CHAPTER XXXI
THE TERROR BY DAY
My first impulse, after Sydney's disappearance, was to laugh. Whyshould he display anxiety on my behalf merely because I was to be thesole occupant of an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more orless,--and in broad daylight too! To say the least, the anxiety seemedunwarranted.
I lingered at the gate, for a moment or two, wondering what was at thebottom of Mr Holt's singular proceedings, and what Sydney reallyproposed to gain by acting as a spy upon his wanderings. Then I turnedto re-enter the house. As I did so, another problem suggested itself tomy mind,--what connection, of the slightest importance, could a man inPaul Lessingham's position have with the eccentric being who hadestablished himself in such an unsatisfactory dwelling-place? Mr Holt'sstory I had only dimly understood,--it struck me that it would requirea deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago of nonsense, anoutcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell thetruth, Sydney had taken it more seriously than I expected. He seemed tosee something in it which I emphatically did not. What was double Dutchto me, seemed clear as print to him. So far as I could judge, heactually had the presumption to imagine that Paul--my Paul!--PaulLessingham!--the great Paul Lessingham!--was mixed up in the verymysterious adventures of poor, weak-minded, hysterical Mr Holt, in amanner which was hardly to his credit.
Of course, any idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash.Exactly what bee Sydney had got in his bonnet, I could not guess. But Idid know Paul. Only let me find myself face to face with the fantasticauthor of Mr Holt's weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single-handed,would do my best to show him that whoever played pranks with PaulLessingham trifled with edged tools.
I had returned to that historical front room which, according to MrHolt, had been the scene of his most disastrous burglarious entry.Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the resources ofmodern upholstery. There was not a table in the place,--no chair orcouch, nothing to sit down upon except the bed. On the floor there wasa marvellous carpet which was apparently of eastern manufacture. It wasso thick, and so pliant to the tread, that moving over it was likewalking on thousand-year-old turf. It was woven in gorgeous colours,and covered with--
When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was conscious ofa disagreeable sense of surprise.
It was covered with beetles!
All over it, with only a few inches of space between each, wererepresentations of some peculiar kind of beetle,--it was the samebeetle, over, and over, and over. The artist had woven his undesirablesubject into the warp and woof of the material with such cunning skillthat, as one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if by anypossibility the creatures could be alive.
In spite of the softness of the texture, and the art--of a kind!--whichhad been displayed in the workmanship, I rapidly arrived at theconclusion that it was the most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. Iwagged my finger at the repeated portrayals of the--to me!--unspeakableinsect.
'If I had discovered that you were there before Sydney went, I think itjust possible that I should have hesitated before I let him go.'
Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself.
'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Lindon, to even thinksuch nonsense. Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings,--you who haveprided yourself on being so strong-minded! A pretty sort you are to dobattle for anyone.--Why, they're only make-believes!'
Half involuntarily, I drew my foot over one of the creatures. Ofcourse, it was nothing but imagination; but I seemed to feel it squelchbeneath my shoe. It was disgusting.
'Come!' I cried. 'This won't do! As Sydney would phrase it,--am I goingto make an idiot of myself?'
I turned to the window,--looking at my watch.
'It's more than five minutes ago since Sydney went. That companion ofmine ought to be already on the way. I'll go and see if he is coming.'
I went to the gate. There was not a soul in sight. It was with such adistinct sense of disappointment that I perceived this was so, that Iwas in two minds what to do. To remain where I was, looking, withgaping eyes, for the policeman, or the cabman, or whoever it was Sydneywas dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount toacknowledging myself a simpleton,--while I was conscious of a mostunmistakable reluctance to return within the house.
Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and,after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again.
This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on thefloor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity--and occupy my thoughts--inan examination of the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination,however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,--orif it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was notafter the fashion of the Britons. There was no framework,--nothing torepresent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparentlyindiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of them there seemed tobe; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,--and materials too.
The top one was of white silk,--in quality, exquisite. It was of hugesize, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed itthrough the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted I spreadit out in front of me. In the middle was a picture,--whether it wasembroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite makeout. Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intendedto depict,--there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling.By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,--and,when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badlyimitated either. Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,--it was arepresentation of a human sacrifice. In its way, as ghastly a piece ofrealism as one could see.
On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess. Her handswere crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards.I fancied it was meant for Isis. On her brow was perched agaily-apparelled beetle--that ubiquitous beetle!--forming a bright spotof colour against her coppery skin,--it was an exact reproduction ofthe creatures which were imaged on the carpet. In front of the idol wasan enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames was analtar. On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive. Therecould be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chainsin such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom,of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body intoshapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she wasenduring,--the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers inhis efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which weretormenting her.
'A pretty picture, on my word! A pleasant taste in art the garnituresof this establishment suggest! The person who likes to live with thiskind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his ownnotions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.'
As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if thewoman on the altar moved. It was preposterous, but she appeared togather 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 intothe 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 ofrugs,--it was its action which had caused the seeming movement of thefigure on the altar. I stared, confounded. The hand was followed by anarm; the arm by a shoulder; the shoulder by a head,--and the mostawful, hideous, wicked-looking face I had ever pictured even in my mostdreadful 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 afterall. I was alone with the occupant of that mysterious house,--the chiefactor in Mr Holt's astounding tale. He had been hidden in the heap ofrugs all the while.
BOOK
IV
In Pursuit
The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of theHon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent.
The Beetle: A Mystery Page 31
