The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

for it. The cabman can go and look for the requisite tools, or a workman to assist you, if you like. For my part it appears to me that evidence of another sort is, for the moment, of paramount importance; and I propose to commence my search for it by making a call at the house which is over the way.”

I had observed, on our arrival, that the road only contained two houses which were in anything like a finished state⁠—that which we were in, and another, some fifty or sixty yards further down, on the opposite side. It was to this I referred. The twain immediately proffered their companionship.

“I will come with you,” said Mr. Lessingham.

“And I,” echoed Sydney. “We’ll leave this sweet homestead in charge of the cabman⁠—I’ll pull it to pieces afterwards.” He went out and spoke to the driver. “Cabby, we’re going to pay a visit to the little crib over there⁠—you keep an eye on this one. And if you see a sign of anyone being about the place⁠—living, or dead, or anyhow⁠—you give me a yell. I shall be on the lookout, and I’ll be with you before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“You bet I’ll yell⁠—I’ll raise the hair right off you.” The fellow grinned. “But I don’t know if you gents are hiring me by the day⁠—I want to change my horse; he ought to have been in his stable a couple of hours ago.”

“Never mind your horse⁠—let him rest a couple of hours extra tomorrow to make up for those he has lost today. I’ll take care you don’t lose anything by this little job⁠—or your horse either.⁠—By the way, look here⁠—this will be better than yelling.”

Taking a revolver out of his trousers’ pocket he handed it up to the grinning driver.

“If that old gent of yours does appear, you have a pop at him⁠—I shall hear that easier than a yell. You can put a bullet through him if you like⁠—I give you my word it won’t be murder.”

“I don’t care if it is,” declared the cabman, handling the weapon like one who was familiar with arms of precision. “I used to fancy my revolver shooting when I was with the colours, and if I do get a chance I’ll put a shot through the old hunks, if only to prove to you that I’m no liar.”

Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell⁠—nor whether Atherton meant what he said in answer.

“If you shoot him I’ll give you fifty pounds.”

“All right!” The driver laughed. “I’ll do my best to earn that fifty!”

XXXIX Miss Louisa Coleman

That the house over the way was tenanted was plain to all the world⁠—at least one occupant sat gazing through the window of the first floor front room. An old woman in a cap⁠—one of those large old-fashioned caps which our grandmothers used to wear, tied with strings under the chin. It was a bow window, and as she was seated in the bay looking right in our direction she could hardly have failed to see us as we advanced⁠—indeed she continued to stare at us all the while with placid calmness. Yet I knocked once, twice, and yet again without the slightest notice being taken of my summons.

Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein.

“Knockers in this part of the world seem intended for ornament only⁠—nobody seems to pay any attention to them when they’re used. The old lady upstairs must be either deaf or dotty.” He went out into the road to see if she still was there. “She’s looking at me as calmly as you please⁠—what does she think we’re doing here, I wonder; playing a tune on her front door by way of a little amusement?⁠—Madam!” He took off his hat and waved it to her. “Madam! might I observe that if you won’t condescend to notice that we’re here your front door will run the risk of being severely injured!⁠—She don’t care for me any more than if I was nothing at all⁠—sound another tattoo upon that knocker. Perhaps she’s so deaf that nothing short of a cataclysmal uproar will reach her auditory nerves.”

She immediately proved, however, that she was nothing of the sort. Hardly had the sounds of my further knocking died away than, throwing up the window, she thrust out her head and addressed me in a fashion which, under the circumstances, was as unexpected as it was uncalled for.

“Now, young man, you needn’t be in such a hurry!”

Sydney explained.

“Pardon me, madam, it’s not so much a hurry we’re in as pressed for time⁠—this is a matter of life and death.”

She turned her attention to Sydney⁠—speaking with a frankness for which, I imagine, he was unprepared.

“I don’t want none of your imperence, young man. I’ve seen you before⁠—you’ve been hanging about here the whole day long!⁠—and I don’t like the looks of you, and so I’ll let you know. That’s my front door, and that’s my knocker⁠—I’ll come down and open when I like, but I’m not going to be hurried, and if the knocker’s so much as touched again, I won’t come down at all.”

She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between mirth and indignation.

“That’s a nice old lady, on my honour⁠—one of the good old crusty sort. Agreeable characters this neighbourhood seems to grow⁠—a sojourn hereabouts should do one good. Unfortunately I don’t feel disposed just now to stand and kick my heels in the road.” Again saluting the old dame by raising his hat he shouted to her at the top of his voice. “Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for troubling you, but this is a matter in which every second is of vital importance⁠—would you allow me to ask you one or two questions?”

Up went the window; out came the old lady’s head.

“Now, young man, you needn’t put yourself out to holler at me⁠—I won’t be hollered at! I’ll come down and