‘Come, I see that you suppose my intentions to be harsher than they really are,—do not let us have a scandal, and a scene,—be sensible!—give me those letters!’
Again he moved in my direction; again, after he had taken a step or two, to stumble and stop, and look about him with frightened eyes; again to begin to mumble to himself aloud.
‘It’s a conjurer’s trick!—Of course!—Nothing more.—What else could it be?—I’m not to be fooled.—I’m older than I was. I’ve been overdoing it,—that’s all.’
Suddenly he broke into cries.
‘Matthews! Matthews!—Help! help!’
Matthews entered the room, followed by three other men, younger than himself. Evidently all had slipped into the first articles of clothing they could lay their hands upon, and each carried a stick, or some similar rudimentary weapon.
Their master spurred them on.
‘Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!—knock him down!—take the letters from him!—don’t be afraid!—I’m not afraid!’
In proof of it, he rushed at me, as it seemed half blindly. As he did so I was constrained to shout out, in tones which I should not have recognised as mine,
‘THE BEETLE!’