The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

in expecting to find her waiting for me in the front room⁠—I was struck all of a heap when I found she wasn’t there.”

“Were there any signs of a struggle?”

“None⁠—there were no signs of anything. Everything was just as I had left it, with the exception of the ring which I trod on in the passage, and which Lessingham has.”

“If Miss Lindon has returned, it does not look as if she were in the house at present.”

It did not⁠—unless silence had such meaning. Atherton had knocked loudly three times without succeeding in attracting the slightest notice from within.

“It strikes me that this is another case of seeking admission through that hospitable window at the back.”

Atherton led the way to the rear. Lessingham and I followed. There was not even an apology for a yard, still less a garden⁠—there was not even a fence of any sort, to serve as an enclosure, and to shut off the house from the wilderness of waste land. The kitchen window was open. I asked Sydney if he had left it so.

“I don’t know⁠—I dare say we did; I don’t fancy that either of us stood on the order of his coming.”

While he spoke, he scrambled over the sill. We followed. When he was in, he shouted at the top of his voice,

“Marjorie! Marjorie! Speak to me, Marjorie⁠—it is I⁠—Sydney!”

The words echoed through the house. Only silence answered. He led the way to the front room. Suddenly he stopped.

“Hollo!” he cried. “The blind’s down!” I had noticed, when we were outside, that the blind was down at the front room window. “It was up when I went, that I’ll swear. That someone has been here is pretty plain⁠—let’s hope it’s Marjorie.”

He had only taken a step forward into the room when he again stopped short to exclaim.

“My stars!⁠—here’s a sudden clearance!⁠—Why, the place is empty⁠—everything’s clean gone!”

“What do you mean?⁠—was it furnished when you left?”

The room was empty enough then.

“Furnished?⁠—I don’t know that it was exactly what you’d call furnished⁠—the party who ran this establishment had a taste in upholstery which was all his own⁠—but there was a carpet, and a bed, and⁠—and lots of things⁠—for the most part, I should have said, distinctly Eastern curiosities. They seem to have evaporated into smoke⁠—which may be a way which is common enough among Eastern curiosities, though it’s queer to me.”

Atherton was staring about him as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence of his own eyes.

“How long ago is it since you left?”

He referred to his watch.

“Something over an hour⁠—possibly an hour and a half; I couldn’t swear to the exact moment, but it certainly isn’t more.”

“Did you notice any signs of packing up?”

“Not a sign.” Going to the window he drew up the blind⁠—speaking as he did so. “The queer thing about this business is that when we first got in this blind wouldn’t draw up a little bit, so, since it wouldn’t go up I pulled it down, roller and all, now it draws up as easily and smoothly as if it had always been the best blind that ever lived.”

Standing at Sydney’s back I saw that the cabman on his box was signalling to us with his outstretched hand. Sydney perceived him too. He threw up the sash.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Excuse me, sir, but who’s the old gent?”

“What old gent?”

“Why the old gent peeping through the window of the room upstairs?”

The words were hardly out of the driver’s mouth when Sydney was through the door and flying up the staircase. I followed rather more soberly⁠—his methods were a little too flighty for me. When I reached the landing, dashing out of the front room he rushed into the one at the back⁠—then through a door at the side. He came out shouting.

“What’s the idiot mean!⁠—with his old gent! I’d old gent him if I got him!⁠—There’s not a creature about the place!”

He returned into the front room⁠—I at his heels. That certainly was empty⁠—and not only empty, but it showed no traces of recent occupation. The dust lay thick upon the floor⁠—there was that mouldy, earthy smell which is so frequently found in apartments which have been long untenanted.

“Are you sure, Atherton, that there is no one at the back?”

“Of course I’m sure⁠—you can go and see for yourself if you like; do you think I’m blind? Jehu’s drunk.” Throwing up the sash he addressed the driver. “What do you mean with your old gent at the window?⁠—what window?”

“That window, sir.”

“Go to!⁠—you’re dreaming, man!⁠—there’s no one here.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there was someone there not a minute ago.”

“Imagination, cabman⁠—the slant of the light on the glass⁠—or your eyesight’s defective.”

“Excuse me, sir, but it’s not my imagination, and my eyesight’s as good as any man’s in England⁠—and as for the slant of the light on the glass, there ain’t much glass for the light to slant on. I saw him peeping through that bottom broken pane on your left hand as plainly as I see you. He must be somewhere about⁠—he can’t have got away⁠—he’s at the back. Ain’t there a cupboard nor nothing where he could hide?”

The cabman’s manner was so extremely earnest that I went myself to see. There was a cupboard on the landing, but the door of that stood wide open, and that obviously was bare. The room behind was small, and, despite the splintered glass in the window frame, stuffy. Fragments of glass kept company with the dust on the floor, together with a choice collection of stones, brickbats, and other missiles⁠—which not improbably were the cause of their being there. In the corner stood a cupboard⁠—but a momentary examination showed that that was as bare as the other. The door at the side, which Sydney had left wide open, opened on to a closet, and that was empty. I glanced up⁠—there was no trap door which led to the roof. No practicable nook or cranny, in which a living being could lie concealed, was