‘I understand from this gentleman—’ signifying Atherton—‘that your name’s Robert Holt. I’m an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been assaulting you?’
Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly,—still less understand what it was that he was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain.
‘The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?’
The man’s eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came.
‘The beetle!’ He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. ‘The beetle!’
‘What’s he mean?’ asked the Inspector.
‘I think I understand,’ Sydney answered; then turning again to the man in the bed. ‘Yes, I hear what you say,—the beetle. Well, has the beetle done anything to you?’
‘It took me by the throat!’
‘Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?’
‘The beetle killed me.’