The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

the sake of identification, was somewhere about the premises when you thought he wasn’t.”

“But⁠—where? We looked upstairs, and downstairs, and everywhere⁠—where could he have been?”

“That, as at present advised, I am not prepared to say, but I think you may take it for granted that he was there. He hypnotised the man Holt, and sent him away, intending you to go after him, and so being rid of you both⁠—”

“The deuce he did, Champnell! You write me down an ass!”

“As soon as the coast was clear he discovered himself to Miss Lindon, who, I expect, was disagreeably surprised, and hypnotised her.”

“The hound!”

“The devil!”

The first exclamation was Lessingham’s, the second Sydney’s.

“He then constrained her to strip herself to the skin⁠—”

“The wretch!”

“The fiend!”

“He cut off her hair; he hid it and her clothes under the floor where we found them⁠—where I think it probable that he had already some ancient masculine garments concealed⁠—”

“By Jove! I shouldn’t be surprised if they were Holt’s. I remember the man saying that that nice joker stripped him of his duds⁠—and certainly when I saw him⁠—and when Marjorie found him!⁠—he had absolutely nothing on but a queer sort of cloak. Can it be possible that that humorous professor of hankey-pankey⁠—may all the maledictions of the accursed alight upon his head!⁠—can have sent Marjorie Lindon, the daintiest damsel in the land!⁠—into the streets of London rigged out in Holt’s old togs!”

“As to that, I am not able to give an authoritative opinion, but, if I understand you aright, it at least is possible. Anyhow I am disposed to think that he sent Miss Lindon after the man Holt, taking it for granted that he had eluded you.⁠—”

“That’s it. Write me down an ass again!”

“That he did elude you, you have yourself admitted.”

“That’s because I stopped talking with that mutton-headed bobby⁠—I’d have followed the man to the ends of the earth if it hadn’t been for that.”

“Precisely; the reason is immaterial, it is the fact with which we are immediately concerned. He did elude you. And I think you will find that Miss Lindon and Mr. Holt are together at this moment.”

“In men’s clothing?”

“Both in men’s clothing, or, rather, Miss Lindon is in a man’s rags.”

“Great Potiphar! To think of Marjorie like that!”

“And where they are, the Arab is not very far off either.”

Lessingham caught me by the arm.

“And what diabolical mischief do you imagine that he proposes to do to her?”

I shirked the question.

“Whatever it is, it is our business to prevent his doing it.”

“And where do you think they have been taken?”

“That it will be our immediate business to endeavour to discover⁠—and here, at any rate, we are at Waterloo.”

XLII The Quarry Doubles

I turned towards the booking-office on the main departure platform. As I went, the chief platform inspector, George Bellingham, with whom I had some acquaintance, came out of his office. I stopped him.

“Mr. Bellingham, will you be so good as to step with me to the booking-office, and instruct the clerk in charge to answer one or two questions which I wish to put to him. I will explain to you afterwards what is their exact import, but you know me sufficiently to be able to believe me when I say that they refer to a matter in which every moment is of the first importance.”

He turned and accompanied us into the interior of the booking-case.

“To which of the clerks, Mr. Champnell, do you wish to put your questions?”

“To the one who issues third-class tickets to Southampton.”

Bellingham beckoned to a man who was counting a heap of money, and apparently seeking to make it tally with the entries in a huge ledger which lay open before him⁠—he was a short, slightly-built young fellow, with a pleasant face and smiling eyes.

“Mr. Stone, this gentleman wishes to ask you one or two questions.”

“I am at his service.”

I put my questions.

“I want to know, Mr. Stone, if, in the course of the day, you have issued any tickets to a person dressed in Arab costume?”

His reply was prompt.

“I have⁠—by the last train, the 7:25⁠—three singles.”

Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly.

“Can you describe the person?”

Mr. Stone’s eyes twinkled.

“I don’t know that I can, except in a general way⁠—he was uncommonly old and uncommonly ugly, and he had a pair of the most extraordinary eyes I ever saw⁠—they gave me a sort of all-overish feeling when I saw them glaring at me through the pigeon hole. But I can tell you one thing about him, he had a great bundle on his head, which he steadied with one hand, and as it bulged out in all directions its presence didn’t make him popular with other people who wanted tickets too.”

Undoubtedly this was our man.

“You are sure he asked for three tickets?”

“Certain. He said three tickets to Southampton; laid down the exact fare⁠—nineteen and six⁠—and held up three fingers⁠—like that. Three nasty looking fingers they were, with nails as long as talons.”

“You didn’t see who were his companions?”

“I didn’t⁠—I didn’t try to look. I gave him his tickets and off he went⁠—with the people grumbling at him because that bundle of his kept getting in their way.”

Bellingham touched me on the arm.

“I can tell you about the Arab of whom Mr. Stone speaks. My attention was called to him by his insisting on taking his bundle with him into the carriage⁠—it was an enormous thing, he could hardly squeeze it through the door; it occupied the entire seat. But as there weren’t as many passengers as usual, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t be made to understand that his precious bundle would be safe in the luggage van along with the rest of the luggage, and as he wasn’t the sort of person you could argue with to any advantage, I had him put into an empty compartment, bundle and all.”

“Was he alone then?”

“I thought so at the time, he said nothing about having more than one ticket, or any companions, but just before the train started two other men⁠—English men⁠—got into