'I have.'

'I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which compels a person to see whatever he-the Obeah man-may please. Do you think that's possible?'

'It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either yes or no.'

He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was making conversation,-saying anything for the sake of gaining time.

'I remember reading a book ent.i.tled "Obscure Diseases of the Brain." It contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.'

'Possibly.'

'Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of a mental pathologist?'

'I don't think that you're insane, if that's what you mean.'

'No?-That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be dreaded.-Well, Atherton, I'm keeping you. The truth is that, insane or not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.'

He moved towards his hat and umbrella.

'There is something else which you must do.'

'What is that?'

'You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand.

'My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign everything,-everything!'

He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was pathetic.

'Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with her before to-night.'

His back was towards me.

'There will come a time when your conscience will p.r.i.c.k you because of your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most unfortunate of men.'

'I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent girl.'

He turned.

'Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie Lindon?'

'She regards me as a brother.'

'And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her purely fraternal?'

'You know that I love her.'

'And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?'

'I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your desire too.'

'That is so.' He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face of which I had not thought it capable. 'That is so to an extent of which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, especially by one whom he regards-may I say it?-as a possible rival. But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my life is likely to continue, I would not wish,- G.o.d forbid that I should wish to join her fate with mine,-not for all that the world could offer me.'

He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued.

'When I was younger I was subject to a-similar delusion. But it vanished,-I saw no trace of it for years,-I thought that I had done with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,-as you have witnessed. I shall inst.i.tute inquiries into the cause of its reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my pretensions to Miss Linden's hand, but to all my other ambitions. In the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself on the footing of a mere acquaintance.'

'You promise me?'

'I do.-And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few things more disagreeable to one's self-esteem than to learn, too late, that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean if I have to turn my back on it,- owing to a mischievous twist of fortune's wheel.'

He turned, is if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an att.i.tude of listening.

'What's that?'

There was a sound of droning,-I recalled what Marjorie had said of her experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle. The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began to change,-it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him.

'Lessingham!-don't be a fool!-play the man!'

He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were being compressed in a vice.

'Then-I shall have to have some more brandy.'

Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him the decanter and the gla.s.s. He helped himself to a copious libation. By the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put down the empty tumbler.

'When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,-but then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation of a tete-a-tete with the devil.'

Again he turned to leave the room,-and this time he actually went. I let him go alone. I heard his footsteps pa.s.sing along the pa.s.sage, and the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and-I wondered.

I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked it up. It was a picture of a beetle,-a facsimile of the one which had had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before.

'If this was intended for St Paul, it's a trifle late;-unless-'

I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;-in which expectation I was agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were red as roses.

'I hope I am not interrupting you again, but-I left my purse here.' She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, 'And-I want you to come and lunch with me.'

I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,-and I lunched with Dora Grayling.

BOOK III

The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day

Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale

CHAPTER XXIII