“The Beetle” Extract 2

By Richard Marsh (1897)

I found myself confronting an individual who might almost have sat for one of the bogies I had just alluded to. His costume was reminiscent of the ‘Algerians’ whom one finds all over France, and who are the most persistent, insolent and amusing of pedlars. I remember one who used to haunt the repetitions at the Alcazar at Tours,–but there! This individual was like the originals, yet unlike,–he was less gaudy, and a good deal dingier, than his Gallic prototypes are apt to be. Then he wore a burnoose,–the yellow, grimy-looking article of the Arab of the Soudan, not the spick and span Arab of the boulevard. Chief difference of all, his face was clean shaven,–and whoever saw an Algerian of Paris whose chiefest glory was not his well-trimmed moustache and beard?

I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these gentlemen call French,–but he didn’t.

‘You are Mr Atherton?’

‘And you are Mr–Who?–how did you come here? Where’s my servant?’

The fellow held up his hand. As he did so, as if in accordance with a pre-arranged signal, Edwards came into the room looking excessively startled. I turned to him.

‘Is this the person who wished to see me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Didn’t I tell you to say that I didn’t wish to see him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then why didn’t you do as I told you?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘Then how comes he here?’

‘Really, sir,’–Edwards put his hand up to his head as if he was half asleep–‘I don’t quite know.’

‘What do you mean by you don’t know? Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘I think, sir, that I must have had a touch of sudden faintness, because I tried to put out my hand to stop him, and–I couldn’t.’

‘You’re an idiot.–Go!’ And he went. I turned to the stranger. ‘Pray, sir, are you a magician?’

He replied to my question with another.

‘You, Mr Atherton,–are you also a magician?’

He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension.

‘I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe,’ He inclined his head–though I doubt if he understood. ‘Be so good as to tell me, briefly, what it is you wish with me.’

He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words only,–‘Marjorie Lindon.’ The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved name brought the blood into my cheeks.

‘You come from Miss Lindon?’ He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not particularly explanatory,–so I repeated my question.

‘Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?’

Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again nothing was written on it but a name,–‘Paul Lessingham.’

‘Well?–I see,–Paul Lessingham.–What then?’

‘She is good,–he is bad,–is it not so?’

He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared.

‘Pray how do you happen to know?’

‘He shall never have her,–eh?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Ah!–what do I mean!’

‘Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who the devil are you?’

‘It is as a friend I come to you.’

‘Then in that case you may go; I happen to be over-stocked in that line just now.’

‘Not with the kind of friend I am!’

‘The saints forefend!’

‘You love her,–you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him in her arms?’

I took off my mask,–feeling that the occasion required it. As I did so he brushed aside the hanging folds of the hood of his burnoose, so that I saw more of his face. I was immediately conscious that in his eyes there was, in an especial degree, what, for want of a better term, one may call the mesmeric quality. That his was one of those morbid organisations which are oftener found, thank goodness, in the east than in the west, and which are apt to exercise an uncanny influence over the weak and the foolish folk with whom they come in contact,–the kind of creature for whom it is always just as well to keep a seasoned rope close handy. I was, also, conscious that he was taking advantage of the removal of my mask to try his strength on me,–than which he could not have found a tougher job. The sensitive something which is found in the hypnotic subject happens, in me, to be wholly absent.

‘I see you are a mesmerist.’

He started.

‘I am nothing,–a shadow!’

‘And I’m a scientist. I should like, with your permission–or without it!–to try an experiment or two on you.’

He moved further back. There came a gleam into his eyes which suggested that he possessed his hideous power to an unusual degree,–that, in the estimation of his own people, he was qualified to take his standing as a regular devil-doctor.

‘We will try experiments together, you and I,–on Paul Lessingham.’

‘Why on him?’

‘You do not know?’

‘I do not.’

‘Why do you lie to me?’

‘I don’t lie to you,–I haven’t the faintest notion what is the nature of your interest in Mr Lessingham.’

‘My interest?–that is another thing; it is your interest of which we are speaking.’

‘Pardon me,–it is yours.’

‘Listen! you love her,–and he! But at a word from you he shall not have her,–never! It is I who say it,–I!’

‘And, once more, sir, who are you?’

‘I am of the children of Isis!’

‘Is that so?–It occurs to me that you have made a slight mistake,–this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.’

‘Do I not know?–what does it matter?–you shall see! There will come a time when you will want me,–you will find that you cannot bear to think of him in her arms,–her whom you love! You will call to me, and I shall come, and of Paul Lessingham there shall be an end.’

(jump to later chapter)

Chapter XVIII

The Apotheosis of the Beetle

The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was oriental to the finger-tips,–that much was certain; yet in spite of a pretty wide personal knowledge of oriental people I could not make up my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah,–he was not, unless I erred, a Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself, sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and shapeless,–and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance, seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age. As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have been supposed to have retained something of their pristine vigour after having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed,–if, indeed, he was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of the fellow’s countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,–their possessor could not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably, to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger signals never yet were placed in a creature’s head. The individual who, having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their owner’s acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued.

It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision. I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament, the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such profound believers, it was he.

When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the ice, I put to him a question.

‘May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?’

He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them, palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental.

‘Indeed?–Is that so?–Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but, for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words. Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?’

Again nothing but the gesture.

‘Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would find yourself in an awkward situation,–and, unless you are presently more explanatory, called in they will be.’

By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which might have been meant for a smile,–and which seemed to suggest that he regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words.

‘Why do you laugh–do you think that being threatened with the police is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.–Have you suddenly been bereft of the use of your tongue?’

He proved that he had not by using it.

‘I have still the use of my tongue.’

‘That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why you got there.’

‘You know why I have come.’

‘Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely what I do not know.’

‘You do know.’

‘Do I?–Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason which appears upon the surface,–to commit a felony.’

‘You call me thief?’

‘What else are you?’

‘I am no thief.–You know why I have come.’

He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I have come because you wanted me.’

‘Because I wanted you!–On my word!–That’s sublime!’

‘All night you have wanted me,–do I not know? When she talked to you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.’

I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he could mean, or–there was confusion somewhere.

‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t try to come the bunco-steerer over me,–I’m a bit in that line myself, you know.’

This time the score was mine,–he was puzzled.

‘I know not what you talk of.’

‘In that case, we’re equal,–I know not what you talk of either.’

His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.

‘What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,–if you want me, then I come?’

‘I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but–where’s the application?’

‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’

‘Who’s the him?’

‘Paul Lessingham.’

It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of–to put it gently–spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking.

‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’

‘Hate.’

Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,–in the solid oriental sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips.

‘I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’

‘Those who hate are kin.’

‘That, also, I should be slow to admit; but–to go a step farther–what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?’

‘You love her.’ This time I did not ask him to supply the name,–being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. ‘She loves him,–that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,–that will be well.’

‘Indeed.–And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?’

‘Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.’

Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I hesitated. There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,–which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,–only to win her!

What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded, for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do it then?

I would act on his suggestion,–I would carry the thing right through. Already I was advancing towards him, when–I stopped. I don’t know why. On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent.

What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a woman’s name in vain for the sake of playing fool’s tricks with such scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,–and that the name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me.

‘You hound!’ I cried.

In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up dead,–as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of steel.

For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,–I was even incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had happened.

The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me.

That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life. A shiver went down my back,–what might have occurred if I had not pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of underrating the enemy’s strength. Evidently, in his own line, the fellow was altogether something out of the usual way.

I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away, and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,–as if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was silent,–it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me equal to this gentleman of many talents.

‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t attempt to play that hankey pankey off on to me again.’

‘I don’t know what you talk of.’

‘Don’t lie to me,–or I’ll burn you into ashes.’

Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground.

‘My lord!–my lord!–have mercy, oh my lord!’

‘Then you be careful, that’s all. You may suppose yourself to be something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I can do a bit in that line myself,–perhaps I’m a trifle better at the game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold, which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such as you.’

Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to show,–in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor. The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in a condition of abject terror.

‘My lord! my lord!’ he whined. ‘I entreat you, my lord, to use me as your slave!’

‘I’ll use you as my slave!’ Whether he or I was the more agitated it would have been difficult to say,–but, at least, it would not have done to betray my feelings as he did his.

‘Stand up!’

He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had seemed to disappear,–it was also incredible that I could have imagined his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick, then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I could him?

In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to cross-examine him.

‘I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.’

‘Ask, oh my lord.’

‘What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?’

‘Revenge.’

‘What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?’

‘It is the feud of the innocent blood.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.’

‘Who has he killed?’

‘That, my lord, is for me,–and for him.’

‘I see.–Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and that I am again to use my–magic?’

I saw that he quivered.

‘My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.’

I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,–though it was hard to conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a background,–that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the background’s darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run?

‘”Spilling blood” is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.’

‘What has the Englishman’s law to do with me?’

‘If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that sense, the Englishman’s law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your own entire satisfaction.’

He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which it was not nice to see.

‘He would be shamed?’

‘Indeed he would be shamed.’

‘Before all men?’

‘Before all men,–and, I take it, before all women too.’

‘And he would hang?’

‘If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,–yes.’

His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately.

‘Perhaps I will do that in the end,–in the end!’ He opened his eyes to their widest limits, then shut them tight,–as if to gloat on the picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. ‘In the meantime I will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the avenger is upon him,–he has good reason to know it. And through the days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall be to him as the bitterness of death,–aye, of many deaths. For he will know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall turn it shall be there,–yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that THE DEATH, THE GREAT DEATH, is coming–coming–and shall be on him–when I will!’

The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he said,–and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!–then a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr Lessingham,–and, also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone acting on his behalf, and, so far as their power of doing mischief went, his big words proved empty windbags, or Marjorie would have to be warned that there was at least one passage in her suitor’s life, into which, ere it was too late, it was advisable that inquiry should be made. To allow Marjorie to irrevocably link her fate with the Apostle’s, without being first of all made aware that he was, to all intents and purposes, a haunted man–that was not to be thought of.

‘You employ large phrases.’

My words cooled the other’s heated blood. Once more his eyes were cast down, his hands crossed upon his breast

‘I crave my lord’s pardon. My wound is ever new.’

‘By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that little incident of the cockroach?’

He glanced up quickly.

‘Cockroach?–I know not what you say.’

‘Well,–was it beetle, then?’

‘Beetle!’

He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,–the word was gasped.

‘After you went we found, upon a sheet of paper, a capitally executed drawing of a beetle, which, I fancy, you must have left behind you,–Scaraboeus sacer, wasn’t it?’

‘I know not what you talk of.’

‘Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr Lessingham. Now, why was that?’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Oh yes you do,–and, before you go, I mean to know something too.’

The man was trembling, looking this way and that, showing signs of marked discomfiture. That there was something about that ancient scarab, which figures so largely in the still unravelled tangles of the Egyptian mythologies, and the effect which the mere sight of its cartouch–for the drawing had resembled something of the kind–had had on such a seasoned vessel as Paul Lessingham, which might be well worth my finding out, I felt convinced,–the man’s demeanour, on my recurring to the matter, told its own plain tale. I made up my mind, if possible, to probe the business to the bottom, then and there.

‘Listen to me, my friend. I am a plain man, and I use plain speech,–it’s a kind of hobby I have. You will give me the information I require, and that at once, or I will pit my magic against yours,–in which case I think it extremely probable that you will come off worst from the encounter.’

I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled.

‘My lord, I know not of what you talk.’

‘None of your lies for me.–Tell me why, at the sight of the thing on that sheet of paper, Paul Lessingham went green and yellow.’

‘Ask him, my lord.’

‘Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I am asking you. Answer,–or look out for squalls.’

The electrical exhibition was going on. He was glaring at it as if he wished that it would stop. As if ashamed of his cowardice, plainly, on a sudden, he made a desperate effort to get the better of his fears,–and succeeded better than I had expected or desired. He drew himself up with what, in him, amounted to an air of dignity.

‘I am a child of Isis!’

It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me, as with a view of elevating his own low spirits,

‘Are you?–Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to congratulate the lady on her offspring.’

When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard before.

‘Silence!–You know not of what you speak!–I warn you, as I warned Paul Lessingham, be careful not to go too far. Be not like him,–heed my warning.’

‘What is it I am being warned against,–the beetle?’

‘Yes,–the beetle!’

Were I upon oath, and this statement being made, in the presence of witnesses, say, in a solicitor’s office, I standing in fear of pains and penalties, I think that, at this point, I should leave the paper blank. No man likes to own himself a fool, or that he ever was a fool,–and ever since I have been wondering whether, on that occasion, that ‘child of Isis’ did, or did not, play the fool with me. His performance was realistic enough at the time, heaven knows. But, as it gets farther and farther away, I ask myself, more and more confidently, as time effluxes, whether, after all, it was not clever juggling,–superhumanly clever juggling, if you will; that, and nothing more. If it was something more, then, with a vengeance! there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy. The mere possibility opens vistas which the sane mind fears to contemplate.

Since, then, I am not on oath, and, should I fall short of verbal accuracy, I do not need to fear the engines of the law, what seemed to happen was this.

He was standing within about ten feet of where I leaned against the edge of the table. The light was full on, so that it was difficult to suppose that I could make a mistake as to what took place in front of me. As he replied to my mocking allusion to the beetle by echoing my own words, he vanished,–or, rather, I saw him taking a different shape before my eyes. His loose draperies all fell off him, and, as they were in the very act of falling, there issued, or there seemed to issue out of them, a monstrous creature of the beetle type,–the man himself was gone. On the point of size I wish to make myself clear. My impression, when I saw it first, was that it was as large as the man had been, and that it was, in some way, standing up on end, the legs towards me. But, the moment it came in view, it began to dwindle, and that so rapidly that, in a couple of seconds at most, a little heap of drapery was lying on the floor, on which was a truly astonishing example of the coleoptera. It appeared to be a beetle. It was, perhaps, six or seven inches high, and about a foot in length. Its scales were of a vivid golden green. I could distinctly see where the wings were sheathed along the back, and, as they seemed to be slightly agitated, I looked, every moment, to see them opened, and the thing take wing.

I was so astonished,–as who would not have been?–that for an appreciable space of time I was practically in a state of stupefaction. I could do nothing but stare. I was acquainted with the legendary transmigrations of Isis, and with the story of the beetle which issues from the woman’s womb through all eternity, and with the other pretty tales, but this, of which I was an actual spectator, was something new, even in legends. If the man, with whom I had just been speaking, was gone, where had he gone to? If this glittering creature was there, in his stead, whence had it come?

I do protest this much, that, after the first shock of surprise had passed, I retained my presence of mind. I felt as an investigator might feel, who has stumbled, haphazard, on some astounding, some epoch-making, discovery. I was conscious that I should have to make the best use of my mental faculties if I was to take full advantage of so astonishing an accident. I kept my glance riveted on the creature, with the idea of photographing it on my brain. I believe that if it were possible to take a retinal print–which it someday will be–you would have a perfect picture of what it was I saw, Beyond doubt it was a lamellicorn, one of the copridae. With the one exception of its monstrous size, there were the characteristics in plain view;–the convex body, the large head, the projecting clypeus. More, its smooth head and throat seemed to suggest that it was a female. Equally beyond a doubt, apart from its size, there were unusual features present too. The eyes were not only unwontedly conspicuous, they gleamed as if they were lighted by internal flames,–in some indescribable fashion they reminded me of my vanished visitor. The colouring was superb, and the creature appeared to have the chameleon-like faculty of lightening and darkening the shades at will. Its not least curious feature was its restlessness. It was in a state of continual agitation; and, as if it resented my inspection, the more I looked at it the more its agitation grew. As I have said, I expected every moment to see it take wing and circle through the air.

All the while I was casting about in my mind as to what means I could use to effect its capture. I did think of killing it, and, on the whole, I rather wish that I had at any rate attempted slaughter,–there were dozens of things, lying ready to my hand, any one of which would have severely tried its constitution;–but, on the spur of the moment, the only method of taking it alive which occurred to me, was to pop over it a big tin canister which had contained soda-lime. This canister was on the floor to my left. I moved towards it, as nonchalantly as I could, keeping an eye on that shining wonder all the time. Directly I moved, its agitation perceptibly increased,–it was, so to speak, all one whirr of tremblement; it scintillated, as if its coloured scales had been so many prisms; it began to unsheath its wings, as if it had finally decided that it would make use of them. Picking up the tin, disembarrassing it of its lid, I sprang towards my intended victim. Its wings opened wide; obviously it was about to rise; but it was too late. Before it had cleared the ground, the tin was over it.

It remained over it, however, for an instant only. I had stumbled, in my haste, and, in my effort to save myself from falling face foremost on to the floor, I was compelled to remove my hands from the tin. Before I was able to replace them, the tin was sent flying, and, while I was still partially recumbent, within eighteen inches of me, that beetle swelled and swelled, until it had assumed its former portentous dimensions, when, as it seemed, it was enveloped by a human shape, and in less time than no time, there stood in front of me, naked from top to toe, my truly versatile oriental friend. One startling fact nudity revealed,–that I had been egregiously mistaken on the question of sex. My visitor was not a man, but a woman, and, judging from the brief glimpse which I had of her body, by no means old or ill-shaped either.

If that transformation was not a bewildering one, then two and two make five. The most level-headed scientist would temporarily have lost his mental equipoise on witnessing such a quick change as that within a span or two of his own nose I was not only witless, I was breathless too,–I could only gape. And, while I gaped, the woman, stooping down, picking up her draperies, began to huddle them on her anyhow,–and, also, to skeddadle towards the door which led into the yard. When I observed this last manoeuvre, to some extent I did rise to the requirements of the situation. Leaping up, I rushed to stay her flight.

‘Stop!’ I shouted.

But she was too quick for me. Ere I could reach her, she had opened the door, and was through it,–and, what was more, she had slammed it in my face. In my excitement, I did some fumbling with the handle. When, in my turn, I was in the yard, she was out of sight. I did fancy I saw a dim form disappearing over the wall at the further side, and I made for it as fast as I knew how. I clambered on to the wall, looking this way and that, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I listened for the sound of retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished. Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent.