‘Yes,—in my old clothes. My God!’
‘And where is Miss Lindon now?’
The man had been speaking with his eyes closed. Now he opened them, wide; there came into them the former staring horror. He became possessed by uncontrollable agitation,—half raising himself in bed. Words came from his quivering lips as if they were only drawn from him by the force of his anguish.
‘The beetle’s going to kill Miss Lindon.’
A momentary paroxysm seemed to shake the very foundations of his being. His whole frame quivered. He fell back on to the bed,—ominously. The doctor examined him in silence—while we too were still.
‘This time he’s gone for good, there’ll be no conjuring him back again.’
I felt a sudden pressure on my arm, and found that Lessingham was clutching me with probably unconscious violence. The muscles of his face were twitching. He trembled. I turned to the doctor.
‘Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it for my friend?’
Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the ‘shillings worth.’ I rather fancy it saved us from a scene.
The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house.