The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) 📕

“Don’t you think it is possible, Mr. Lessingham, that you have been overworking yourself⁠—that you have been driving your brain too hard, and that you have been the victim of an optical delusion?”

“I thought so myself; I may say that I almost hoped so. But wait till I have finished. You will find that there is no loophole in that direction.”

He appeared to be recalling events in their due order. His manner was studiously cold⁠—as if he were endeavouring, despite the strangeness of his story, to impress me with the literal accuracy of each syllable he uttered.

“The night before last, on returning home, I found in my study a stranger.”

“A stranger?”

“Yes.⁠—In other words, a burglar.”

“A burglar?⁠—I see.⁠—Go on.”

He had paused. His demeanour was becoming odder and odder.

“On my entry he was engaged in forcing an entry into my bureau. I need hardly say that I advanced to seize him. But⁠—I could not.”

“You could not?⁠—How do you mean you could not?”

“I mean simply what I say. You must understand that this was no ordinary felon. Of what nationality he was I cannot tell you. He only uttered two words, and they were certainly in English, but apart from that he was dumb. He wore no covering on his head or feet. Indeed, his only garment was a long dark flowing cloak which, as it fluttered about him, revealed that his limbs were bare.”

“An unique costume for a burglar.”

“The instant I saw him I realised that he was in some way connected with that adventure in the Rue de Rabagas. What he said and did, proved it to the hilt.”

“What did he say and do?”

“As I approached to effect his capture, he pronounced aloud two words which recalled that awful scene the recollection of which always lingers in my brain, and of which I never dare to permit myself to think. Their very utterance threw me into a sort of convulsion.”

“What were the words?”

Mr. Lessingham opened his mouth⁠—and shut it. A marked change took place in the expression of his countenance. His eyes became fixed and staring⁠—resembling the glassy orbs of the somnambulist. For a moment I feared that he was going to give me an object lesson in the “visitations” of which I had heard so much. I rose, with a view of offering him assistance. He motioned me back.

“Thank you.⁠—It will pass away.”

His voice was dry and husky⁠—unlike his usual silvern tones. After an uncomfortable interval he managed to continue.

“You see for yourself, Mr. Champnell, what a miserable weakling, when this subject is broached, I still remain. I cannot utter the words the stranger uttered, I cannot even write them down. For some inscrutable reason they have on me an effect similar to that which spells and incantations had on people in tales of witchcraft.”

“I suppose, Mr. Lessingham, that there is no doubt that this mysterious stranger was not himself an optical delusion?”

“Scarcely. There is the evidence of my servants to prove the contrary.”

“Did your servants see him?”

“Some of them⁠—yes. Then there is the evidence of the bureau. The fellow had smashed the top right in two. When I came to examine the contents I learned that a packet of letters was missing. They were letters which I had received from Miss Lindon, a lady whom I hope to make my wife. This, also, I state to you in confidence.”

“What use would he be likely to make of them?”

“If matters stand as I fear they do, he might make a very serious misuse of them. If the object of these wretches, after all these years, is a wild revenge, they would be capable, having discovered what she is to me, of working Miss Lindon a fatal mischief⁠—or, at the very least, of poisoning her mind.”

“I see.⁠—How did the thief escape⁠—did he, like the delineation, vanish into air?”

“He escaped by the much more prosaic method of dashing through the drawing-room window, and clambering down from the verandah into the street, where he ran right into someone’s arms.”

“Into whose arms⁠—a constable’s?”

“No; into Mr. Atherton’s⁠—Sydney Atherton’s.”

“The inventor?”

“The same.⁠—Do you know him?”

“I do. Sydney Atherton and I are friends of a good many years’ standing.⁠—But Atherton must have seen where he came from;⁠—and, anyhow, if he was in the state of undress which you have described, why didn’t he stop him?”

“Mr. Atherton’s reasons were his own. He did not stop him, and, so far as I can learn, he did not attempt to stop him. Instead, he knocked at my hall door to inform me that he had seen a man climb out of my window.”

“I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer fish⁠—but that sounds very queer indeed.”

“The truth is, Mr. Champnell, that, if it were not for Mr. Atherton, I doubt if I should have troubled you even now. The accident of his being an acquaintance of yours makes my task easier.”

He drew his chair closer to me with an air of briskness which had been foreign to him before. For some reason, which I was unable to fathom, the introduction of Atherton’s name seemed to have enlivened him. However, I was not long to remain in darkness. In half a dozen sentences he threw more light on the real cause of his visit to me than he had done in all that had gone before. His bearing, too, was more businesslike and to the point. For the first time I had some glimmerings of the politician⁠—alert, keen, eager⁠—as he is known to all the world.

“Mr. Atherton, like myself, has been a postulant for Miss Lindon’s hand. Because I have succeeded where he has failed, he has chosen to be angry. It seems that he has had dealings, either with my visitor of Tuesday night, or with some other his acquaintance, and he proposes to use what he has gleaned from him to the disadvantage of my character. I have just come from Mr. Atherton. From hints he dropped I conclude that, probably during the last