The Beetle (33 page)

'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.

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.