CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN IN THE STREET
Whether anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as Icame out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon thelanding, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effortwas made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is thatnot the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made byanyone.
In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flyingthrough the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither hownor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through adoor at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across thisroom I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseenarticles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimesunder them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feetagain,--until I went crashing against a window which was concealed bycurtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,--butI was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for thefastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, sofar as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open Istepped through it on to the verandah without,--to find that I was onthe top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below.
I tried the road down which I had tried up,--proceeding with abreakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was,probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at thedescent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if ithad been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining,with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,--thendown I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when Ihad descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance--scraping,as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process--Ilost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling,rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracleI was not seriously injured,--but in that sense, certainly, that nightthe miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was upagain,--mud and all.
Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by theshoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly builtman, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up tothe chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me,--and Ilooked back at him.
'After the ball,--eh?'
Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and somequality as of sunshine in his handsome face.
Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half mockingsmile.
'Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle's pillar?--Is itsimple burglary, or simpler murder?--Tell me the glad tidings thatyou've killed St Paul, and I'll let you go.'
Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,--there was some excuse forthinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alikewere strange.
'Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I notshower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?--Awaywith you!'
He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I wasaway. I neither stayed nor paused.
I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than Idid that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like toknow just what it was,--I should, too, like to have seen it done.
In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of thehouse with the open window,--the packet of letters--which were like tohave cost me so dear!--gripped tightly in my hand.
The Beetle: A Mystery Page 8