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

“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 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.”

Sydney 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 pretence of opening the door, they searched the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second⁠—it was not a difficult operation, since the windowsill was under three feet from the ground⁠—and Mr. Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand up to his mouth, and shouted.

“Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, as there is someone wishes to see him.”

His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was almost uncanny. I suddenly realised 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 Sydney to make the next move, he diverted my attention to Mr. Holt.

“Hollo, Holt, what’s the matter with you? Man, don’t play the fool like that!”

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 Sydney the flask. “Here, swallow this.”

Mr. Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to understand.

“Listen to me, my lad. Don’t think you can deceive me by playing any of your fool tricks, 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 papa’s which I had lent him. “Don’t imagine that Miss Lindon’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. Sydney 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.

“A revolver?⁠—The idea!⁠—How absurd you are!”

Sydney said something which was so rude⁠—and so uncalled for!⁠—that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments.

“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 he 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 pother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something, I knew Sydney 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 Sydney desired⁠—or, rather, commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again.

“Anyone 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 anyone 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. Sydney 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. Sydney whistled.

“So!⁠—It begins to occur to me, Mr. Holt, that that story of yours may not have been such pure romance as it