI, A SINGULAR FELONY

CHAPTER VII, THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM

CHAPTER VIII, THE MAN IN THE STREET

CHAPTER IX, THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET




BOOK II

The Haunted Man


CHAPTER X, REJECTED

CHAPTER XI, A MIDNIGHT EPISODE

CHAPTER XII, A MORNING VISITOR

CHAPTER XIII, THE PICTURE

CHAPTER XIV, THE DUCHESS' BALL

CHAPTER XV, MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS

CHAPTER XVI, ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR

CHAPTER XVII, MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE?

CHAPTER XVIII, THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE

CHAPTER XIX, THE LADY RAGES

CHAPTER XX, A HEAVY FATHER

CHAPTER XXI, THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT

CHAPTER XXII, THE HAUNTED MAN




BOOK III

The Terror By Night and the Terror by Day


CHAPTER XXIII, THE WAY HE TOLD HER

CHAPTER XXIV, A WOMAN'S VIEW

CHAPTER XXV, THE MAN IN THE STREET

CHAPTER XXVI, A FATHER'S NO

CHAPTER XXVII, THE TERROR BY NIGHT

CHAPTER XXVIII, THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET

CHAPTER XXIX, THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE

CHAPTER XXX, THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT

CHAPTER XXXI, THE TERROR BY DAY




BOOK IV

In Pursuit


CHAPTER XXXII, A NEW CLIENT

CHAPTER XXXIII, WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE

CHAPTER XXXIV, AFTER TWENTY YEARS

CHAPTER XXXV, A BRINGER OF TIDINGS

CHAPTER XXXVI, WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE

CHAPTER XXXVII, WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR

CHAPTER XXXVIII, THE REST OF THE FIND

CHAPTER XXXIX, MISS LOUISA COLEMAN

CHAPTER XL, WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW

CHAPTER XLI, THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB

CHAPTER XLII, THE QUARRY DOUBLES

CHAPTER XLIII, THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S

CHAPTER XLIV, THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED

CHAPTER XLV, ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW

CHAPTER XLVI, THE SUDDEN STOPPING

CHAPTER XLVII, THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE

CHAPTER XLVIII, THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER






BOOK I

The House with the Open Window


The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt

CHAPTER I

OUTSIDE


'No room!--Full up!'

He banged the door in my face.

That was the final blow.

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.

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.

As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me
out of the shadow of the wall.

'Won't 'e let yer in?'

'He says it's full.'

'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.'

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.

'Do you mean that they say it's full when it isn't,--that they
won't let me in although there's room?'

'That's it,--bloke's a-kiddin' yer.'

'But, if there's room, aren't they bound to let me in?'

'Course they are,--and, blimey, if I was you I'd make 'em. Blimey
I would!'

He broke into a volley of execrations.

'But what am I to do?'

'Why, give 'em another rouser--let 'em know as you won't be
kidded!'

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.

'What, here again! What's your little game? Think I've nothing
better to do than to wait upon the likes of you?'

'I want to be admitted.'

'Then you won't be admitted!'

'I want to see someone in authority.'

'Ain't yer seein' someone in authority?'

'I want to see someone besides you,--I want to see the master.'

'Then you won't see the master!'

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.

'Are you sure that the ward is full?'

'Full two hours ago!'

'But what am I to do?'

'I don't know what you're to do!'

'Which is the next nearest workhouse?'

'Kensington.'

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.

'Nice bloke, ain't he?'

'He's only one of the paupers,--has he any right to act as one of
the officials?'

'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!'

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.

'Ain't you got no money?'

'Not a farthing.'

'Done much of this sort of thing?'

'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.'

'I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.--What are yer
goin' to do?'

'How far is it to Kensington?'

'Work'us?--about three mile;--but, if I was you, I'd try St
George's.'

'Where's that?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'How are you going to manage it,--have you got any money?'

'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.'

'How are you going to get a bed then?'

'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.'

The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He
shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness,

'Who done that?'

'I done it, guvnor,--and, if you like, you can see me do the
other. It might do your eyesight good.'

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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,

'For a loaf of bread what wouldn't I do!'

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.

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.




CHAPTER II

INSIDE


I realised, 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.

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.

And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry!

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. 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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 will me in the
room was something strange, something evil.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER III

THE MAN IN THE BED


The illumination which instantly followed was unexpected. It
startled me, causing a moment's check, from which I was just
recovering when a voice said,

'Keep still!'

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.

'Turn round!'

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.

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.

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.

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 I--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.

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.

It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless.

'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?'

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.

'Robert Holt.'

'What are you?'

'A clerk.'

'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?'

'I am out of a situation.'

'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.'

'I am not a thief.'

'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting no
constraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?'

'Because it was open.'

'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?'

'No.'

'Then why through this?'

'Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.'

The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,--
which, in fact, he did.

'Have you no home?'

'No.'

'Money?'

'No.'

'Friends?'

'No.'

'Then what sort of a clerk are you?'

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.

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.

'Undress!'

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.

'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.'

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.

'In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine.
Eat and drink.'

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.

'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.'

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.

And the light went out.




CHAPTER IV

A LONELY VIGIL


I knew 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.

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.

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.

Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said,
whether speaking to me or to himself I could not tell,

'Dead!--dead!--as good as dead!--and better! We'll have him
buried.'

He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that
he was gone.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

'Stand up.'

I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards
the bed.

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.




CHAPTER V

AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY


That 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.

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.

'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!'

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.

He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which
occupied my brain,--and, for all I know, he was.

'Robert Holt, you are a thief.'

'I am not.'

My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,--it was so long since it
had sounded in my ears.

'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?'

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.

'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.'

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!

When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his speech,--
something bitter, cruel, unrelenting.

'Do you know Paul Lessingham?'

He pronounced the name as if he hated it,--and yet as if he loved
to have it on his tongue.

'What Paul Lessingham?'

'There is only one Paul Lessingham! THE Paul Lessingham,--the
GREAT Paul Lessingham!'

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.

'All the world knows Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the
statesman.'

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.

'To-night you are going through his window like a thief!'

I had no inkling of his meaning,--and, apparently, judging from
his next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt.

'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.'

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.

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.

'He is good to look at, Paul Lessingham,--is he not good to look
at?'

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.

'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!'

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.

'To be his wife,--oh yes!--the wife of his scorn! the despised and
rejected!'

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.

'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!'

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.

'You know his house,--the house of the great Paul Lessingham,--the
politician,--the statesman?'

'I do not.'

'You lie!--you do!'

The words came from him with a sort of snarl,--as if he would have
lashed me across the face with them.

'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.'

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.

'You do not know it?--Well!--I will show it you,--I will show the
house of the great Paul Lessingham.'

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.

'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!'

He paused,--as if to enable me to fully realise the picture of my
helplessness conjured up by his jibes.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'I will not.'

He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,--
until they seemed all pupil.

'You will.--Do you hear?--I say you will.'

'I am not a thief, I am an honest man,--why should I do this
thing?'

'Because I bid you.'

'Have mercy!'

'On whom--on you, or on Paul Lessingham?--Who, at any time, has
shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?'

He stopped, and then again went on,--reiterating his former
incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way
into my brain.

'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.'

'How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.'

The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing
in great drops upon my brow.

'I will show it you.'

'Shall you go with me?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Should it be locked?'

'You still will open it.'

'But how shall I open it if it is locked?'

'By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again
that that is your affair, not mine.'

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.

'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.'

'And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious
proceedings,--for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham
himself, what then?'

'Paul Lessingham?--You need have no fear if you encounter him.'

'I need have no fear!--If he finds me, in his own house, at dead
of night, committing burglary!'

'You need have no fear of him.'

'On your account, or on my own?--At least he will have me haled to
gaol.'

'I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.'

'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?'

'You will not touch him with a finger,--nor will he touch you.'

'By what spell shall I prevent him?'

'By the spell of two words.'

'What words are they?'

'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--'

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,

'What?'

'THE BEETLE!'

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.

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.

'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.'




CHAPTER VI

A SINGULAR FELONY


I went 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 thorough fares; 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 denouement 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.

The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the
handle in his hand.




CHAPTER VII

THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM


He 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 inpenetrability 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.

'May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your
company?'

He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his
question in another form.

'Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you
here?'

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.

'Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are
holding in your hand.'

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,

'THE BEETLE!'

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.

'Who are you?--In God's name, who are you?'

His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would
hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe.

'Who are you?--Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of
God, I bid you say!'

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.

'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?'

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.

'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?'

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.

'Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the
role you have set yourself to play?'

His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his
character.

'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.'

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.

'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?'

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.

'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?'

A new idea seemed to strike him,--born, perhaps, of my continued
silence.

'You look English,--is it possible that you are not English? What
are you then--French? We shall see!'

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.

'You do not know French?--nor the patois 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.'

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.

'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 modus operandi 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?'

I remained motionless and silent,--an attitude which, plainly, he
resented.

'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?'

Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,--to his increased
annoyance.

'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.'

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.

'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?'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.--WHAT'S THAT?'

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.

'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?'

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.

'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.'

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,

'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.'

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.

'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!'

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.

'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.'

Suddenly he broke into cries.

'Matthews! Matthews!--Help! help!'

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.

Their master spurred them on.

'Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!--knock him down!--
take the letters from him!--don't be afraid!--I'm not afraid!'

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,

'THE BEETLE!'

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.




CHAPTER VIII

THE MAN IN THE STREET


Whether 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.

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.

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.

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.

'After the ball,--eh?'

Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and
some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face.

Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half
mocking smile.

'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.'

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.

'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!'

He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I
was away. I neither stayed nor paused.

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.

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.




CHAPTER IX

THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET


I pulled 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.

But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me.

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.

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.

'So!--Through the window again!--like a thief!--Is it always
through that door that you come into a house?'

He paused,--as if to give me time to digest his gibe.

'You saw Paul Lessingham,--well?--the great Paul Lessingham!--Was
he, then, so great?'

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.

'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?'

His manner changed,--so that, all at once, he seemed to snarl at
me.

'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?'

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.

As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the
slightest difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my
mind.

'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.'

For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden
fierceness,

'Give me what you have stolen!'

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.

'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?'

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.

He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him.

'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!'

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.

'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.'

As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink
ribbon,--a fact on which he presently began to comment.

'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."'

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 though 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.

'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?'

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.

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.

'So!--That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to
write Paul Lessingham!--Paul Lessingham!'

Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which
the speaker dwelt upon the name,--it was demoniac.

'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!'

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.

'It is you!--you thief!--you still live!--to make a mock of one of
the children of the gods!'

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.




BOOK II

The Haunted Man


The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire




CHAPTER X

REJECTED


It 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.

'Stop, please!'

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.

'Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.'

Then I did let fly.

'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?'

'I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I
have had my--my doubts.'

'Doubts!--I thank you.'

'You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.'

'Like me!--Bah!'

'I cannot help liking you,--though it may be "bah."'

'I don't want you to like me,--I want you to love me.'

'Precisely,--that is your mistake.'

'My mistake!--in wanting you to love me!--when I love you--'

'Then you shouldn't,--though I can't help thinking that you are
mistaken even there.'

'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?'

'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.'

'You shouldn't torture me.'

She opened and shut her fan,--as she looked down at it I am
disposed to suspect that she smiled.

'I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of
course, you are my friend.'

'I am not your friend.'

'Pardon me, you are.'

'I say I'm not,--if I can't be something else, I'll be no friend.'

She went on,--calmly ignoring me,--playing with her fan.

'As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in
which a friend is welcome.'

'What's the matter? Who's been worrying you,--your father?'

'Well,--he has not,--as yet; but he may be soon.'

'What's in the wind?'

'Mr Lessingham.'

She dropped her voice,--and her eyes. For the moment I did not
catch her meaning.

'What?'

'Your friend, Mr Lessingham.'

'Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is
entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.'

'What!--Not when I am going to be his wife?'

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.

I don't know if I looked what I felt,--if I did, I looked
uncommonly blank.

'You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me
such a communication.'

She chose to disregard my irony.

'I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a
difficult position I am in.'

'I offer you my hearty congratulations.'

'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.'

I bit my lip,--for the life of me I could not tell how she wished
me to read her words.

'Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one
of the public?'

'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?'

She had paused,--and I stayed silent.

'On your side,--or Mr Lessingham's?'

'His side is my side, and my side is his side;--you will be on our
side?'

'I am not sure that I altogether follow you.'

'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.'

'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.'

'You are my friend,--are you not my friend?'

'In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.'

'Thank you;--I did not think you so unkind.'

'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.'

'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.'

'If I had spoken before?'

I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,--
almost amounting to a shrug.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'We will consider it terra incognita.'

'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.'

She looked at me, with wide open eyes,--as if I almost frightened
her. To be frank, that was what I wished to do.

'Mr Atherton!'

'Miss Lindon?'

'That is not like you at all.'

'We seem to be making each other's acquaintance for the first
time.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.'

She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got
up, and left her, without a word.

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.

'I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?'

'I have.'

'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.'

'In that case, she's shunted you.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'Have you forgotten that this is our dance?'

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.

'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.'




CHAPTER XI

A MIDNIGHT EPISODE


The 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.

So I had it.

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.

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.

At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the
faintest nation 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.

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.

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.

'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?'

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.

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
india-rubber 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.

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.

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.

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!'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'Who's there?'

'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.'

Then he knew me,--and opened the door about two feet.

'Oh, it's you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought it
might have been the police.'

'What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law,--at
last?'

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.

'Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.'

'The deuce you have!--From whom?'

Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an
air which was flatteringly confidential.

'From Mr Lessingham, sir.'

'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,'

Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which
way discretion lay, whether fore or aft.

'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.'

'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?'

'Who's there?'

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.

'It's I, Lessingham,--Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has
jumped out of your drawing-room window?'

It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice
had lost its petulance.

'Has he escaped?'

'Clean,--he's a mile away by now.'

It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a
note of relief.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XII

A MORNING VISITOR


All 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

'Someone wishes to see you, sir.'

'Then tell someone that I don't wish to see him.'

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.

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.

'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?'

For it was not Edwards at all, but quite a different class of
character.

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 repetitions 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?

I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these
gentlemen call French,--but he didn't.

'You are Mr Atherton?'

'And you are Mr--Who?--how did you come here? Where's my servant?'

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.

'Is this the person who wished to see me?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Didn't I tell you to say that I didn't wish to see him?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then why didn't you do as I told you?'

'I did, sir.'

'Then how comes he here?'

'Really, sir,'--Edwards put his hand up to his head as if be was
half asleep--'I don't quite know.'

'What do you mean by you don't know? Why didn't you stop him?'

'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.'

'You're an idiot.--Go!' And he went. I turned to the stranger.
'Pray, sir, are you a magician?'

He replied to my question with another.

'You, Mr Atherton,--are you also a magician?'

He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension.

'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.'

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.

'You come from Miss Lindon?' 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.

'Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?'

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.'

'Well?--I see,--Paul Lessingham.--What then?'

'She is good,--he is bad,--is it not so?'

He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared.

'Pray how do you happen to know?'

'He shall never have her,--eh?'

'What on earth do you mean?'

'Ah!--what do I mean!'

'Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who
the devil are you?'

'It is as a friend I come to you.'

'Then in that case you may go; I happen to be over-stocked in that
line just now.'

'Not with the kind of friend I am!'

'The saints forefend!'

'You love her,--you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him
in her arms?'

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.

'I see you are a mesmerist.'

He started.

'I am nothing,--a shadow!'

'And I'm a scientist. I should like, with your permission--or
without it!--to try an experiment or two on you.'

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.

'We will try experiments together, you and I,--on Paul
Lessingham.'

'Why on him?'

'You do not know?'

'I do not.'

'Why do you lie to me?'

'I don't lie to you,--I haven't the faintest notion what is the
nature of your interest in Mr Lessingham.'

'My interest?--that is another thing; it is your interest of which
we are speaking.'

'Pardon me,--it is yours.'

'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!'

'And, once more, sir, who are you?'

'I am of the children of Isis!'

'Is that so?--It occurs to me that you have made a slight
mistake,--this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.'

'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.'

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.

'Hang it all!--stop!' I cried.

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.




CHAPTER XIII

THE PICTURE


'I wonder 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.'

I strode up and down,--for the moment my interest in the
experiments I was conducting had waned.

'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?'

The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement
grew.

'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!'

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.

'Who's there?--Come in!'

It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised.

'I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought you were engaged. I didn't
know that--that gentleman had gone.'

'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?' '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.'

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.

'There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,--Mr
Lessingham.'

'Mr Lessingham!' At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd,
though I daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality.
'Show him in.'

Presently in came Paul.

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 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.

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.

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.

'I am not disturbing you?'

'Not at all.'

'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?'

'Death.'

'No?--really?--what do you mean?'

'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.'

'I see,--a new projectile.--How long is this race to continue
between attack and defence?'

'Until the sun grows cold.'

'And then?'

'There'll be no defence,--nothing to defend.'

He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes.

'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.'

'I don't know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you--
queer.'

'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.'

'Was he a maniac?'

'Did you see him?'

'Very clearly.'

'Where?'

'In the street.'

'How close were you to him?'

'Closer than I am to you.'

'Indeed. I didn't know you were so close to him as that. Did you
try to stop him?'

'Easier said than done,--he was off at such a rate.'

'Did you see how he was dressed,--or, rather, undressed?'

'I did.'

'In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a fanatic would
have attempted burglary in such a costume?'

'Did he take anything?'

'Absolutely nothing.'

'It seems to have been a curious episode.'

He moved his eyebrows,--according to members of the House the only
gesture in which he has been known to indulge.

'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?'

I nodded. He changed the theme.

'This that you're engaged upon,--is it a projectile or a weapon?'

'If you are a member of the next government you will possibly
know; if you aren't you possibly won't.'

'I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?'

'I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep
secret.'

'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.'

'I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.'

'Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of
Isis?'

'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.'

'I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely
legendary?'

'To what marvels do you particularly refer?'

'Weren't supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?'

'Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were
attributed to all the priests of all the creeds.'

'I see.' Presently he continued. 'I presume that her cult is long
since extinct,--that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-
day.'

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.

'That is not so sure.'

He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of
his.

'You think that she still is worshipped?

'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.'

'Do you know that as a fact?'

'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?'

He smiled.

'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.'

'What is the story?'

'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?'

'Some of them,--no doubt.'

'What did they understand by transmigration?'

'Transmigration.'

'Yes,--but of the soul or of the body?'

'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.'

'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?'

'How?'

'Hadn't they an especial regard for some sort of a--wasn't it some
sort of a--beetle?'

'You mean Scarabaeus sacer,--according to Latreille, Scarabaeus
Egyptiorum? 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.'

'Weren't the priests of Isis--or some of them--supposed to assume,
after death, the form of a--scarabaeus?'

'I never heard of it.'

'Are you sure?--think!'

'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.'

'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?'

'In what belief?'

'In the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after
death the form of a scarabaeus?'

'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?'

'I am afraid of nothing,--and some day you shall be told,--but not
now. At present, answer my question.'

'Then repeat your question,--clearly.'

'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?'

'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.'

'That is not what I mean.'

'Then what do you mean?'

'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?'

'Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?'

'Or a follower of Isis?'

'Before, or after death?'

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.

'In--in the very act of dying.'

'In the very act of dying?'

'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?'

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.

'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.'

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.

'I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle.
I suppose I have.'

'But what is the taradiddle?--don't you see I'm burning?'

'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?'

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.

'Lessingham!' I exclaimed. 'What's wrong with you?'

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.

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.

'Lessingham!--come, man, what's wrong with you?'

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.

'Atherton?--Is it you?--It's all right,--quite right.--I'm well,--
very well.'

As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing
erect.

'Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of
being very well.'

He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of
his lips.

'It's the pressure of overwork,--I've had one or two attacks like
this,--but it's nothing, only--a local lesion.'

I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about
him which was very odd indeed.

'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.'

'I'll go to-day;--at once; but I know it's only mental
overstrain.'

'You're sure it's nothing to do with this?'

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.

'Take it away! take it away!' he screamed.

I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness.
Then I found my tongue.

'Lessingham!--It's only a picture!--Are you stark mad?'

He persisted in his ejaculations.

'Take it away! take it away!--Tear it up!--Burn it!'

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.

'Lessingham,' I said, 'you're either mad already, or you're going
mad,--which is it?'

'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.'

'Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?'

'Can you not guess?'

I hunched my shoulder.

'If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why
silence would be unfair to her?'

'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?'

I gave him the promise he required.

       .       .       .       .       .       .       .

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.

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.




CHAPTER XIV

THE DUCHESS' BALL


That night was the Duchess of Datchet's ball--the first person I
saw as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling.

I went straight up to her.

'Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night, I have
come to make to you my apologies,--to sue for your forgiveness!'

'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?'

'Quite.--You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by
giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.'

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.

'This is my dance, Miss Grayling.'

She looked at him.

'You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had
forgotten that I was already engaged.'

I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we
went, and left him staring.

'It's he who's the sufferer now,' I whispered, as we went round,--
she can waltz!

'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.'

'Thank you.'

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.

'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.'

'Why don't you?'

'Think of the money it would cost.'

'I thought I was a friend of yours.'

'I had hoped you were.'

'Then why don't you let me help you?'

'Help me?--How?'

'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.'

I fidgeted.

'It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.'

She became quite frigid.

'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.'

'Miss Grayling!'

'I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer
assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently
plain.'

'I assure you--'

'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.'

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.

'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?'

'Miss Grayling!--I shall be only too delighted.' She handed me her
card. 'Which may I have?'

'For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you
possibly can.'

'They all seem taken.'

'That doesn't matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and
put your own instead.'

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.

'Mr Atherton!--is that you?'

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.

'Is there an empty chair?'

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.

'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.'

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.

'You know what an absurd objection he has to--Paul.'

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.

'Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?'

'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.'

Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her
touch, I burned.

'But I don't understand what cause there has been for secrecy,--
why should there have been any secrecy from the first?'

'It was Paul's wish that papa should not be told.'

'Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?'

'Sydney!'

'Or does he fear your father?'

'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'

'I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,--politician
first, and lover afterwards.'

'Well!--why not?--would you have him injure the cause he has at
heart for want of a little patience?'

'It depends what cause it is he has at heart.'

'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.'

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.

'What do you know of Mr Lessingham?'

'What all the world knows,--that history will be made by him.'

'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.'

'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.'

'If you do know that, it is sufficient.'

'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.'

'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.'

'There is no such page in Paul's,--there may be in yours; I think
that probable.'

'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.'

'Sydney!--you are unendurable!--It is the more strange to hear you
talk like this since Paul regards you as his friend.'

'He flatters me.'

'Are you not his friend?'

'Is it not sufficient to be yours?'

'No,--who is against Paul is against me.'

'That is hard.'

'How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the
wife,--when the husband and the wife are one.'

'But as yet you are not one.--Is my cause so hopeless?'

'What do you call your cause?--are you thinking of that nonsense
you were talking about last night?'

She laughed!

'You call it nonsense.--You ask for sympathy, and give--so much!'

'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 tomorrow,--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?'

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.

'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.'

'The blame was mine,--what sort of side do I show you? You are far
kinder to me than I deserve,--now, and always. 'That is what you
say.'

'Pardon me, it's true,--else how comes it that, at this time of
day, I'm without a friend in all the world?'

'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!'

'Miss Grayling!'

'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.'

'I snub you!'

'You know you snubbed me.'

'Do you really mean that you take an interest in--in my work?'

'You know I mean it.'

She turned to me, her face all glowing,--and I did know it.

'Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?'

'Will I!--won't I!'

'With your aunt?'

'Yes, with my aunt.'

'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.'

'Of course it still holds good.'

'And we'll be partners.'

'Partners?--Yes,--we will be partners.

'It will cost a terrific sum.

'There are some things which never can cost too much.'

'That's not my experience,'

'I hope it will be mine.'

'It's a bargain?'

'On my side, I promise you that it's a bargain.'

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.

'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!'

'Then get under.'

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.

'Don't be an idiot!--you don't know what I'm suffering!--I'm as
nearly as possible stark mad.'

'That's all right, old chap,--I've seen you that way more than
once before.'

'Don't talk like that,--you're not a perfect brute!'

'I bet you a shilling that I am.'

'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?'

'My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?'

'She's refused me!'

'Has she!--Well I never!--Buck up,--try some other address,--there
are quite as good fish in the sea as ever cams out of it.'

'Atherton, you're a blackguard.'

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.

'There's not a doubt of it,--it's my way of being sympathetic.
Don't be so down, man,--try her again!'

'It's not the slightest use--I know it isn't--from the way she
treated me.'

'Don't be so sure--women often say what they mean least. Who's the
lady?'

'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!'

'Marjorie Lindon?'

I fancy that my jaw dropped open,--that, to use his own
vernacular, I was 'all of a heap.' I felt like it.

I strode away--leaving him mazed--and all but ran into Marjorie's
arms.

'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?'

'Thank you,--I am not thinking of being off.'

'I'm going to the House of Commons,--won't you come?'

'What are you going there for?'

Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,--and she knew
that I knew, as her words showed.

'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.'

'He is a fortunate man.'

'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.'

As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville.
He had his hat on.

'Where are you off to?'

'I'm off to the House.'

'To hear Paul Lessingham?'

'Damn Paul Lessingham!'

'With all my heart!'

'There's a division expected,--I've got to go.'

'Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,--Marjorie Lindon.'

'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!'

'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.'




CHAPTER XV

MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS


The 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.

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 press-men
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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

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
invoking a strain on the attention.

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.

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.

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.

In that hour,--the Apostle's hour!--I almost wished that I were a
politician too!

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.

Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never
saw her look more beautiful,--or happier. She seemed to be alone.

'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!'

I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she
delighted to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine.

'It was not a bad speech, of a kind.'

'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.'

'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.'

I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead,
laughing, she placed her hand upon my shoulder.

'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.'

She stung me almost beyond bearing,--I cared not what I said.

'You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are
older.'

'What do you mean?'

Before I could have told her--if I had meant to tell; which I did
not--Lessingham came up.

'I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer
than I expected.'

'Not at all,--though I am quite ready to get away; it's a little
tiresome waiting here.'

This with a mischievous glance towards me,--a glance which
compelled Lessingham to notice me.

'You do not often favour us.'

'I don't. I find better employment for my time.'

'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.'

'I am obliged to you.--I hope you are feeling better than when I
saw you last.'

A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He
showed no other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment.

'Thank you.--I am very well.'

Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that
what I meant was meant unpleasantly.

'Come,--let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not
well.'

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.

'I thought that you were at the Duchess'?'

'So I have been, papa; and now I'm here.'

'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?'

'Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,--unless the
horses have run away.'

'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.'

'Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.--I
shall see you afterwards.--Good bye.'

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.

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.

'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!'

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.

'She went away with Lessingham,--did you see her?'

'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.'

He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass.

'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?'

'As you say, how can he?--he can't stand on the railing and
shout,--even with a friend holding him behind.'

'I know I shall speak one day,--bound to; and then she won't be
there.'

'It'll be better for you if she isn't.'

'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.'

He rubbed his nose with the rim of his eyeglass, looking the most
comically disconsolate figure.

'Put black care behind you, Percy!--buck up, my boy! The
division's over--you are free--now we'll go "on the fly."'

And we did 'go on the fly.'




CHAPTER XVI

ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR


I bore 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.

'I don't know how many times I've tried to tell her,--over and
over again.'

'Have you now?'

'Yes, pretty near every time I met her,--but I never seemed to get
quite to it, don't you know.'

'How was that?'

'Why, just as I was going to say, "Miss Lindon, may I offer you
the gift of my affection---"'

'Was that how you invariably intended to begin?'

'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.'

'And what did you say?'

'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.'

'Would she now?'

'Yes,--of course I had to answer, and by the time I'd answered the
chance was lost.' Percy was polishing his eye-glass. '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.'

'You think she did?'

'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.'

'And did you propose?'

'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.'

'Miss Linden's?--or the glove girl's?'

'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.'

'You gave Miss Lindon a wrong impression.'

'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.'

'Under the circumstances, that was trying.'

'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.'

'I tell you what, Percy,--have a drink!'

'I'm a teetotaler,--you know I am.'

'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.'

'Do you think so,--why?'

'Because you would,--men whose hearts are broken always do,--you'd
swallow a magnum at the least.'

Percy groaned.

'When I drink I'm always ill,--but I'll have a try.'

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.

'Tell me, Percy,--honest Indian!--do you really love her?'

'Love her?' His eyes grew round as saucers. 'Don't I tell you that
I love her?'

'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?'

'Feel like?--Just anyhow,--and nohow. You should look inside me,
and then you'd know.'

'I see.--It's like that, is it?--Suppose she loved another man,
what sort of feeling would you feel towards him?'

'Does she love another man?'

'I say, suppose.'

'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.'

'You'd like to tell him so?'

'He's such a jolly lucky chap, you know.'

'Possibly,--but his jolly good luck is your jolly bad luck. Would
you be willing to resign her to him without a word?'

'If she loves him.'

'But you say you love her.'

'Of course I do.'

'Well then?'

'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.'

'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.'

'What would you feel like?'

'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.'

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.

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.

'You see, Percy, that's Lessingham's house!--that's the house of
the man who went away with Marjorie!'

'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.'

'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?'

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.

'Don't be shy, my friend!'

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.

'Ostensibly, there's a vacuum,--which nature abhors.--I say,
driver, didn't you see someone come up the steps?'

'I thought I did, sir,--I could have sworn I did.'

'So could I.--It's very odd.'

'Perhaps whoever it was has gone into the 'ouse, sir.'

'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.'

'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.'

I believe the cabman thought that I was drunk,--and not
respectable enough to claim acquaintance with the great Mr
Lessingham.

'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.'

The cabman bent down from his seat, wheedling me.

'Jump in, sir, and we'll be getting along.'

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.

'Well, sir, what's the matter now? You'll be damaging yourself
before you've done, and then you'll be blaming me.'

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.

So soon as we were inside my laboratory, I put the cat into my
glass box. Percy stared.

'What have you put it there for?'

'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.'

He showed no signs of being interested. Sinking into a chair, he
recommenced his wearisome reiteration.

'I hate cats!--Do let it go!--I'm always miserable when there's a
cat in the room.'

'Nonsense,--that's your fancy! What you want's a taste of whisky--
you'll be as chirpy as a cricket.'

'I don't want anything more to drink!--I've had too much already!'

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.

'What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?'

'Think?--nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she
has so much better fish to fry?'

'I'm feeling frightfully ill!--I'll be drunk before I've done!'

'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?'

'Of course I see it!--the beast!--I wish you'd let it go!'

'Why should I let it go?--Do you know whose cat that is? That
cat's Paul Lessingham's.'

'Paul Lessingham's?'

'Yes, Paul Lessingham's,--the man who made the speech,--the man
whom Marjorie went away with.'

'How do you know it's his?'

'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.'

'Whatever for?'

'You shall see.--You observe how happy it is?'

'It don't seem happy.'

'We've all our ways of seeming happy,--that's its way,'

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.

'It's a funny way.'

'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.'

He shrunk back.

'I don't know what you're talking about.--I don't want the thing.
--Take it away.'

'Think twice,--the chance may not recur.'

'I tell you I don't want it.'

'Sure?--Consider!'

'Of course I'm sure!'

'Then the cat shall have it.'

'Let the poor brute go!'

'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.'

'Atherton, let the brute go!'

'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?'

'I'm not well!--I want to get away!--I wish I'd never come!'

That was all Woodville had to say.

'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!'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XVII

MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE?


The 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,

'Atherton's Magic Vapour!'

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.

'Who the deuce are you?' I asked.

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.

'Is he dead?' I cried. 'Percy.--speak, man!--it's not so bad with
you as that!'

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.

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.

'All will be well with him.'

'I am not so sure.'

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.

'Have you hypnotised him?'

'What does it matter?'

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.

'He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been.
Leave him,--the night is warm,--all will be well.'

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.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE


The 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.

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.

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.

'May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?'

He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them,
palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental.

'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?'

Again nothing but the gesture.

'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.'

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.

'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?'

He proved that he had not by using it

'I have still the use of my tongue.'

'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.'

'You know why I have come.'

'Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is
precisely what I do not know.'

'You do know.'

'Do I?--Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the
reason which appears upon the surface,--to commit a felony.'

'You call me thief?'

'What else are you?'

'I am no thief.--You know why I have come.'

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.

'I have come because you wanted me.'

'Because I wanted you!--On my word!--That's sublime!'

'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.'

I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that
he could mean, or--there was confusion somewhere.

'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.'

This time the score was mine,--he was puzzled.

'I know not what you talk of.'

'In that case, we're equal,--I know not what you talk of either.'

His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.

'What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,--if you
want me, then I come?'

'I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as
to say something of the kind, but--where's the application?'

'Do you not feel for him the same as I?'

'Who's the him?'

'Paul Lessingham.'

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.

'And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?'

'Hate.'

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.

'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?'

'Those who hate are kin.'

'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?'

'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.'

'Indeed.--And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly
to be desired to be brought about?'

'Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.'

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!

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?

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.

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.

'You hound!' I cried.

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.

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.

The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me.

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.

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.

'Take my advice, my friend, and don't attempt to play that hankey
pankey off on to me again.'

'I don't know what you talk of.'

'Don't lie to me,--or I'll burn you into ashes.'

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.

'My lord!--my lord!--have mercy, oh my lord!'

'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.'

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.

'My lord! my lord!' he whined. 'I entreat you, my lord, to use me
as your slave!'

'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!'

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?

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.

'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.'

'Ask, oh my lord.'

'What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?'

'Revenge.'

'What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on
him?'

'It is the feud of the innocent blood.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for
vengeance.'

'Who has he killed?'

'That, my lord, is for me,--and for him.'

'I see.--Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me,
and that I am again to use my--magic?'

I saw that he quivered.

'My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his
breast.'

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?

'"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.'

'What has the Englishman's law to do with me?'

'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.'

'Is that so?'

'It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to
your own entire satisfaction.'

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.

'He would be shamed?'

'Indeed he would be shamed.'

'Before all men?'

'Before all men,--and, I take it, before all women too.'

'And he would hang?'

'If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,--yes.'

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.

'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!'

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.

'You employ large phrases.'

My words cooled the other's heated blood. Once more his eyes were
cast down, his hands crossed upon his breast

'I crave my lord's pardon. My wound is ever new.'

'By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that
little incident of the cockroach?'

He glanced up quickly.

'Cockroach?--I know not what you say.'

'Well,--was it beetle, then?'

'Beetle!'

He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,--the word was
gasped.

'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,--Scaraboeus sacer, wasn't it?'

'I know not what you talk of.'

'Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr
Lessingham. Now, why was that?'

'I know nothing.'

'Oh yes you do,--and, before you go, I mean to know something
too.'

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.

'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.'

I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity
recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled.

'My lord, I know not of what you talk.'

'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.'

'Ask him, my lord.'

'Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I
am asking you. Answer,--or look out for squalls.'

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.

'I am a child of Isis!'

It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me,
as with a view of elevating his own low spirits,

'Are you?--Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to
congratulate the lady on her offspring.'

When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard
before.

'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.'

'What is it I am being warned against,--the beetle?'

'Yes,--the beetle!'

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.

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.

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 type,--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.

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?

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 someday will be--you would have a perfect picture
of what it was I saw, Beyond doubt it was a lamellicorn, one of
the copridae. 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 chameleon-like
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.

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.

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.

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 skeddadle 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.

'Stop!' I shouted.

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.

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.

'I say,' he remarked, not at all unreasonably, 'where am I?'

'You're on holy--or on haunted ground,--hang me if I quite know
which!--but that's where you are, my boy.'

'By Jove!--I am feeling queer!--I have got a headache, don't you
know.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XIX

THE LADY RAGES


Dora Grayling stood in the doorway.

'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.'

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.

'Am I intruding?--I believe I am.'

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.

'What's the matter with you?--Aren't you well?'

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.

'Thank you,--I am perfectly well.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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?'

'You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the
follies of which my tongue is guilty.'

'Thank you.--That is quite enough.--Good-day.'

She turned as if to go.

'Miss Grayling!'

'Mr Atherton?'

'What's the matter?--What have I been saying now?'

'Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning,--is
that one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?'

The engagement had escaped my recollection--it is a fact--and my
face betrayed me.

'You had forgotten?' Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. 'You
must pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the
imitation was of that general kind which is never meant to be
acted on.'

She was half way to the door before I stopped her,--I had to take
her by the shoulder to do it.

'Miss Grayling!--You are hard on me.'

'I suppose I am.--Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an
undesired, and unexpected, guest?'

'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.'

'Indeed?--What have you gone through?'

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.

'For one thing,--I have had no sleep.'

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 copridae 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.

She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw
something--because her own look softened.

'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?'

'Pretty well'

'Oh!'

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.

'How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?--
didn't you mean it?'

'Of course I meant it.'

'Then how is it you've forgotten?'

'I didn't forget.'

'Don't tell fibs.--Something is the matter,--tell me what it is.--
Is it that I am too early?'

'Nothing of the sort,--you couldn't be too early.'

'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.'

'You are much better to me than I deserve.'

'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?'

'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.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, for one thing it's been murdering Lessingham's cat.'

'Mr Lessingham's cat?'

'Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.'

'Mr Atherton!--I wish you wouldn't talk like that.'

'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.'

'I wish you wouldn't have anything to do with such things--I hate
them.'

I stared.

'Hate them?--I thought you'd come to see an illustration.'

'And pray what was your notion of an illustration?'

'Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.'

'And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was
being killed for my--edification?'

'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?'

'Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something
killed?'

'Then for what did you come?'

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.

'Because I was a fool.'

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.

'You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.'

'I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully
rapid.'

I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her.
Immediately she was at my elbow.

'Mr Atherton?'

'Miss Grayling.'

'Are you cross with me?'

'Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you
are completely justified.'

'But you are not stupid.'

'No?--Nor you satirical.'

'You are not stupid,--you know you are not stupid; it was only
stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.'

'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.'

'Why do you keep on snubbing me?'

'I keep on snubbing you!'

'You are always snubbing me,--you know you are. Some times I feel
as if I hated you.'

'Miss Grayling!'

'I do! I do! I do!'

'After all, it is only natural.'

'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.'

She flounced--'flounce' was the only appropriate word!--out of the
room before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage.

'Miss Grayling, I entreat you--'

'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?'

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XX

A HEAVY FATHER


Mr Lindon 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.

'Atherton, I want to speak to you--most particularly--somewhere in
private.'

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.

'Atherton, I--I've always looked on you as a--a kind of a son.'

'That's very kind of you.'

'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.'

'That also is very kind of you.'

'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.'

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.

'What do you know of this man Lessingham?'

I knew it was coming.

'What all the world knows.'

'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?'

'I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.'

'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?'

'Well,--not very much.'

'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.'

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.

'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!'

'No!'

'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.'

The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.

'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?'

'She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.'

'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!'

'And did you--'

I was on the point of asking him if he went,--but I checked myself
in time.

'Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know
against Lessingham, apart from his politics?'

'That's just it,--I know nothing.'

'In a sense, isn't that in his favour?'

'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.'

'Hasn't he been a great traveller?'

'I never heard of it.'

'Not in the East?'

'Has he told you so?'

'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!'

'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.'

When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn
away.

'I am afraid that is out of the question.'

He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance.

'Why?'

I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,--and,
probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too.

'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.'

'I don't see why.'

'Perhaps not.'

'You--you're a pretty lot, upon my word!'

'I'm afraid we are.'

'I--I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.'

'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.'

'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.'

While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration
on his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him.

'What is it?'

'Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.'

At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,--it
delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer.

'T-the very thing!--c-couldn't have been belter!--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.'

The proposition staggered me.

'But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot--'

He cut me short.

'Here she comes!'

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.




CHAPTER XXI

THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT


'Sydney!' she cried, 'I'm so glad that I can see you!'

She might be,--but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I
was a sharer of her joy.

'I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and
--I'm in trouble now. Such strange trouble.'

So was I,--and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,--I
would outwit her eavesdropping father.

'Come with me into the house,--tell me all about it there.'

She refused to budge.

'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.'

'But--'

'"But me no buts!" Sydney, don't torture me,--let me stop here
where I am,--don't you see I'm haunted?'

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.

'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!'

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.

'What's this?'

'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.'

She drained the glass.

'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.'

'Exactly. Mr Lindon---'

'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.'

'Thank you, I presume that is the reason, though it had not
occurred to me before.'

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.

She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent.

'Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday
morning,--about the adventure of my finding the man?'

'Not a word.'

'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?'

'We'll hope not, for humanity's sake.'

'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?'

'Thank you.'

'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.'

'Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?'

She looked at me, quizzically.

'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.'

I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon.

'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!"'

When she said that, I was startled.

'Are you sure those were the words he used?'

'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.'

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.

'What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?'

I had my doubts as to the gentleman's identity,--which her words
dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another
direction.

'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.'

'You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the
whiskers are real?'

She opened her eyes.

'Of course they're real. Why shouldn't they be real?'

'Does he strike you as being a--foreigner?'

'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.'

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.

'My dear Marjorie!--you who pride yourself on having your
imagination so strictly under control!--on suffering it to take no
errant flights!'

'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.'

'Remember,--you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with
your father. Your patient's words came as a climax.'

'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.'

'Precisely.'

'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.'

'Nonsense!'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Something of what kind?'

'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.'

'Marjorie!'

'It got into the bed.'

'You imagined it.'

'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.'

'Where?'

She raised the forefinger of her left hand.

'There!--Can't you hear it droning?'

She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that
instant the droning of an insect did become audible.

'It's only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open
window.'

'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?'

'Marjorie!'

'Pray, Sydney, pray!--I can't!--I don't know why, but I can't!

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.

'Pray, Sydney, pray!'

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.

'For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and
ever. Amen.'

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.

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,

'Is--is she m-mad?'

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.

'Papa!'

Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering.

'W-w-what the d-devil's the--the m-m-meaning of this?'

Her utterance was clear enough,--I fancy her parent found it
almost painfully clear.

'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?'

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.

Do-don't you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl!
I--I'm your father!'

'You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that
my father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.'

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.

'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?'

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.

'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.'

'But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any
particular reason why I should have gone.'

'You never gave me a chance.'

'Sydney!--I had not thought you would have played me such a
trick!'

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!

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.

'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.'

Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than splutter,--
certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this sharp-tongued
maiden.

'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?'

'To what do you allude?'

'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.'

'No; Sydney, don't be afraid.'

I saw that her eyes were dancing,--in a manner of speaking, her
looks brightened under the sunshine of her father's displeasure.

'Let's hear what you think of her as a--as a m-man of the world!'

'Pray, Sydney, do!'

'What you feel for her in your--your heart of hearts!'

'Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?'

The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,--she was making a
mock of me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her.

'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.'

'Papa!--Do you really think that Sydney's opinion, or your
opinion, is likely to alter facts?'

'Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!'

'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.'

'Exactly,--and all the world knows him to be a miserable
adventurer who is scheming to entrap my daughter.'

'I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears
to me to be unnecessarily strong.'

'Atherton, I--I'm ashamed of you!'

'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.'

With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she
straightway left the room. Lindon would have stopped her.

'S-stay, y-y-y-you--' he stuttered.

But I caught him by the arm.

'If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good
purpose will be served by a multiplication of words.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'No,--I don't think she's mad.'

'I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her.
What's the matter with the girl?'

'Well,--you must excuse my saying that I don't fancy you quite
understand women.'

'I--I don't,--and I--I--I don't want to either.'

I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,--in Marjorie's
interest.

'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.'

'I--good heavens, no! I--I'll send for the doctor directly I get
home,--I--I'll have the best opinion in town.'

'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.'

'What do you mean?'

'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.'

'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--'

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.

'Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.'

Lindon put his hand behind his back,--and behaved as stupidly as
he very well could have done.

'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.'

With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the
steps like an inflated turkeycock.




CHAPTER XXII

THE HAUNTED MAN


To 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,

'Interrupting you again, you see.--May I?'

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.

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.

'Do you always receive visitors in here?'

'By no means.'

'What is this?'

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.

'Is it yours?'

'No. It is not mine.'

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.

Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and
spoke.

'Atherton, what is the matter with you?--Have I done something to
offend you too?'

'Why do you ask?'

'Your manner seems a little singular.'

'You think so?'

'I do.'

'What have you come to see me about?'

'Just now, nothing.--I like to know where I stand.'

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.

'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.'

'As--how?'

'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--'

'As a brother?'

'As a brother.'

'Yes.'

'Mr Lindon regains 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.'

'What do you want to know?'

'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.'

'I think so too.'

'But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some
reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.'

'Why should she not?'

'Will you answer a question?'

'What is the question?'

'What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous
terror?'

There was a perceptible pause before he answered.

'Explain yourself.'

'No explanation is needed,--you know perfectly well what I mean.'

'You credit me with miraculous acumen.'

'Don't juggle, Lessingham,--be frank!'

'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.'

'Do you resent it?'

'That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to
place yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it,
strongly.'

'Answer my question!'

'I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.'

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.

'In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr
Lindon.'

'Well?'

'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.'

'Is that so?--Will your past bear the fullest investigation?'

I winced.

'At any rate, it is known to all the world.'

'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.'

I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew
what to say.

'But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man
being haunted one draws the line.'

'Haunted?'

'As you are.'

He got up.

'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?'

'I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that
I am in no mood to be trifled with.'

'Is it some kind of an exhauster?'

'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.'

'Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,--from
conquest unto conquest'

'Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than
with us.'

'In what respect?'

'For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;--I
saw it take place last night.'

'Where?'

'Here,--within a few feet of where you are standing.'

'Are you serious?'

'Perfectly.'

'What did you see?'

'I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last
night, before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the
legends never hinted.'

'That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind
myself.'

'So I understand.'

'From whom?'

'From a friend of yours.'

'From a friend of mine?--Are you sure it was from a friend of
mine?'

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.

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.

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.

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 swallowing 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.

Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he
said,

'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.'

I drew back from him,--I daresay, sullenly.

'Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to
have seen yours,--at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.'

'How easily you quarrel.'

'I do not quarrel.'

'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.'

'I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case
in which words only will not serve.'

'Then what will serve?'

'I am myself beginning to wonder.'

'And I.'

'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.'

'Atherton!'

'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.'

He grew visibly paler but he smiled--facially.

'You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.
--What are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?'

'Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of
your house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?'

'Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the
public ear?'

'Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?'

'Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.'

'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.

'Pardon me,--I did nothing of the kind.'

'Then what do you suggest?'

'I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come
from you.'

'You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter
quiet. There is an appearance of suggestion about that.'

'You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton.
Nothing, to me, could seem more natural.--However,--proceed.'

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.

'Who is your Oriental friend?'

'I do not follow you.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am certain. Repeat your question.'

'Who is your Oriental friend?'

'I was not aware that I had one.'

'Do you swear that?'

He laughed, a strange laugh.

'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.'

'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?'

'I am not.'

'That you swear?'

'That I do swear.'

'That is singular.'

'Why is it singular?'

'Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.'

'Haunts me?'

'Haunts you.'

'You jest.'

'You think so?--You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which,
yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.'

'You use strong language.--I know what you allude to.'

'Do you mean to say that you don't know that you were indebted for
that to your Oriental friend?'

'I don't understand you.'

'Are you sure?'

'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?'

'It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.'

The words were chance ones,--but they struck a mark.

'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?'

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.

'Who is this--individual whom you speak of as my--Oriental
friend?'

'Being your friend, you should know better than I do.'

'What sort of man is he to look at?'

'I did not say it was a man.'

'But I presume it is a man.'

'I did not say so.'

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.

'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.'

'But you're haunted.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I--I'm the victim of a delusion.'

'What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of a--
beetle?'

'Atherton!'

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.

'In Heaven's name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you
stark, staring mad? Here,--drink this!'

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.

'It's--it's a delusion.'

'It's a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.'

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.

'Atherton, you--you take me at an advantage.' I was still. 'Who--
who's your Oriental friend?'

'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.'

'A woman?--Oh.--How do you mean?'

'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.'

'That sounds very odd.' He closed his eyes. I could see that his
cheeks were clammy. 'Do you--do you believe in witchcraft?'

'That depends.'

'Have you heard of Obi?'

'I have.'

'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?'

'It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer
either yes or no.'

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.

'I remember reading a book entitled "Obscure Diseases of the
Brain." It contained some interesting data on the subject of
hallucinations.'

'Possibly.'

'Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the
hands of a mental pathologist?'

'I don't think that you're insane, if that's what you mean.'

'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.'

He moved towards his hat and umbrella.

'There is something else which you must do.'

'What is that?'

'You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand.

'My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall
resign everything,--everything!'

He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which
was pathetic.

'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.'

His back was towards me.

'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.'

'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.'

He turned.

'Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie
Lindon?'

'She regards me as a brother.'

'And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards
her purely fraternal?'

'You know that I love her.'

'And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?'

'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.'

'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.'

He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued.

'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 Linden'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.'

'You promise me?'

'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.'

He turned, is if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an
attitude of listening.

'What's that?'

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.

'Lessingham!--don't be a fool!--play the man!'

He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it
were being compressed in a vice.

'Then--I shall have to have some more brandy.'

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.

'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 tete-a-tete with the devil.'

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.

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.

'If this was intended for St Paul, it's a trifle late;--unless--'

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.

'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.'

I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,--and I lunched
with Dora Grayling.




BOOK III

The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day


Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale




CHAPTER XXIII

THE WAY HE TOLD HER


I am 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 Times.
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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter'

'What matter?'

'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.'

'I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person,
and papa the father as quite another.'

'You are his daughter.'

'Certainly I am;--but would you, on that account, wish me to share
his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?'

'You love him.'

'Of course I do,--he is the best of fathers.'

'Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.'

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.

'I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has
no politics.'

'Miss Lindon!--I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.'

'I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler,
within three weeks his wife's politics would be his own.'

Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled.

'I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please
their wives,--even their political ones.'

'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 synonymus with logic.'

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.

'And you,--do you think marriage would colour your convictions?'

'Would it yours?'

'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.'

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.

'Well?'

'I found my voice,--or a part of it.

'Well?--to what?'

He came a little closer.

'Will you be my wife?'

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.

'You know that I love you.'

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.

'Have I offended you?'

'No.'

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.

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.

It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started.
Turning, he stared up at Big Ben.

'Midnight!--The House up!--Impossible!'

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.

'Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not
so important as my business out of it.'

He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face.

'So you call this business!'

He laughed.

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.

I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion,
he consented to excuse me.




CHAPTER XXIV

A WOMAN'S VIEW


Sydney Atherton has asked me to be his wife. It is not only
annoying; worse, it is absurd.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXV

THE MAN IN THE STREET


This morning I had an adventure.

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.

The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him.

'Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.'

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 petitions of meaning in
the largest possible words.

'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.'

'Drunk?--dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?--at this hour!'

'He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual
myself. I derived my information from a bystander.'

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.

I made my way to the point of interest.

'What's the matter?' I asked.

A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me.

'There's something wrong with someone. Policeman says he's drunk,
but he looks to me as if he was something worse.'

'Will you let me pass, please?'

When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre
of the crowd.

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.

He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child.

'Come, my lad, this won't do!--Wake up!--What's the matter?'

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.

'There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance
ought to be had at once.'

'Do you think he's in a fit, miss?'

'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--'

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,

'Paul Lessingham!'

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.

The officer shook him,--scarcely gently.

'Now, my lad, it's plain that you're not dead!--What's the meaning
of this?--Move yourself!'

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.

'Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!'

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.

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.

'Be warned, Paul Lessingham--be warned!'

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.

'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?'

There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in
the hall.

'Is papa down yet?'

'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.'

'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?'

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.

The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger.

'Wants washing,' he remarked, directly he saw him.

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.

'Is he dead?'

'He will be soon, if he doesn't have something to eat. The
fellow's starving.'

The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him

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.

'What is the matter with the man?' I inquired of the doctor, when
the constable had gone.

'Don't know.--It may be catalepsy, and it mayn't.--When I do know,
you may ask again.'

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXVI

A FATHER'S NO


Paul 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.

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 tonight,--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.

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.

But, to-night, issue was joined.

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.

Then the battle began.

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.

'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--'

Here followed language.

I was silent.

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.

'Do you hear me?--do you hear what I say?--do you hear me, miss?'

'Yes, papa; I hear you.'

'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!'

'My dear papa!--do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life
in the drawing-room?'

'Don't you be impertinent!--do-do-don't you speak to me like
that!--I--I--I won't have it!'

'I tell you what it is, papa, if you don't take care you'll have
another attack of gout.'

'Damn gout.'

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.

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

'You--you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to--to that--that--that--!'

'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.'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE TERROR BY NIGHT


When 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.

The nurse received me at the door.

'Well, nurse, how's the patient?'

Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one
odd protege of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck
and call. She held out her hands.

'It's hard to tell. He hasn't moved since I came.'

'Not moved?--Is he still insensible?'

'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.'

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.

'Why,' she exclaimed, 'he's moving!--he might have heard you
enter!'

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,

'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!'

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.

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.

'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.'

Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face;
an appearance which startled her.

'Why, Miss Marjorie, what's the matter!--You look quite ill!'

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.

'I--I--I'm not feeling very well, nurse; I--I--I think I'll be
better in bed.'

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.

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.

'Mademoiselle is not well?'

'Thank you, Fanchette, I--I am rather tired. I will undress myself
to-night--you can go to bed.'

'But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist
her?'

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.

'Fanchette!--Is there something with us in the room?'

'Something with us in the room?--Mademoiselle?--What does
mademoiselle mean?'

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.

'Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?--you are
to go to bed.'

She went to bed,--with quite sufficient willingness.

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 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. '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.' 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. 'Paul! Paul!' I screamed. 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. 'Am I going mad?' I wondered. 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.

'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!'

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.

I stood and listened,--what was it that hovered so persistently at
my back?

The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a
bee. Or--could it be a beetle?

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.

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 kelp 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my
life I swooned.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET


I have 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.

Let me try to take them in something like their proper order.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter.

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.

'I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and
listen to what he has to say.'

'With pleasure.'

'Can I trust you?'

'To listen to what he has to say?--I believe so.'

'Can I trust you to respect my confidence?'

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.

'You can,--I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.'

'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.'

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.

'So!' he exclaimed. 'It's you!'

'Do you know this man?' I asked.

'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?'

The stranger seemed uneasy,--as if he found Sidney's tone and
manner disconcerting.

'I do. You are the man in the street.'

'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.'

'But I do mind,--I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for
you here for?'

Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,--as if the
occasion were not sufficiently serious.

'To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your
confidence.'

'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.'

'Is that so?--Well!-Permit me to offer you a chair,--this tale may
turn out to be a trifle long.'

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.

'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?'

'My name is Robert Holt.'

'That so?--Then, Mr Robert Holt,--let her go!'

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.

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.

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.

'This is not the first time you have been told this tale.'

'Pardon me,--but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of
fairy tales?'

Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me.

'Sydney!--Don't tell me a story!--Paul has told you!'

'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.'

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.

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,

'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.'

'I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know
it.'

This seemed to take Sydney aback.

'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.'

I saw that Mr Holt shuddered.

'I am not likely ever to forget him.'

'Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.'

'To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my
best.'

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.

'You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?'

'No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.'

There was a note in Sydney's voice which suggested that he had
received precisely the answer which he had expected.

'Did you think it was a woman?'

'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.'

'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.'

Mr Holt coloured,--Sydney's tone could scarcely have been more
significant.

'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.'

'All of which is granted, but--how far was it from Hammersmith
Workhouse?'

'Possibly under half a mile.'

'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.'

'I think I could remember.'

'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?'

'I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the
doctor's orders I have stayed in bed.'

'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.'

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.

'Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.'

He pretended not to know what I meant.

'Coming with me?--I am delighted to hear it,--but where?'

'To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.'

'Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but--might I point out?--
Mr Holt has to find it yet?'

'I will come to help you to help him find it.'

Sydney laughed,--but I could see he did not altogether relish the
suggestion.

'Three in a hansom?'

'There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,--or I could order a
carriage if you'd like one.'

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.

'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.'

'I daresay.--Do you think I don't know you've been deceiving me
all the time?'

'Deceiving you?--I!'

'Yes,--you! Do you think I'm quite an idiot?'

'My dear Marjorie!'

'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?'

'On my word!--With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.'

'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.'

'Very well.--Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in
the house?'

'Revolvers?--whatever for?'

'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.'

'You are trying to frighten me.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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!'

'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.'

'What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything
against--Paul?'

'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.'

'That it 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.'

I moved to the door. He stopped me.

'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.'

'What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,--why don't
you speak right out?'

'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?'

'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 over-weighted 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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Very well!--Your blood be on your own head!'

'My blood?'

'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.'

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 car.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE


Mr Holt 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.

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.

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.

'This is 'Ammersmith Workhouse, it's a large place, sir,--which
part of it might you be wanting?'

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.

'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.'

Sydney spoke to the cabman.

'Driver, where's the casual ward?'

'That's the other end, sir.'

'Then take us there.'

He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt.

'Shall I dismiss the cabman,--or don't you feel equal to walking?'

'Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,--I think the exercise
will do me good.'

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.

'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.

Presently he arrived at something like a decision.

'I think this is the way I went,--I am nearly sure it is.'

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 brick-
making,--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.

'This is the house!' he exclaimed.

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.

'This is the house!' repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life
than I had hitherto seen in him.

Sydney looked it up and down,--it apparently appealed to his
aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine.

'Are you sure?'

'I am certain.'

'It seems empty.'

'It seemed empty to me that night,--that is why I got into it in
search of shelter.'

'Which is the window which served you as a door?'

'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.'

Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion,
from roof to basement,--then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt.

'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.'

'I am sure it is the house,--certain! I know it,--I feel it here,
--and here.'

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.

'May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of
mind?'

The mere question ruffled my plumes.

'What do you mean?'

'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.'

'I am not likely to let them stray.'

'Then that's all right.--Do I understand that you propose to come
in with me?'

'Of course I do,--what do you suppose I've come for? What nonsense
you are talking.

'I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by
the time this little adventure's done.'

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.

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.

'Seems as if the place was empty.'

Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,--it made
me uncomfortable to look at him.

'You do not know,--you cannot tell; there may be someone there who
hears and pays no heed.'

'I'll give them another chance.'

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.

'I'll try another way,--I may have better fortune at the back.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'It was only the front room which I saw.'

'Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room
again.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

I immediately saw through his design.

'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.'

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.

'Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this
way, as there is someone wishes to see him.'

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.

'Hollo, Holt, what's the matter with you? Man, don't play the fool
like that!'

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.

'I'm all right.--It's nothing.'

'Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you'll drop it. Where's that
brandy?' I handed Sydney the flask. 'Here, swallow this.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

Of me he asked in a whisper,

'Did you bring a revolver?'

I was startled.

'A revolver?--The idea!--How absurd you are!'

Sydney said something which was so rude--and so uncalled for!--
that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments.

'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.'

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.

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.

'Anyone in there?' he demanded.

As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was
locked.

'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.'

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.

'Within there!--if anyone is in there!--if you don't open this
door, I shall.'

There was no response.

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.'

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.

'So!--It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours
may not have been such pure romance as it seemed.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'What's that?'

'It's it,' said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own
that it was scarcely recognisable.

'It?--What do you mean by it?'

'The Beetle!'

Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a
state of odd excitement.

'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.'

He rushed farther into the room,--apparently his efforts to
lighten it did not meet with the immediate success which he
desired.

'What's the matter with this confounded blind? There's no cord!
How do you pull it up?--What the--'

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.

'It's coming!' he screamed.

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.

'If you won't go up, you shall come down.'

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.

'Marjorie!' he exclaimed. 'Did you hear anything?'

'Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,--which so
frightened me.'

'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.'

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.

'I can't!' he cried.

'You can't.'--Why?'

'It won't let me.'

'What won't let you?'

'The Beetle!'

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.

'By George!--It's just as I thought!--The beggar's hypnotised!'

Then he said aloud,

'Can you see it now?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Behind you.'

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.

'I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an
unparalleled experience,--didn't you hear something then?'

'I did,--distinctly; it was close to me,--within an inch or two of
my face.'

We stared about us, then back at each other,--there was nothing
else to be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully.

'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?'

'He looks to me as if he were ill.'

'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!'

'Yes.'

'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.'

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.

'I can't.'

'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.'

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.

'I can't!' he wailed.

'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.'

Sydney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did
so, a strange alteration took place in Mr Holt's demeanour.




CHAPTER XXX

THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT


I was 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.

'I hear!' he exclaimed, in the most curious voice I had ever
heard. 'I come!'

It was as though he was speaking to someone who was far away.
Turning, he walked down the passage to the front door.

'Hollo!' cried Sydney. 'Where are you off to?'

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.

'What's the meaning of this little caper?--Where do you think
you're going now?'

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.

'I am going to him. He calls me.'

'Who calls you?'

'The Lord of the Beetle.'

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.

'Well!--this is a pretty fix!--now what's to be done?'

'What's the matter with him?' I inquired. 'Is he mad?'

'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 Ewigkeit,--when the clue to as
pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.'

'I can stay,' I said.

'You?--Alone?'

He eyed me doubtingly,--evidently not altogether relishing the
proposition.

'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.'

'Yes, it does seem a pity.' Sydney was biting his lip. 'Confound
that fellow! how fast he moves.'

Mr Holt was already nearing the end of the road.

'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.'

'I suppose I shall.--You won't mind being left alone?'

'Why should I?--I'm not a child.'

Mr Holt, reaching the corner, turned it, and vanished out of
sight. Sydney gave an exclamation of impatience.

'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.'

'That'll be all right.'

He started off at a run,--shouting to me as he went.

'It won't be five minutes before somebody comes!'

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.

And I was alone.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE TERROR BY DAY


My 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.

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.

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.

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--

When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was
conscious of a disagreeable sense of surprise.

It was covered with beetles!

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.

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.

'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.'

Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself.

'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!'

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.

'Come!' I cried. 'This won't do! As Sydney would phrase it,--am I
going to make an idiot of myself?'

I turned to the window,--looking at my watch.

'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.'

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.

Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed,
and, after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

'What can be the matter with me? Am I going mad? She can't be
moving!'

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.

The mystery was explained!

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.

I understood the position in a flash of startled amazement.

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.




BOOK IV

In Pursuit


The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of
the Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent.




CHAPTER XXXII

A NEW CLIENT


On 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.'

'Show Mr Lessingham in.'

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.

'You are Mr Champnell?'

'I am.'

'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.'

I bowed. He looked at me, fixedly, as if he were trying to make
out what sort of man I was. 'You are very young, Mr Champnell.'

'I have been told that an eminent offender in that respect once
asserted that youth is not of necessity a crime.'

'And you have chosen a singular profession,--one in which one
hardly looks for juvenility.'

'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.'

He smiled.

'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.'

Again I bowed.

'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.'

'You may rest assured of that.'

'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.'

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.

'I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told
in here.'

'Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by
singularity. It is my normal atmosphere.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE


He began in accents which halted not a little. By degrees his
voice grew firmer. Words came from him with greater fluency.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'I paused. I stood awhile to listen.

'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.'

Mr Lessingham stopped. A stream of recollection seemed to come
flooding over him. A dreamy look came into his eyes.

'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
chansonnette, 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.

'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 cafe,--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 patronne. With the
exception of these four the place was empty.

'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,

'"Entrez, monsieur!--Soye le bienvenu!"

'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.

'"On condition," I replied, "that you sing me another song."

'"Ah, monsieur, with the greatest pleasure in the world I will
sing you twenty."

'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.

'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.

'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.

'"Do not go," she said;--she spoke English of a sort, and with the
queerest accent. "All is well with you. Rest awhile."

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.

'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.

'"Where am I?" I exclaimed.

'"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."

'"How did I come here?"

'"By the loving kindness of the great mother."

'I do not, of course, pretend to give you the exact text of her
words, but they were to that effect.

'Half raising myself on the heap of rugs, I gazed about me,--and
was astounded at what I saw.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'"Let me get up!--let me go!" I gasped.

'"Nay," she murmured, "stay with me yet awhile, O my beloved."

'And again she kissed me.'

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.

When he did go on, his voice was harsh and strained.

'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.'

He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and, although the day
was cool, with it he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

'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.

'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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'Tighter and tighter my pressure grew,--I did not stay to think if
I was killing her--till on a sudden--'

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.

'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.

'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.'




CHAPTER XXXIV

AFTER TWENTY YEARS


'How 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.

'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.

'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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

I smiled,--the compliment was a pointed one.

'I hope your estimate of me is not too high.'

'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.'

His words aroused my curiosity. I was conscious of feeling more
interested than heretofore.

'I will do my best for you. Man can do no more. Only give my best
a trial.'

'I will. At once.'

He looked at me long and earnestly. Then, leaning forward, he
said, lowering his voice perhaps unconsciously,

'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.'

'Explain.'

To be frank, for the moment I thought him mad. He went on.

'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.'

'But why?'

'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.'

'What was this you found upon your study table,--merely a
drawing?'

'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.'

'Who put it there?'

'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.'

'Each time after you have returned from a late sitting in the
House of Commons?'

'Exactly.'

'Where are these--what shall I call them--delineations?'

'That, again, I cannot tell you.'

'What do you mean?'

'What I say. Each time, when I recovered, the thing had vanished.'

'Sheet of paper and all?'

'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.'

I began to suspect that this was a case rather for a doctor than
for a man of my profession. And hinted as much.

'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?'

'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.'

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.

'The night before last, on returning home, I found in my study a
stranger.'

'A stranger?'

'Yes.--In other words, a burglar.'

'A burglar?--I see.--Go on.'

He had paused. His demeanour was becoming odder and odder.

'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.'

'You could not?--How do you mean you could not?'

'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.'

'An unique costume for a burglar.'

'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.'

'What did he say and do?'

'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.'

'What were the words?'

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.

'Thank you.--It will pass away.'

His voice was dry and husky,--unlike his usual silvern tones.
After an uncomfortable interval he managed to continue.

'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.'

'I suppose, Mr Lessingham, that there is no doubt that this
mysterious stranger was not himself an optical delusion?'

'Scarcely. There is the evidence of my servants to prove the
contrary.'

'Did your servants see him?'

'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.'

'What use would he be likely to make of them?'

'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.'

'I see.--How did the thief escape,--did he, like the delineation,
vanish into air?'

'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.'

'Into whose arms,--a constable's?'

'No; into Mr Atherton's,--Sydney Atherton's.'

'The inventor?'

'The same.--Do you know him?'

'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?'

'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.'

'I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer
fish,--but that sounds very queer indeed.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'What reason have you for suspecting that Mr Atherton has seen
this individual of whom you speak,--has he told you so?'

'Practically,--yes.'

'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.'

'Then go to him at once.'

'Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.'

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.




CHAPTER XXXV

A BRINGER OF TIDINGS


Atherton 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.

'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.'

I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr Lessingham's presence,--
but without success.

'My dear fellow--'

When I had got as far as that he cut me short.

'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?'

'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.'

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.

'Oh!--It's you, is it?--What the deuce are you doing here?'

Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query,
Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm.

'Have you seen her?'

Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other's curious
conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement.

'Have I seen whom?'

'Marjorie Lindon!'

'Marjorie Lindon?'

Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the
inquiry meant.

'I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?'

'Then Heaven help us!--As I'm a living man I believe he, she, or
it has got her!'

His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of
explanation,--as Mr Lessingham plainly thought.

'What is it that you mean, sir?'

'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.'

'Atherton!--Explain yourself!'

On a sudden Lessingham's tones rang out like a trumpet call.

'If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat,--and
yours!'

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.

'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!'

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.

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.

'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!'

Mr Lessingham did not give him his hand. Atherton took it,--and
gave it a hearty shake with both of his.

If the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, Lessingham was
still sufficiently stern.

'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.'

'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.'




CHAPTER XXXVI

WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE


Three 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.

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.

He commenced by addressing Lessingham,--and thrusting his elbow
into my eye.

'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!'

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.

'She did not.'

'You know the fellow I saw coming out of your drawing-room
window?'

'Yes.'

'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.'

'Who is the----gentleman you are alluding to?'

'Says his name's Holt, Robert Holt.'

'Holt?--Is he an Englishman?'

'Very much so,--City quill-driver 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!'

'Are you sure?'

'Of what?'

'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?'

'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.'

'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?'

'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--'

'What party down Fulham way?'

'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--'

'Alone?'

'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.'

'But, I don't quite follow--'

Atherton impetuously declined to allow Mr Lessingham to conclude.

'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.'

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.

'It's mine!'

Sydney dodged it out of his reach.

'What do you mean, it's yours?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

Atherton went on.

'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 hay-stacks 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!'




CHAPTER XXXVII

WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR


The 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.

Atherton leaped out on to the grass-grown rubble which was meant
for a footpath.

'I don't see Marjorie looking for me on the doorstep.'

Nor did I,--I saw nothing but what appeared to be an unoccupied
ramshackle brick abomination. Suddenly Sydney gave an exclamation.

'Hullo!--The front door's closed!'

I was hard at his heels.

'What do you mean?'

'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.'

He knocked. While we waited for a response I questioned him.

'Why did you leave the door open when you went?'

'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.'

'I suppose there is no doubt that you did leave it open?'

'Absolutely none,--on that I'll stake my life.'

'Was it open when you returned from your pursuit of Holt?'

'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.'

'Were there any signs of a struggle?'

'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.'

'If Miss Lindon has returned, it does not look as if she were in
the house at present.'

It did not,--unless silence had such meaning. Atherton had knocked
loudly three times without succeeding in attracting the slightest
notice from within.

'It strikes me that this is another case of seeking admission
through that hospitable window at the back.'

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.

'I don't know,--I dare say we did; I don't fancy that either of us
stood on the order of his coming.'

While he spoke, he scrambled over the sill. We followed. When he
was in, he shouted at the top of his voice,

'Marjorie! Marjorie! Speak to me, Marjorie,--it is I,--Sydney!'

The words echoed through the house. Only silence answered. He led
the way to the front room. Suddenly he stopped.

'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.'

He had only taken a step forward into the room when he again
stopped short to exclaim.

'My stars!--here's a sudden clearance!--Why, the place is empty,--
everything's clean gone!'

'What do you mean?--was it furnished when you left?'

The room was empty enough then.

'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.'

Atherton was staring about him as if he found it difficult to
credit the evidence of his own eyes.

'How long ago is it since you left?'

He referred to his watch.

'Something over an hour,--possibly an hour and a half; I couldn't
swear to the exact moment, but it certainly isn't more.'

'Did you notice any signs of packing up?'

'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.'

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.

'What's the matter with you?'

'Excuse me, sir, but who's the old gent?'

'What old gent?'

'Why the old gent peeping through the window of the room
upstairs?'

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.

'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!'

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.

'Are you sure, Atherton, that there is no one at the back?'

'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?'

'That window, sir.'

'Go to!--you're dreaming, man!--there's no one here.'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but there was someone there not a
minute ago.'

'Imagination, cabman,--the slant of the light on the glass,--or
your eyesight's defective.'

'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?'

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.

I returned to Sydney's shoulder to tell the cabman so.

'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.'

The man waxed wroth.

'Don't tell me! How could I come to think I saw something when I
didn't?'

'One's eyes are apt to play us tricks;--how could you see what
wasn't there?'

'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!'

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'?

Atherton put a question.

'What did he look like,--this old gent of yours?'

'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.'

'What sort of a thing?'

'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!'

This piece of information seemed to interest my companions more
than anything he had said before.

'A burnoose do you mean?'

'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.'

Mr Lessingham turned to me, all quivering with excitement.

'I believe that what he says is true!'

'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.'

'Some devil's trick has been played,--I know it, I feel it!--my
instinct tells me so!'

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,

'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!'

He moved towards the door. As he went he slipped, or seemed to,
all but stumbling on to his knees.

'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?'

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.

There was something there.

'Why,' cried Atherton 'it's a woman's clothing!'




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE REST OF THE FIND


It 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.

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.

'My God!' cried Sydney, 'it's Marjorie's!--she was wearing it when
I saw her last!'

'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!'

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.

'What has happened to her?'

I replied to his question with another.

'Are you sure this is Miss Linden's dress?'

'I am sure,--and were proof needed, here it is.'

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.

'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.'

Atherton, who had been turning over the accumulation of rubbish
between the joists, proclaimed another find.

'Here are her rings, and watch, and a bracelet,--no, it certainly
does not look as if theft had been an object.'

Lessingham was glowering at him with knitted brows.

'I have to thank you for this.'

Sydney was unwontedly meek.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

They were so occupied with each other that they took no notice of
me. I had to call their attention to my discovery.

'Gentlemen, I fear that I have here something which will distress
you,--is not this Miss Lindon's hair?'

They recognised it on the instant. Lessingham, snatching it from
my hands, pressed it to his lips.

'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.'

Atherton chimed in.

'To that I say, Amen!' He lifted his hand. 'God is my witness!'

'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.'

Lessingham caught me by the sleeve.

'Mr Champnell, tell me your theory.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'I will come with you,' said Mr Lessingham.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Taking a revolver out of his trousers' pocket he handed it up to
the grinning driver.

'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.'

'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.'

Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell,--nor
whether Atherton meant what he said in answer.

'If you shoot him I'll give you fifty pounds.'

'All right!' The driver laughed. 'I'll do my best to earn that
fifty!'




CHAPTER XXXIX

MISS LOUISA COLEMAN


That 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.

Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein.

'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.'

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.

'Now, young man, you needn't be in such a hurry!'

Sydney explained.

'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.'

She turned her attention to Sydney,--speaking with a frankness for
which, I imagine, he was unprepared.

'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.'

She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between
mirth and indignation.

'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?'

Up went the window; out came the old lady's head.

'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.'

The fiat delivered, down came the window. Sydney looked rueful,--
he consulted his watch.

'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.'

I was of a different opinion,--and said so.

'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.'

'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.'

Presently, when about a minute had gone, he called to the cabman.

'Seen a sign of anything?'

The cabman shouted back.

'Ne'er a sign,--you'll hear a sound of popguns when I do.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

On hearing this Sydney's humility was abject. His hat was in his
hand,--he bent himself double.

'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.'

'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.'

The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney.

'The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for
us over the way.'

He shrugged his shoulders, and groaned,--half in jest, half in
earnest.

'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!'

He sauntered across the road, viciously kicking the stones as he
went. The door reopened.

'Has that other young man gone?'

'He has.'

'Then now I'll let you in. Have him inside my house I won't.'

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.

'Sit down, do,--I can't abide to see folks standing; it gives me
the fidgets.'

So soon as we were seated, without any overture on our parts she
plunged in medias res.

'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.'

I inclined my head.

'Indeed. Is that so, madam?'

She was huffed at once.

'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.'

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.

She started with a sort of roundabout preamble.

'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.'

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.

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.

'The undersigned would be oblidged if Miss Coleman would let her
emptey 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.'

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.

'This is a curious letter, Miss Coleman.'

'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.'

I had had sufficient evidence of the truth of this altogether
apart from the landlady's frank admission.

'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.'

Miss Coleman paused to smooth her apron, and consider.

'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
it 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.

'"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.

'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."

'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.

'"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.

'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.

'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."

'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.

'"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!"

'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.

'"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!"

'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."

'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.

'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.




CHAPTER XL

WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW


As 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.

'I take it, Miss Coleman, that you have observed what has occurred
in the house to-day.'

She tightened her nut-cracker jaws and glared at me disdainfully,
--her dignity was ruffled.

'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.'

I was meekly silent;--plainly, if she was to talk, every one else
must listen.

'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--'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'Now I'm coming to this afternoon.'

I thought it was about time,--though for the life of me, I did not
dare to hint as much.

'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.'

At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a
question.

'You are sure he was indoors?'

She took it better than I feared she might.

'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?'

For the moment, so far as I was concerned, the query was
unanswerable. She triumphantly continued:

'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.

'"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."

'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."

'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.

'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.'

'You never saw anything of her again?--Are you sure she went back
into the house?'

'As sure as I am that I see you.'

'I suppose that you didn't keep a constant watch upon the
premises?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Who was that?'

'A young man.'

'A young man?'

'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.'

'Can you describe him?'

'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.'

'What was there peculiar about his clothes and his walk?'

'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.'

'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?'

Miss Coleman cogitated.

'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.'

'And then what followed?'

'Why, in about another ten minutes that Arab party himself comes
scooting through the door.'

'The Arab party?'

'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.'

'A bundle?'

'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.'

Mr Lessingham leaped up from his seat, crying, 'Marjorie was in
that bundle!'

'I doubt it,' I said.

He moved about the room distractedly, wringing his hands.

'She was! she must have been! God help us all!'

'I repeat that I doubt it. If you will be advised by me you will
wait awhile before you arrive at any such conclusion.'

All at once there was a tapping at the window pane. Atherton was
staring at us from without.

He shouted through the glass, 'Come out of that, you fossils!--
I've news for you!'




CHAPTER XLI

THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB


Miss Coleman, getting up in a fluster, went hurrying to the door.

'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.'

I endeavoured to appease her perturbation.

'I promise you that he shall not come in, Miss Coleman. My friend
here, and I, will go and speak to him outside.'

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

'I don't know that I've got anything to say.

It was plain that Sydney thought otherwise.

'You wait till I've given this pretty pair of gossips a lead,
officer, then I'll trot you out.' He turned to us.

'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.'

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.

Still, even allowing for Atherton's exaggeration, the news which
he had brought was sufficiently important. I questioned the
constable upon my own account.

'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?'

'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.'

'You didn't wait to see him drive off.'

'No,--I hadn't time. I was due at the station,--I was cutting it
pretty fine as it was.'

'You didn't speak to him,--or to the cabman?'

'No, it wasn't any business of mine you understand. The whole
thing just caught my eye as I was passing.'

'And you didn't take the cabman's number?'

'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.'

I whipped out my note-book.

'Give me his address.'

'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.'

'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.'

We had clambered back into the hansom, the driver was just about
to start, when the constable was struck by a sudden thought.

'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.'

'Waterloo Railway Station,--you are sure that was what he said?'

'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."' 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.

As the hansom bowled along we three had what occasionally
approached a warm discussion.

'Marjorie was in that bundle,' began Lessingham, in the most
lugubrious of tones, and with the most woe-begone of faces.

'I doubt it,' I observed.

'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.'

'I repeat that I doubt it.'

Atherton struck in.

'I am bound to say, with the best will in the world to think
otherwise, that I agree with Lessingham.'

'You are wrong.'

'It's all very well for you to talk in that cock-sure 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 insistance 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?'

'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.'

'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?'

Mr Lessingham covered his face with his hands, and groaned.

'I fear that Mr Atherton is right.'

'I differ from you both.'

Sydney at once became heated.

'Then perhaps you can tell us what was in the bundle?'

'I fancy I could make a guess at the contents.'

'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.'

'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.'

Sydney was silent, as if he reflected. I imagine he perceived
there was something in what I said.

'But what has become of Miss Lindon?'

'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.'

They stared at me, opened-eyed. Atherton was the first to speak.

'What on earth do you mean?'

'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 London 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.'

Lessingham and Atherton both broke out into interrogations, with
Sydney, as usual, loudest.

'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.'

'She was in a state of trance.'

'Good God!--Champnell!'

'Well?'

'Then you think that--juggling villain did get hold of her?'

'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.'

'But--where? We looked upstairs, and downstairs, and everywhere--
where could he have been?'

'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--'

'The deuce he did, Champnell! You write me down an ass!'

'As soon as the coast was clear he discovered himself to Miss
Lindon, who, I expect, was disagreeably surprised, and hypnotised
her.'

'The hound!'

'The devil!'

The first exclamation was Lessingham's, the second Sydney's.

'He then constrained her to strip herself to the skin--'

'The wretch!'

'The fiend!'

'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--'

'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!'

'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.--'

'That's it. Write me down an ass again!'

'That he did elude you, you have yourself admitted.'

'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.'

'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.'

'In men's clothing?'

'Both in men's clothing, or, rather, Miss Lindon is in a man's
rags.'

'Great Potiphar! To think of Marjorie like that!'

'And where they are, the Arab is not very far off either.'

Lessingham caught me by the arm.

'And what diabolical mischief do you imagine that he proposes to
do to her?'

I shirked the question.

'Whatever it is, it is our business to prevent his doing it.'

'And where do you think they have been taken?'

'That it will be our immediate business to endeavour to discover,
--and here, at any rate, we are at Waterloo.'




CHAPTER XLII

THE QUARRY DOUBLES


I turned 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.

'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.'

He turned and accompanied us into the interior of the booking-
case.

'To which of the clerks, Mr Champnell, do you wish to put your
questions?'

'To the one who issues third-class tickets to Southampton.'

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.

'Mr Stone, this gentleman wishes to ask you one or two questions.'

'I am at his service.'

I put my questions.

'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?'

His reply was prompt.

'I have--by the last train, the 7.25,--three singles.'

Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly.

'Can you describe the person?'

Mr Stone's eyes twinkled.

'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 it's presence didn't make him popular with other people
who wanted tickets too.'

Undoubtedly this was our man.

'You are sure he asked for three tickets?'

'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.'

'You didn't see who were his companions?'

'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.'

Bellingham touched me on the arm.

'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.'

'Was he alone then?'

'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.'

'Could you describe the two men?'

'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.'

'That,' I said to myself, 'was Miss Marjorie Lindon, the lovely
daughter of a famous house; the wife-elect of a coming statesman.'

To Bellingham I remarked aloud:

'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?'

'He's gone. At present I'm in charge.'

'Then will you do this for me? I repeat that you shall never have
any reason to regret it.'

'I will if you'll accept all responsibility.'

'I'll do that with the greatest pleasure.'

Bellingham looked at his watch.

'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.'

'Good!'

The wire was sent.

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
precis of the case as I deemed advisable, and as time permitted,
which I despatched by one of the company's police to Scotland
Yard.

Then I turned to my associates.

'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.'

Lessingham shook his head.

'I want nothing.'

'Nor I,' echoed Sydney.

I started up.

'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.'

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.

I was just about to take cheese after chop when Bellingham came
hastening in, in his hand an open telegram.

'The birds have flown,' he cried.

'Flown!--How?'

In reply he gave me the telegram. I glanced at it. It ran:

'Persons described not in the train. Guard says they got out at
Vauxhall. Have wired Vauxhall to advise you.'

'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.'

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.

'This Arab of yours, and his two friends, seem rather a curious
lot, Mr Champnell.'

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.

'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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

In another minute we were once more traversing the streets of
London,--three in a hansom cab.




CHAPTER XLIII

THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S


It 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.

Then Lessingham, who was sitting at my side, said to me,

'Mr Champnell, you have that report.'

'I have.'

'Will you let me see it once more?'

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.

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.

'Mr Champnell,--who do you think this person is of whom the report
from Vauxhall Station speaks as being all in rags and tatters?'

He knew perfectly well,--but I understood the mental attitude
which induced him to prefer that the information should seem to
come from me.

'I hope that it will prove to be Miss Lindon.'

'Hope!' He gave a sort of gasp.

'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.'

'Pray God that it may be so! pray God!--pray the good God!'

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.

After a while Lessingham spoke again, as if half to himself and
half to me.

'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!'

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'?

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.

'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?'

'Due!--Yes, I was due,--but what does it matter?'

'But have you acquainted no one with the cause of your non-
attendance?'

'Acquaint!--whom should I acquaint?'

'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.'

He turned on me with a bitterness for which I was unprepared.

'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.'

'Do you not run an equally great risk of being ruined by staying
away?'

He gripped me by the arm.

'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!'

He did not speak loudly, but his voice was none the less
impressive on that account. I endeavoured my hardest to be stern.

'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.'

'Yes,--but how? as the Marjorie I have known, as I saw her last,--
or how?'

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.

'Let us hope that, with the exception of being a trifle scared,
she will be as sound and hale and hearty as even in her life.'

'Do you yourself believe that she'll be like that,--untouched,
unchanged, unstained?'

Then I lied right out,--it seemed to me necessary to calm his
growing excitement.

'I do.'

'You don't!'

'Mr Lessingham!'

'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?'

'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?'

'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.'

I was silent.

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:

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.

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 bow 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.

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.

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 Haifa 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

One is not always, even in strictly professional matters,
influenced by strictly professional instincts.

The cab slowed. A voice descended through the trap door.

'This is Commercial Road, sir,--what part of it do you want?'

'Drive me to Limehouse Police Station.'

We were driven there. I made my way to the usual inspector behind
the usual pigeon-hole.

'My name is Champnell. Have you received any communication from
Scotland Yard to-night having reference to a matter in which I am
interested?'

'Do you mean about the Arab? We received a telephonic message
about half an hour ago.'

'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?'

I handed the Inspector the 'report.' His reply was laconic.

'I will inquire.'

He passed through a door into an inner room and the 'report' went
with him.

'Beg pardon, sir, but was that a Harab you was a-talking about to
the Hinspector?'

The speaker was a gentleman unmistakably of the gutter-snipe
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.

'Why do you ask?'

'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.'

'What sort of a looking person was he?'

'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!'

'You are sure he had a bundle on his head?'

'I noticed it most particular.'

'How long ago do you say this was? and where?'

'About a hour ago,--perhaps more, perhaps less.'

'Was he alone?'

'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 everything the pleesman do.'

I turned to the 'pleesman.'

'Who is this man?'

The 'pleesman' put his hands behind his back, and threw out his
chest. His manner was distinctly affable.

'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.'

This frank expression of opinion re-aroused the indignation of the
gentleman on the form.

'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.'

At this point the Inspector re-appeared at the pigeon-hole. He cut
short the flow of eloquence.

'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.'

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:

'There's been murder done, Mr Pleesman,--a Harab's killed a
bloke.'

'Mr Pleesman' gripped him by the shoulder.

'What's that?'

The youngster put up his arm, and ducked his head, instinctively,
as if to ward off a blow.

'Leave me alone! I don't want none of your 'andling!--I ain't done
nuffink to you! I tell you 'e 'as!'

The Inspector spoke through the pigeon-hole.

'He has what, my lad? What do you say has happened?'

'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!'




CHAPTER XLIV

THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED


The Inspector spoke to me.

'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.'

I was of the same opinion, as, apparently, were Lessingham and
Sidney. Atherton collared the youth by the shoulder which Mr
Pleesman had left disengaged.

'What sort of looking bloke is it who's been murdered?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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?'

Mr Phillips dismissed her inquiry, curtly.

'Never you mind who they are. What's this about someone being
murdered.'

'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.'

'We quite believe that, Mrs Henderson.'

The Inspector's tone was grim.

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.

Our guide paused outside a door on the topmost landing. From some
mysterious recess in her apparel she produced a key.

'It's in 'ere. I locked the door so that nothing mightn't be
disturbed. I knows 'ow particular you pleesmen is.'

She turned the key. We all went in--we, this time, in front, and
she behind.

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.

'What's the meaning of this, Mrs Henderson? I don't see anything
here.'

'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.'

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.

At sight of him an exclamation burst from Sydney's lips.

'It's Holt!'

'Thank God!' cried Lessingham. 'It isn't Marjorie!'

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.

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.

'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.'

'What's that on his neck?' asked the Inspector,--he was kneeling
at my side.

He referred to two abrasions of the skin,--one on either side of
the man's neck.

'They look to me like scratches. They seem pretty deep, but I
don't think they're sufficient in themselves to cause death.'

'They might be, joined to an already weakened constitution. Is
there anything in his pockets?--let's lift him on to the bed.'

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.

His first pronouncement, made as soon as he commenced his
examination, was, under the circumstances, sufficiently startling.

'I don't believe the man's dead. Why didn't you send for me
directly you found him?'

The question was put to Mrs Henderson.

'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.'

'Then in that case, if he does die you'll have had a hand in
murdering him,--that's all'

The lady sniggered. 'Of course Dr Glossop, we all knows that
you'll always 'ave your joke.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'Hollo, my man! that's more like the time of day! How are you
feeling?'

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.

'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.'

'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.

'I know who you are. You are--the gentleman.'

'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.'

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
attentuation, 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.

Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone;

'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.'

The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand.

'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?'

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.

'The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been
doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?'

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.

'The beetle!' He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. 'The
beetle!'

'What's he mean?' asked the Inspector.

'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?'

'It took me by the throat!'

'Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?'

'The beetle killed me.'

The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The
Inspector was puzzled;--and said so.

'What's he mean about a beetle?'

Atherton replied.

'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.'

'Yes,' said the doctor, his hand upon the patient's pulse, 'while
there's time. There isn't much--only seconds.'

Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor.

'You've been with Miss Lindon all the afternoon and evening,
haven't you, Mr Holt?'

Atherton had reached a chord in the man's consciousness. His lips
moved,--in painful articulation.

'Yes--all the afternoon--and evening--God help me!'

'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?'

'Yes,--in my old clothes. My God!'

'And where is Miss Lindon now?'

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.

'The beetle's going to kill Miss Lindon.'

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.

'This time he's gone for good, there'll be no conjuring him back
again.'

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.

'Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have
it for my friend?'

Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the 'shillings worth.' I
rather fancy it saved us from a scene.

The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house.

'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.'




CHAPTER XLV

ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW


Mrs Henderson put her hands under her apron and smirked.

'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.'

'Yes,--I do know. Is that all you have to say?'

'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?'

'Then come.'

'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.'

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.

'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--'

'We're not particular as to the seconds.'

'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--'

'What sort of a shindy?'

'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.'

'Did the noise keep on?'

'Keep on! I should think it did keep on! Lord love you! shriek
after shriek, I expected to see the roof took off.'

'Were there any other noises? For instance, were there any sounds
of struggling, or of blows?'

'There weren't no sounds except of the party hollering.'

'One party only?'

'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!"'

'Then was there silence?'

'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.'

'Then what happened?'

'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 pore young man
what was lying be'ind the bed,'

There was a growl from the doctor.

'If you'd had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have
been alive at this moment.'

''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'

'Then you think it was this man'--with a motion towards the bed--
'who was shrieking?'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XLVI

THE SUDDEN STOPPING


As 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.

'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?'

I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note.

'Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in
readiness.'

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.

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.

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:

'Who's that?'

'My name's Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the
Limehouse Police Station?'

'Step this way.'

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.

'Mr Lessingham, I believe?'

'I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me?

I fancy, by his looks,--that the official was struck by the pallor
of the speaker's face,--and by his tremulous voice.

'I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus
Champnell.'

'I am Mr Champnell. What's your information?'

'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.'

'Was he alone?'

'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.'

'Why were they not detained?'

'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.'

'You say he booked to Hull,--does the train run through to Hull?'

'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.'

I looked at my watch.

'You say the train left at midnight. It's now nearly five-and-
twenty past. Where's it now?'

'Nearing St Albans, it's due there 12.35.'

'Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?'

'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.'

'You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the
train?'

'That could be done,--certainly. I'll have it done at once if you
like.

'Then where's the next stoppage?'

'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.'

'What's that?'

'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.'

'Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special
ready,--have you got one?'

'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?'

'At once.'

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.

'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?'

'Here is one,--this is for Bedford.'

It ran:

'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.

'AUGUSTUS CHAMPNELL.'

'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.' 'Is Arab
with companion in train which left St Pancras at 13.0? If so, do
not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where
instructions are being wired for arrest.'

The Inspector rapidly scanned them both.

'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.'

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.

'Telegram from St Albans.'

I tore it open. It was brief and to the point.

'Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring
Luton.'

'That's all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes
place, we ought to have them.'

That unforeseen!

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Yes,' said the Inspector, 'I'll clear the way. I've wired down
the road already.'

Atherton broke in.

'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.'

The driver grinned.

'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.'

The fireman waved his hand in the rear.

'That's right, sir!' he cried. 'We'll have to trouble you for that
five-pound note.'

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.

'George!' shrieked Atherton, 'he does mean to earn that fiver. I
hope I'll be alive to pay it him!'

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.

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.

On and on we went dashing, clashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling.
Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window,
strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible.

'Where the devil are we?'

Looking at my watch I screamed back at him.

'It's nearly one, so I suppose we're somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Luton.--Hollo! What's the matter?'

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 stand-still.

Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my
window and Atherton let down his,--he shouting out,

'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.'

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.

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'Don't know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road.
What's up there?'

This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied:

'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.'

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:

'What's the matter! Who's that?'

A voice replied,

'My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on
top of us!'

Our guard again.

'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.'

'Are you? Then you've caught us. Thank God for it!--We're a
wreck.'

I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three
clambered out on to the line.




CHAPTER XLVII

THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE


I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in
official uniform.

'Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?'

'I am.'

'Where's your train? What's happened?'

'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.'

'What do you mean by you're wrecked?'

'Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and
came running down the hill on top of us.'

'How long ago was it?'

'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.'

'Much damage done?'

'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.'

It was too dark to see the man's face, but judging from his tone
he was either crying or very near to it.

Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine,

'You'd better go back to the box and let 'em know!'

'All right!' came echoing back.

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.

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 debris by the side of
the line, for the purpose of making a fire,--more for illumination
than for warmth.

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.

'Open the door, sir!' 'In the name of God, sir, open the door!'

Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of
violence, the supplication was repeated.

The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, half-
frenzied creatures.

'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.'

But that was just what they found it most difficult to do--keep
still!

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.

The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, 'match-boxed.'
They were nothing but a heap of debris,--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.

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.'

In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young
man costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon.

So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the
compartment contained.




CHAPTER XLVIII

THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER


It 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.

Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in
her, when she was extricated from among the debris 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale has
never been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for its
authenticity.

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.

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.

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.

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
aerial flight, which have brought the flying machine within the
range of practical politics, are on everybody's tongue.

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.

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.

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.

Miss Linden'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.

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.







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