The Beetle, Richard Marsh [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

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. Probably he never had been robust, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what little strength he had ever had. 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 daresay, at one time, had been a spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages 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 Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous misbehaviour, again appeal 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 Sydney 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.

So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter.

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 Sydney 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 papa.”

“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, Sydney 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 first I saw you.” Sydney turned to me. “It is just possible, Miss Lindon, 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?”

Sydney 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”⁠—Sydney 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 tale 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 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 Sydney’s glances exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept