‘You’re sure it’s nothing to do with this?’
I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy.
‘Take it away! take it away!’ he screamed.
I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then I found my tongue.
‘Lessingham!—It’s only a picture!—Are you stark mad?’
He persisted in his ejaculations.
‘Take it away! take it away!—Tear it up!—Burn it!’
His agitation was so unnatural,—from whatever cause it arose!—that, fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered, I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and, striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief.
‘Lessingham,’ I said, ‘you’re either mad already, or you’re going mad,—which is it?’
‘I think it’s neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It’s—it’s that story of which I was speaking; it—it seems curious, but I’ll tell you all about it—some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an interesting instance of a singular survival.’ He made an obvious effort to become more like his usual self. ‘It is extremely unfortunate, Atherton, that I should have troubled you with such a display of weakness,—especially as I am able to offer you so scant an explanation. One thing I would ask of you,—to observe strict confidence. What has taken place has been between ourselves. I am in your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can rely on you not to speak of it to anyone,—and, in particular, not to breathe a hint of it to Miss Lindon.’