We both of us hastened to see. He was fumbling with the latch; before we could reach him, the door was open, and he was through it. Sydney, rushing after him, caught him on the step and held him by the arm.
‘What’s the meaning of this little caper?—Where do you think you’re going now?’
Mr Holt did not condescend to turn and look at him. He said, in the same dreamy, faraway, unnatural tone of voice,—and he kept his unwavering gaze fixed on what was apparently some distant object which was visible only to himself.
‘I am going to him. He calls me.’
‘Who calls you?’
‘The Lord of the Beetle.’
Whether Sydney released his arm or not I cannot say. As he spoke, he seemed to me to slip away from Sydney’s grasp. Passing through the gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the direction we had come. Sydney stared after him in unequivocal amazement. Then he looked at me.
‘Well!—this is a pretty fix!—now what’s to be done?’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ I inquired. ‘Is he mad?’
‘There’s method in his madness if he is. He’s in the same condition in which he was that night I saw him come out of the Apostle’s window.’ Sydney has a horrible habit of calling Paul ‘the Apostle’; I have spoken to him about it over and over again,—but my words have not made much impression. ‘He ought to be followed,—he may be sailing off to that mysterious friend of his this instant.—But, on the other hand, he mayn’t, and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the conjurer’s to get us away from this elegant abode of his. He’s done me twice already, I don’t want to be done again,—and I distinctly do not want him to return and find me missing. He’s quite capable of taking the hint, and removing himself into the Ewigkeit,—when the clue to as pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.’