The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

in the shape of an iron railing⁠—a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which was practically built upon the road⁠—whether the wall was intended to ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear.

“This is the house!” repeated Mr. Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him.

Sydney looked it up and down⁠—it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine.

“Are you sure?”

“I am certain.”

“It seems empty.”

“It seemed empty to me that night⁠—that is why I got into it in search of shelter.”

“Which is the window which served you as a door?”

“This one.” Mr. Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor⁠—the one which was screened by a blind. “There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up⁠—it was that which caught my eye.”

Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to basement⁠—then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr. Holt.

“You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.”

“I am sure it is the house⁠—certain! I know it⁠—I feel it here⁠—and here.”

Mr. Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his attention upon me.

“May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?”

The mere question ruffled my plumes.

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, when I am through, there will be some strange happenings⁠—as you have heard from Mr. Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should keep your wits about you.”

“I am not likely to let them stray.”

“Then that’s all right.⁠—Do I understand that you propose to come in with me?”

“Of course I do⁠—what do you suppose I’ve come for? What nonsense you are talking.”

“I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the time this little adventure’s done.”

That I resented his impertinence goes without saying⁠—to be talked to in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying⁠—but I am forced to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by Mr. Holt’s manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr. Holt’s story had been of the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close neighbourhood with the Unknown⁠—with a capital U!⁠—although it was broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which⁠—candidly!⁠—I was not prepared.

A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen⁠—it was in perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge⁠—nothing happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr. Holt.

“Seems as if the place was empty.”

Mr. Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation⁠—it made me uncomfortable to look at him.

“You do not know⁠—you cannot tell; there may be someone there who hears and pays no heed.”

“I’ll give them another chance.”

Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step.

“I’ll try another way⁠—I may have better fortune at the back.”

He led the way round to the rear, Mr. Holt and I following in single file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front. There were two empty rooms on the ground floor at the back⁠—there was no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen and washhouse combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human habitation. Sydney commented on the fact.

“Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments, but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.”

To my thinking Mr. Holt’s agitation was increasing every moment. For some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever⁠—possibly because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An odd change had even taken place in Mr. Holt’s voice⁠—he spoke in a sort of tremulous falsetto.

“It was only the front room which I saw.”

“Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room again.”

Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door. He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous shaking. He saluted the dirty windows⁠—so far as succeeding in attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned