The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

“Who’s there?⁠—Come in!”

It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised.

“I beg your pardon, sir⁠—I thought you were engaged. I didn’t know that⁠—that gentleman had gone.”

“He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.⁠—Why the deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?”

“Really, sir, I don’t know. I gave him your message, and⁠—he looked at me, and⁠—that is all I remember till I found myself standing in this room.”

Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his palm well greased⁠—but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I thought⁠—my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant, at my own front door⁠—a man worth studying. Edwards continued.

“There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you⁠—Mr. Lessingham.”

“Mr. Lessingham!” At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. “Show him in.”

Presently in came Paul.

I am free to confess⁠—I have owned it before!⁠—that, in a sense, I admire that man⁠—so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my eye⁠—speaking as a mere biologist like the suggestion conveyed by his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life⁠—of reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall back at pleasure. The fellow’s lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; clean built, well hung⁠—the sort of man who might be relied upon to make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint⁠—mental or physical⁠—though to do that you would have to be spry!⁠—but in a staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the kind of man whom I would trust⁠—unless I knew that he was on the job⁠—which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain. He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round him even in moments of extremest peril⁠—and for whatever he does he has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of it, of being a man of iron nerve⁠—and with some reason; yet I am not so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse⁠—to rise, the moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster.

And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some cause. He was a man of position⁠—destined, probably, to rise much higher; a man of parts⁠—with capacity to make the most of them; not ill-looking; with agreeable manners⁠—when he chose; and he came within the lady’s definition of a gentleman, “he always did the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.” And yet⁠—! Well, I take it that we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy’s sake do not let us all give ourselves away.

He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed⁠—black frock coat, black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow, gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if was not childlike, at any rate was bland.

“I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all.”

“Sure?⁠—I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty purchased⁠—wisely⁠—What is it, now?”

“Death.”

“No?⁠—really?⁠—what do you mean?”

“If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.”

“I see⁠—a new projectile.⁠—How long is this race to continue between attack and defence?”

“Until the sun grows cold.”

“And then?”

“There’ll be no defence⁠—nothing to defend.”

He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes.

“The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a cheerful one.” He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a table. “By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory⁠—I have come to apologise.”

“I don’t know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you⁠—queer.”

“Yes.” He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the superstition about his iron nerve. “I was worried, and not well. Besides, one doesn’t care to be burgled, even by a maniac.”

“Was he a maniac?”

“Did you see him?”

“Very clearly.”

“Where?”

“In the street.”

“How close were you to him?”

“Closer than I am to you.”

“Indeed. I didn’t know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to stop him?”

“Easier said than done⁠—he was off at such a rate.”

“Did you see how he was dressed⁠—or, rather, undressed?”

“I did.”

“In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a fanatic would have attempted burglary in such a costume?”

“Did he take anything?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“It seems to have been a curious episode.”

He moved his eyebrows⁠—according to members of the House the only gesture in which he has been known to indulge.

“We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning it to anyone⁠—to anyone.” He repeated the last two words, as if to give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. “I am communicating with the police. Until they move I don’t want it to get into the papers⁠—or to be talked about. It’s a worry⁠—you understand?”

I nodded. He changed the theme.

“This that