CHAPTER 28 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, Sidney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems likely that I shall have to recast 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.  Finally, I decided to go for advice and help, where I had so often gone before, to Sidney 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 dumbfounded goes without saying. It was bad enough in papa, but in Sidney 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.  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 dare say, at one time had been a spruce enough clark. It was difficult to guess his age, one age is 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 Sidney, and in spite of his recent and scandalous misbehaviour, again appealed 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 Sidney 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.  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 Sidney 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 papar. 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. Sidney 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 I first saw you. Sidney turned to me. It is just possible, Miss Lyndon, 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? Sidney 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. Sidney 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 tail 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's 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 Sidney'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 Lettingham, my Paul. How he had taken advantage of Holt's enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and indeed almost incredible ascendancy. 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 Sidney 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. Sidney, 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 Sidney aback. I protest that like Ms. Linden 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 Sidney 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 that this thing of beauty was a man? No, sir. That is exactly what I am not sure. There was a note in Sidney'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. Sidney 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. Sidney'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 Hermersmith Workhouse? Possibly under half a mile. Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hermersmith 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 Hermersmith.  I should say so. I wish 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. Sidney 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 finish 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 Sidney 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, Sidney, 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. Sidney laughed, but I could see he did not altogether relish the suggestion. Three in a handsome. There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab, or I could order a carriage if you'd like one.  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 dare say, do you think I don't know you've been deceiving me all the time? Deceiving you? I? Yes, you.  My dear Marjorie, did 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, so 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 bound and duty's done. As to 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.  It's for your sake, if I seem to be.  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 is 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 Sidney. If you'll 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 nonetheless 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 any one should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.  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. The Beetle by Richard Marsh Chapter 29 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.  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 Sidney'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 Sidney 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. Sidney put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued. This is Hammersmith's work-house. It's a large place, sir. Which part of it might you be wanting? Sidney appealed to Mr. Holt.  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's and to the casual ward. I don't see that here. Sidney 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 Sidney 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.  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 wasteland. At some more or less remote period, attempts appeared to have been made at brick-making. There were untidy stacks of billiards-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 unfinished carcasses, 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 stories 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 done, 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 scrutinizingly 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 Sidney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever since he was in Nickabockers, 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 woe-begone-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, was 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 Sidney 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. Sidney 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. Sidney 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. Sidney 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. Sidney 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 there 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. Sidney 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 Sidney 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's spoken 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. Sidney wrapped 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've 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. Sidney 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 pretense of opening the door they searched the house. So Sidney 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.  Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, as there is someone who wishes to see him. His words went echoing through the empty rooms, in a way which was almost uncanny. I suddenly realized 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 Sidney to make the next move, he diverted my attention to Mr. Holt. Hello, Holt! What's the matter with you?  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 Sidney the flask. Here, swallow this. Mr. Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sidney offered, without an attempt at Pali. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour to his ashen cheeks, it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sidney eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to understand. Listen to me, my lad.  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 papars which I had lent him. Don't imagine that Miss Linden'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. Sidney 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. Revolver, the idea, how absurd you are!  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 you 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 bother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something. I knew Sidney 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 Sidney desired or rather commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sidney tapped on a panel. All was silent. He tapped again. Any one 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 any one 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. Sidney 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. Sidney 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.  Sidney 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. Sidney 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, Sidney was all at once in a state of odd excitement. Oh, is it?  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 chord. How do you pull it up? What the— In the middle of his sentence Sidney 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 wits, 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 the most unpleasant quarm. Sidney 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 chord, 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. Sidney 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 creatures 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! Sidney 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 beggars 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. Sidney 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. Sidney 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 chick 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 Sidney 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.  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. Sidney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did so, a strange alteration took place in Mr. Holt's demeanour. I was standing in the middle of the room. Sidney 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 Sidney 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. Sidney 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. Hello! cried Sidney. 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. Sidney, 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, far away, 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 Sidney released his arm or not, I cannot say. As he spoke, he seemed to me to slip away from the Sidney's grasp. Passing through the gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the direction we had come. Sidney 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. Sidney 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 meant—and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the cunderers 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 is quite capable of taking the hint and removing himself into the avid kite, 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. Sidney 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'll 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. Sidney 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 Sidney'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 Sidney 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 ferrego of nonsense, an outcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell the truth Sidney 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 balder-dash. Exactly what be Sidney 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 burglarius 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 a 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 wolf 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 Sidney 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.  Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings? You who have prided yourself on being so strong-minded, are pretty sort you are to do battle for anyone. Why, there only make beliefs. 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.  I turned to the window, looking at my watch. It's more than five minutes ago since Sidney 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 Sidney was dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount to acknowledging myself as simpleton, while I was conscious of the 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 Beatles 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 Eastons 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 realized 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 ices. On her brow was perched a gaily apparald 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 doubters 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 effort 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. End of Chapter 31 and end of Book 3. Recording by Ruth Golding The Beetle by Richard Marsh Book 4 In Pursuit The conclusion of the matter is extracted from the casebook of the honorary Augustus Champanel, confidential agent. Chapter 32 A New Client On the afternoon of Friday, June 2, I was entering in my casebook some memoranda having referenced to the very curious matter of the Duchess of Duchet's deedbox. 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. Champanel? I am. I believe that I have not had the honor of meeting you before, Mr. Champanel, but with your father, the Earl of Glunlivet, 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're very young, Mr. Champanel. 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 gray 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. Champanel, 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 intact. And he warmly advised me if I ever 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 endeavor 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 shown 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 around the room. I suppose, Mr. Champ, now, 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 a stranger 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 demeanor 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 in violate. I resent, with peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to appear into matters which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must therefore bear with me, Mr. Champanel, 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.  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. End of Chapter 32 The Beetle by Richard Marsh Chapter 33 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 Shepherd'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 Rabigasse. 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 an arrow-street and, of course, a dirty one. It lit, and apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted. I had gone down, perhaps halfway down its torturous length, blundering more than once into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had brought me into such unsavory 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 a while to listen. There was an open window on my right which was screened by lattice 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.  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 chancenette, which, just then, half Europe was humming. It occurred in an opera which they were acting at one of the Boulevard theaters. La Petit Voyageux. 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 café. One of those places which were 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 retired 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 patron. 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 neighborhood. 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. Soyez le bienvenue. 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 seem 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 and tranced. Time passed more rapidly than I supposed. While she sang, I sit the liqueur 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 seized 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. And 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 say whether I would or wouldn't. She called for more liquor, and at what again was really her command I drank of it. I did 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 devils. 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.  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 today, 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've 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 a fear is unavoidable. My case is so unique and so out of the common run of our everyday 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.  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 hole had been hewed out of the solid rock. It seemed to be some sort of temple and was redolent with the most extraordinary odor. An altar stood about the center, fashioned out of a single block of stone.  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 it was meant for Isis. On the idol's brow was poised the 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 modeled in the solid stone of the roof and depicted in flaming colors 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. Champ, now, I wish to point out and to emphasize 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 endeavored to get off the heap of rugs on which I reclined. As I did so the woman at my side later 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 Brett, wondering if I had crossed the borderline which divides madness from sanity. Let me get up, let me go, I gassed. Nay, she murmured.  And again she kissed me. Once more Mr. Lessingham paused. An involuntary shutter 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 last 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 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.  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 where 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 reveal themselves, dimly, to my perception, seem 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 judged 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 pay 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 a 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.  A young and lovely English woman, 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.  As she approached to offer me her loaded 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 wave 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 honor. 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 loosened. 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 in 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 to the fact that I was anything but the fiberless, 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 smoldering 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 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 struck 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.  His voice faltered. I thought it 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.  End of chapter 32