The Beetle Part 45

'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 a.s.sociate, 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed it through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.ddess. 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 const.i.tute 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.

BOOK IV

In Pursuit

The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of the Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

A NEW CLIENT

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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 a.s.serted 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.'

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 a.s.sured of that.'

'Good.-Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by telling you a story,-if I may trespa.s.s on your patience to that extent. I will endeavour 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 shone 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 round the room.

'I suppose, Mr Champnell, 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 strange a story as that which I am about to tell you now. So astonis.h.i.+ng, 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 a.s.sure myself of its perfect truth.'

He paused. There was about his demeanour 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 pa.s.sing through my thoughts.

'My position is not rendered easier by the circ.u.mstance that I am not of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the spirit of the age which craves for personal advertis.e.m.e.nt. I hold that the private life even of a public man should be held inviolate. I resent, with peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to peer into matters which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must, therefore, bear with me, Mr Champnell, 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. I am sure you will suffer me to stand excused if I frankly admit that it is only an irresistible chain of incidents which has constrained me to make of you a confidant.'

'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, d.i.c.k, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

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.