The Beetle (27 page)

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.'