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

few hours, he has had an interview with someone who was connected in some way with that lurid patch in my career; that this person made so-called revelations, which were nothing but a series of monstrous lies; and these so-called revelations Mr. Atherton has threatened, in so many words, to place before Miss Lindon. That is an eventuality which I wish to avoid. My own conviction is that there is at this moment in London an emissary from that den in the whilom Rue de Rabagas⁠—for all I know it may be the Woman of the Songs herself. Whether the sole purport of this individual’s presence is to do me injury, I am, as yet, in no position to say, but that it is proposed to work me mischief, at any rate, by the way, is plain. I believe that Mr. Atherton knows more about this person’s individuality and whereabouts than he has been willing, so far, to admit. I want you, therefore, to ascertain these things on my behalf; to find out what, and where, this person is, to drag her!⁠—or him;⁠—out into the light of day. In short, I want you to effectually protect me from the terrorism which threatens once more to overwhelm my mental and my physical powers⁠—which bids fair to destroy my intellect, my career, my life, my all.”

“What reason have you for suspecting that Mr. Atherton has seen this individual of whom you speak⁠—has he told you so?”

“Practically⁠—yes.”

“I know Atherton well. In his not infrequent moments of excitement he is apt to use strong language, but it goes no further. I believe him to be the last person in the world to do anyone an intentional injustice, under any circumstances whatever. If I go to him, armed with credentials from you, when he understands the real gravity of the situation⁠—which it will be my business to make him do, I believe that, spontaneously, of his own accord, he will tell me as much about this mysterious individual as he knows himself.”

“Then go to him at once.”

“Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.”

I rose from my seat. As I did so, someone rushed into the outer office with a din and a clatter. Andrews’ voice, and another, became distinctly audible⁠—Andrews’ apparently raised in vigorous expostulation. Raised, seemingly, in vain, for presently the door of my own particular sanctum was thrown open with a crash, and Mr. Sydney Atherton himself came dashing in⁠—evidently conspicuously under the influence of one of those not infrequent “moments of excitement” of which I had just been speaking.

XXXV A Bringer of Tidings

Atherton did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the instant⁠—as is occasionally his wont.

“Champnell!⁠—Thank goodness I’ve found you in!⁠—I want you!⁠—At once!⁠—Don’t stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best foot forward⁠—I’ll tell you all about it in the cab.”

I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr. Lessingham’s presence⁠—but without success.

“My dear fellow⁠—”

When I had got as far as that he cut me short.

“Don’t ‘dear fellow’ me!⁠—None of your jabber! And none of your excuses either! I don’t care if you’ve got an engagement with the Queen, you’ll have to chuck it. Where’s that dashed hat of yours⁠—or are you going without it? Don’t I tell you that every second cut to waste may mean the difference between life and death?⁠—Do you want me to drag you down to the cab by the hair of your head?”

“I will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource⁠—and I was coming to you at once in any case. I only want to call your attention to the fact that I am not alone.⁠—Here is Mr. Lessingham.”

In his harum-scarum haste Mr. Lessingham had gone unnoticed. Now that his observation was particularly directed to him, Atherton started, turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely flattering.

“Oh!⁠—It’s you, is it?⁠—What the deuce are you doing here?”

Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm.

“Have you seen her?”

Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other’s curious conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement.

“Have I seen whom?”

“Marjorie Lindon!”

“Marjorie Lindon?”

Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the inquiry meant.

“I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?”

“Then Heaven help us!⁠—As I’m a living man I believe he, she, or it has got her!”

His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of explanation⁠—as Mr. Lessingham plainly thought.

“What is it that you mean, sir?”

“What I say⁠—I believe that that Oriental friend of yours has got her in her clutches⁠—if it is a ‘her;’ goodness alone knows what the infernal conjurer’s real sex may be.”

“Atherton!⁠—Explain yourself!”

On a sudden Lessingham’s tones rang out like a trumpet call.

“If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat⁠—and yours!”

Mr. Lessingham’s next proceeding surprised me⁠—I imagine it surprised Atherton still more. Springing at Sydney like a tiger, he caught him by the throat.

“You⁠—you hound! Of what wretched folly have you been guilty? If so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten thousandfold!⁠—You mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!”

He shook Sydney as if he had been a rat⁠—then flung him from him headlong on to the floor. It reminded me of nothing so much as Othello’s treatment of Iago. Never had I seen a man so transformed by rage. Lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. As he stood glowering down at the prostrate Sydney, he might have stood for a materialistic conception of human retribution.

Sydney, I take it, was rather surprised than hurt. For a moment or two he lay quite still. Then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. Then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself⁠—as if with a view of learning if all his bones were whole. Putting his hands up to his neck, he rubbed it, gently.