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

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 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.

Book IV In Pursuit

The conclusion of the matter is extracted from the casebook of the Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent.

XXXII A New Client

On the afternoon of Friday, June 2, 18⁠—, I was entering in my casebook some memoranda having reference to the very curious matter of the Duchess 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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