The Beetle (28 page)

'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.

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.