'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.
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.
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.'