THE BEETLE. Richard Marsh
bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him and his house, — on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained me.
'May your following,' I cried, — it is an absolute fact that the words were shouted! — 'both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches! May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject you! — Jehoram! — what's that?'
I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden, a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window was crashed open from within, — the one over the front door, and someone came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a case of intended suicide I made sure, — and I began to be in hopes that I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever witnessed, — I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet.
I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that singularly agile stranger, — if he was not made of india-rubber he ought to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up, — it was all I could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket.
Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen, — at least, in the streets of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a position to say, — all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which he strove to wrap round him. Save for that, — and mud! — he was bare as the palm of my hand, Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I have seen strange expressions on men's faces, but never before one such as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the devil. It was not the look of a madman, — far from it; it was something worse.
It was the expression on the man's countenance, as much as anything else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him, — some nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was supernatural. I spoke to him again; — not a word issued from those rigid lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes, — eyes which I was tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let him go. I know not why, — I did.
He had remained as motionless as a statue while I held him, — indeed, for any evidence of life he gave, he might have been a statue; but, when my grasp was loosed, how he ran! He had turned the corner and was out of sight before I could say, 'How do!'
It was only then, — when he had gone, and I had realised the extra-double-express-flash-of-lightning rate at which he had taken his departure — that it occurred to me of what an extremely sensible act I had been guilty in letting him go at all. Here was an individual who had been committing burglary, or something very like it, in the house of a budding cabinet minister, and who had tumbled plump into my arms, so that all I had to do was to call a policeman and get him quodded, — and all that I had done was something of a totally different kind.
'You're a nice type of an ideal citizen!' I was addressing myself, 'A first chop specimen of a low-down idiot, — to connive at the escape of the robber who's been robbing Paul. Since you've let the villain go, the least you can do is to leave a card on the Apostle, and inquire how he's feeling.'
I went to Lessingham's front door and knocked, — I knocked once, I knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and the third time, I give you my word, I made the echoes ring, — but still there was not a soul that answered.
'If this is a case of a seven or seventy-fold murder, and the gentleman in the cloak has made a fair clearance of every living creature the house contains, perhaps it's just as well I've chanced upon the scene, — still I do think that one of the corpses might get up to answer the door. If it is possible to make noise enough to waken the dead, you bet I'm on to it.'
And I was, — I punished that knocker! until I warrant the pounding I gave it was audible on the other side of Green Park. And, at last, I woke the dead, — or, rather, I roused Matthews to a consciousness that something was going on. Opening the door about six inches, through the interstice he protruded his ancient nose.
'Who's there?'
'Nothing, my dear sir, nothing and no one. It must have been your vigorous imagination which induced you to suppose that there was, — you let it run away with you.'
Then he knew me, — and opened the door about two feet.
'Oh, it's you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir, — I thought it might have been the police.'
'What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law, — at last?'
A most discreet servant, Matthews, — just the fellow for a budding cabinet minister. He glanced over his shoulder, — I had suspected the presence of a colleague at his back, now I was assured. He put his hand up to his mouth, — and I thought how exceedingly discreet he looked, in his trousers and his stockinged feet, and with his hair all rumpled, and his braces dangling behind, and his nightshirt creased.
'Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.'
'The deuce you have! — From whom?'
Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an air which was flatteringly confidential.
'From Mr Lessingham, sir.'
'Possibly Mr Lessingham is not aware that a robbery has been committed on his premises, that the burglar has just come out of his drawing-room window with a hop, skip, and a jump, bounded out of the window like a tennis-ball, flashed round the corner like a rocket,'
Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which way discretion lay, whether fore or aft.
'Thank you, sir. I believe that Mr Lessingham is aware of something of the kind.' He seemed to come to a sudden resolution, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'The fact is, sir, that I fancy Mr Lessingham's a good deal upset.'
'Upset?' I stared at him. There was something in his manner I did not understand. 'What do you mean by upset? Has the scoundrel attempted violence?'
'Who's there?'
The voice was Lessingham's, calling to Matthews from the staircase, though, for an instant, I hardly recognised it, it was so curiously petulant. Pushing past Matthews, I stepped into the hall. A young man, I suppose a footman, in the same undress as Matthews, was holding a candle, — it seemed the only light about the place. By its glimmer I perceived Lessingham standing half-way up the stairs. He was in full war paint, — as he is not the sort of man who dresses for the House, I took it that he had been mixing pleasure with business.
'It's I, Lessingham, — Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has jumped out of your drawing-room window?'
It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice had lost its petulance.
'Has he escaped?'
'Clean, — he's a mile away by now.'
It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a note of relief.
'I wondered if he had. Poor fellow! more sinned against than sinning! Take my advice, Atherton, and keep out of politics. They bring you into contact with all the lunatics at large. Good night! I am much obliged to you for knocking us up. Matthews, shut the door.'
Tolerably cool, on my honour, — a man who brings news big with the fate of Rome does not