The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

“By God, Lessingham, there’s more in you than I thought. After all, you are a man. There’s some holding power in those wrists of yours⁠—they’ve nearly broken my neck. When this business is finished, I should like to put on the gloves with you, and fight it out. You’re clean wasted upon politics⁠—Damn it, man, give me your hand!”

Mr. Lessingham did not give him his hand. Atherton took it⁠—and gave it a hearty shake with both of his.

If the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, Lessingham was still sufficiently stern.

“Be so good as not to trifle, Mr. Atherton. If what you say is correct, and the wretch to whom you allude really has Miss Lindon at her mercy, then the woman I love⁠—and whom you also pretend to love!⁠—stands in imminent peril not only of a ghastly death, but of what is infinitely worse than death.”

“The deuce she does!” Atherton wheeled round towards me. “Champnell, haven’t you got that dashed hat of yours yet? Don’t stand there like a tailor’s dummy, keeping me on tenterhooks⁠—move yourself! I’ll tell you all about it in the cab.⁠—And, Lessingham, if you’ll come with us I’ll tell you too.”

Three in a hansom cab is not, under all circumstances, the most comfortable method of conveyance⁠—when one of the trio happens to be Sydney Atherton in one of his “moments of excitement” it is distinctly the opposite; as, on that occasion, Mr. Lessingham and I both quickly found. Sometimes he sat on my knees, sometimes on Lessingham’s, and frequently, when he unexpectedly stood up, and all but precipitated himself on to the horse’s back, on nobody’s. In the eagerness of his gesticulations, first he knocked off my hat, then he knocked off Lessingham’s, then his own, then all three together⁠—once, his own hat rolling into the mud, he sprang into the road, without previously going through the empty form of advising the driver of his intention, to pick it up. When he turned to speak to Lessingham, he thrust his elbow into my eye; and when he turned to speak to me, he thrust it into Lessingham’s. Never, for one solitary instant, was he at rest, or either of us at ease. The wonder is that the gymnastics in which he incessantly indulged did not sufficiently attract public notice to induce a policeman to put at least a momentary period to our progress. Had speed not been of primary importance I should have insisted on the transference of the expedition to the somewhat wider limits of a four-wheeler.

His elucidation of the causes of his agitation was apparently more comprehensible to Lessingham than it was to me. I had to piece this and that together under considerable difficulties. By degrees I did arrive at something like a clear notion of what had actually taken place.

He commenced by addressing Lessingham⁠—and thrusting his elbow into my eye.

“Did Marjorie tell you about the fellow she found in the street?” Up went his arm to force the trap-door open overhead⁠—and off went my hat. “Now then, William Henry!⁠—let her go!⁠—if you kill the horse I’ll buy you another!”

We were already going much faster than, legally, we ought to have done⁠—but that, seemingly to him was not a matter of the slightest consequence. Lessingham replied to his inquiry.

“She did not.”

“You know the fellow I saw coming out of your drawing-room window?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Marjorie found him the morning after in front of her breakfast-room window⁠—in the middle of the street. Seems he had been wandering about all night, unclothed⁠—in the rain and the mud, and all the rest of it⁠—in a condition of hypnotic trance.”

“Who is the ⸻ gentleman you are alluding to?”

“Says his name’s Holt, Robert Holt.”

“Holt?⁠—Is he an Englishman?”

“Very much so⁠—City quill-driver out of a shop⁠—stony broke absolutely! Got the chuck from the casual ward⁠—wouldn’t let him in⁠—house full, and that sort of thing⁠—poor devil! Pretty passes you politicians bring men to!”

“Are you sure?”

“Of what?”

“Are you sure that this man, Robert Holt, is the same person whom, as you put it, you saw coming out of my drawing-room window?”

“Sure!⁠—Of course I’m sure!⁠—Think I didn’t recognise him?⁠—Besides, there was the man’s own tale⁠—owned to it himself⁠—besides all the rest, which sent one rushing Fulham way.”

“You must remember, Mr. Atherton, that I am wholly in the dark as to what has happened. What has the man, Holt, to do with the errand on which we are bound?”

“Am I not coming to it? If you would let me tell the tale in my own way I should get there in less than no time, but you will keep on cutting in⁠—how the deuce do you suppose Champnell is to make head or tail of the business if you will persist in interrupting?⁠—Marjorie took the beggar in⁠—he told his tale to her⁠—she sent for me⁠—that was just now; caught me on the steps after I had been lunching with Dora Grayling. Holt re-dished his yarn⁠—I smelt a rat⁠—saw that a connection possibly existed between the thief who’d been playing confounded conjuring tricks off on to me and this interesting party down Fulham way⁠—”

“What party down Fulham way?”

“This friend of Holt’s⁠—am I not telling you? There you are, you see⁠—won’t let me finish! When Holt slipped through the window⁠—which is the most sensible thing he seems to have done; if I’d been in his shoes I’d have slipped through forty windows!⁠—dusky coloured charmer caught him on the hop⁠—doctored him⁠—sent him out to commit burglary by deputy. I said to Holt, ‘Show us this agreeable little crib, young man.’ Holt was game⁠—then Marjorie chipped in⁠—she wanted to go and see it too. I said, ‘You’ll be sorry if you do,’⁠—that settled it! After that she’d have gone if she’d died⁠—I never did have a persuasive way with women. So off we toddled, Marjorie, Holt, and I, in a growler⁠—spotted the crib in less than no time⁠—invited ourselves in by the kitchen window⁠—house seemed empty. Presently Holt became hypnotised before my eyes⁠—the