The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and that recently⁠—and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was that there was someone, or something, living in it still⁠—an uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought.

“A pretty perfume, on my word! Let’s shed a little more light on the subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I tell you.”

I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark. Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped.

“What’s that?”

“It’s it,” said Mr. Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it was scarcely recognisable.

“It?⁠—What do you mean by it?”

“The Beetle!”

Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state of odd excitement.

“Oh, is it!⁠—Then, if this time I don’t find out the how and the why and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I’ll give you leave to write me down an ass⁠—with a great, big A.”

He rushed farther into the room⁠—apparently his efforts to lighten it did not meet with the immediate success which he desired.

“What’s the matter with this confounded blind? There’s no cord! How do you pull it up?⁠—What the⁠—”

In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr. Holt, who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his forehead.

“It’s coming!” he screamed.

Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard, proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly it recalled my experiences of the night before⁠—as it did so I was conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if he were beside himself with rage.

“If you won’t go up, you shall come down.”

I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and dragged it down⁠—it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window, with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa’s revolver in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for.

“Marjorie!” he exclaimed. “Did you hear anything?”

“Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night⁠—which so frightened me.”

“Oh, was it? Then, by⁠—” in his excitement he must have been completely oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, “when I find it there’ll be a small discussion. It can’t have got out of the room⁠—I know the creature’s here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush against my face.⁠—Holt, come inside and shut that door.”

Mr. Holt raised his arms, as if he were exerting himself to make a forward movement⁠—but he remained rooted to the spot on which he stood.

“I can’t!” he cried.

“You can’t!⁠—Why?”

“It won’t let me.”

“What won’t let you?”

“The Beetle!”

Sydney moved till he was close in front of him. He surveyed him with eager eyes. I was just at his back. I heard him murmur⁠—possibly to me.

“By George!⁠—It’s just as I thought!⁠—The beggar’s hypnotised!”

Then he said aloud,

“Can you see it now?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Behind you.”

As Mr. Holt spoke, I again heard, quite close to me, that buzzing sound. Sydney seemed to hear it too⁠—it caused him to swing round so quickly that he all but whirled me off my feet.

“I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an unparalleled experience⁠—didn’t you hear something then?”

“I did⁠—distinctly; it was close to me⁠—within an inch or two of my face.”

We stared about us, then back at each other⁠—there was nothing else to be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully.

“It’s uncommonly queer. I don’t want to suggest that there are visions about, or I might suspect myself of softening of the brain. But⁠—it’s queer. There’s a trick about it somewhere, I am convinced; and no doubt it’s simple enough when you know how it’s done⁠—but the difficulty is to find that out.⁠—Do you think our friend over there is acting?”

“He looks to me as if he were ill.”

“He does look ill. He also looks as if he were hypnotised. If he is, it must be by suggestion⁠—and that’s what makes me doubtful, because it will be the first plainly established case of hypnotism by suggestion I’ve encountered.⁠—Holt!”

“Yes.”

“That,” said Sydney in my ear, “is the voice and that is the manner of a hypnotised man, but, on the other hand, a person under influence generally responds only to the hypnotist⁠—which is another feature about our peculiar friend which arouses my suspicions.” Then, aloud, “Don’t stand there like an idiot⁠—come inside.”

Again Mr. Holt made an apparently futile effort to do as he was bid. It was painful to look at him⁠—he was like a feeble, frightened, tottering child, who would come on, but cannot.

“I can’t.”

“No nonsense, my man! Do you think that this is a performance in a booth, and that I am to be taken in by all the humbug of the professional mesmerist? Do as I tell you⁠—come into the room.”

There was a repetition, on Mr. Holt’s part, of his previous pitiful struggle; this time it was longer sustained than before⁠—but the result was the same.

“I can’t!” he wailed.

“Then I