The Beetle Part 41

'My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,-or you would hear reason. I a.s.sure you that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent peril.'

'What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,-why don't you speak right out?'

'I can't speak right out, there are circ.u.mstances which render it practically impossible-and that's the plain truth,-but the danger is none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,-I am in earnest; won't you take my word for it?'

'It is not a question of taking your word only,-it is a question of something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,-and Mr Holt's story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,- something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very well aware, is already over-weighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,-or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul's wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,-alone.'

'Understand that, when the time for regret comes-as it will come!-you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.'

'My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.'

'Very well!-Your blood be on your own head!'

'My blood?'

'Yes,-your blood. I shouldn't be surprised if it comes to blood before we're through.-Perhaps you'll oblige me with the loan of one of that a.r.s.enal of revolvers of which you spoke.'

I let him have his old revolver,-or, rather, I let him have one of papa's new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the expedition started,-in a four-wheeled car.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE

Mr Holt looked as if he was in somebody else's garments. He was so thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he should eat as much as he could eat before we started-the suggestion of starvation which he had conveyed to one's mind was dreadful!-and I had brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab.

It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney's manner towards me an air of protection which I instinctively resented,-he appeared to be regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished. Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were uttered were addressed to Mr Holt.

The cab stopped,-after what had appeared to me to be an interminable journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued.

'This is 'Ammersmith Workhouse, it's a large place, sir,-which part of it might you be wanting?'

Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his turn,-he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all.

'We have come a different way,-this is not the way I went; I went through Hammersmith,-and to the casual ward; I don't see that here.'

Sydney spoke to the cabman.

'Driver, where's the casual ward?'

'That's the other end, sir.'

'Then take us there.'

He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt.

'Shall I dismiss the cabman,-or don't you feel equal to walking?'

'Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,-I think the exercise will do me good.'

So the cabman was dismissed,-a step which we-and I, in particular-had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings. He pointed to a door which was just in front of us.

'That's the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the right,-back the way I had come.' We went to the right. 'I reached this corner.' We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him, endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of several directions.

Presently he arrived at something like a decision.

'I think this is the way I went,-I am nearly sure it is.'

He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere. We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us were large s.p.a.ces of waste land. At some more or less remote period attempts appeared to have been made at brick- making,-there were untidy stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous weather-stained boards announced that 'This Desirable Land was to be Let for Building Purposes.' The road itself was unfinished. There was no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed, so far as I could judge, to lose itself in s.p.a.ce, and to be swallowed up by the wilderness of 'Desirable Land' which lay beyond. In the near distance there were houses enough, and to spare-of a kind. But they were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation. One stood on either side, not facing each other,- there was a distance between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly forward,-coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left, which was the nearer of the pair.

'This is the house!' he exclaimed.

He seemed almost exhilarated,-I confess that I was depressed. A more dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old. It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two, it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a couple of storeys high, and would have been dear-I should think!-at thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since the house was built,-those on the upper floor seemed all either cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an iron railing,-a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which was practically built upon the road,-whether the wall was intended to ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear.

'This is the house!' repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him.

Sydney looked it up and down,-it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine.

'Are you sure?'

'I am certain.'

'It seems empty.'

'It seemed empty to me that night,-that is why I got into it in search of shelter.'

'Which is the window which served you as a door?'

'This one.' Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,- the one which was screened by a blind. 'There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up,-it was that which caught my eye.'

Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to bas.e.m.e.nt,-then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt.

'You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.'

'I am sure it is the house,-certain! I know it,-I feel it here, -and here.'

Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his attention upon me.

'May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?'

The mere question ruffled my plumes.

'What do you mean?'

'What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,-as you have heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should keep your wits about you.'