Beetle — 08 - The Man in the Street

CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN IN THE STREET

Whether anyone pursued I cannot say.

I have some dim recollection, as I came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the landing, and of their screaming as I went past.

But whether any effort was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell.

My own impression is that not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by anyone.

In what direction I was going I did not know.

I was like a man flying through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how nor whither.

I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room.

Across this room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes under them.

In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet again,--until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by curtains.

It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,--but I was spared that.

Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the fastening of the window.

It was a tall French casement, extending, so far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling.

When I had it open I stepped through it on to the verandah without,--to find that I was on the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below.

I tried the road down which I had tried up,--proceeding with a breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think.

It was, probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it had been only three.

Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,--then down I commenced to scramble.

I never did get a proper hold, and when I had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance--scraping, as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process--I lost what little hold I had.

Down to the bottom I went tumbling, rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road.

It was a miracle I was not seriously injured,--but in that sense, certainly, that night the miracles were on my side.

Hardly was I down, than I was up again,--mud and all.

Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the shoulder.

Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel.

He looked at me,--and I looked back at him.

‘After the ball,--eh?

’ Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face.

Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half mocking smile.

‘Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle’s pillar?

--Is it simple burglary, or simpler murder?

--Tell me the glad tidings that you’ve killed St Paul, and I’ll let you go.

’ Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,--there was some excuse for thinking so.

He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike were strange.

‘Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?

--Away with you!

’ He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I was away.

I neither stayed nor paused.

I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to know just what it was,--I should, too, like to have seen it done.

In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the house with the open window,--the packet of letters--which were like to have cost me so dear!

--gripped tightly in my hand.