‘You think so?—You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which, yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.’
‘You use strong language.—I know what you allude to.’
‘Do you mean to say that you don’t know that you were indebted for that to your Oriental friend?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly I am sure.—It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture found its way into your room?’
‘It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.’
The words were chance ones,—but they struck a mark.
‘The Lord—’ He faltered,—and stopped. He showed signs of discomposure. ‘I will be frank with you,—since frankness is what you ask.’ His smile, that time, was obviously forced. ‘Recently I have been the victim of delusions;’ there was a pause before the word, ‘of a singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their source?’
I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach the other side of Mr Lessingham,—the side which he kept hidden from the world.