Free The Beetle by Richard Marsh Page A

great Paul
Lessingham is as great a thief as you,—and greater!—for, at
least, than you he has more courage.'
    For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden
fierceness,
    'Give me what you have stolen!'
    I moved towards the bed—most unwillingly—and held out to him the
packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer.
Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set
himself to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared
me straight in the face.
    'What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close
at my side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would
you not take me for a wife?'
    There was something about the manner in which this was said which
was so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could
possibly be mistaken in the creature's sex. I would have given
much to have been able to strike him across the face,—or, better,
to have taken him by the neck, and thrown him through the window,
and rolled him in the mud.
    He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him.
    'So!—that is what you have stolen!—That is what you have taken
from the drawer in the bureau—the drawer which was locked—and
which you used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give
it to me,—thief!'
    He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as
he did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet
over and over, glaring at it as he did so,—it was strange what a
relief it was to have his glance removed from off my face.
    'You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but
you could see it,—did you? You hid it as one hides treasure.
There should be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth
knowing,—yes, worth knowing!—since you found it worth your while
to hide it up so closely.'
    As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink
ribbon,—a fact on which he presently began to comment.
    'With what a pretty string you have encircled it,—and how neatly
it is tied! Surely only a woman's hand could tie a knot like
that,—who would have guessed yours were such agile fingers?—So!
An endorsement on the cover! What's this?—let's see what's
written!—"The letters of my dear love, Marjorie Lindon."'
    As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the
outer sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which
were enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I
suppose that rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His
jaw dropped open so that his yellow fangs gleamed though his
parted lips,—he held his breath so long that each moment I looked
to see him fall down in a fit; the veins stood out all over his
face and head like seams of blood. I know not how long he
continued speechless. When his breath returned, it was with
chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his
words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him
near to strangulation.
    'The letters of his dear love!—of his dear love!—his!—Paul
Lessingham's!—So!—It is as I guessed,—as I knew,—as I saw!—
Marjorie Lindon!—Sweet Marjorie!—His dear love!—Paul
Lessingham's dear love!—She with the lily face, the corn-hued
hair!—What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to
write Paul Lessingham?'
    Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open. It contained, perhaps,
eight or nine letters,—some mere notes, some long epistles. But,
short or long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over
and over again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading
them. They were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of
whiteness, with untrimmed edges, On each sheet a crest and an
address were stamped in gold, and all the sheets were of the same
shape and size. I told myself that if anywhere, at any time, I saw
writing paper like that again, I should not fail to know it. The
caligraphy was, like the paper, unusual, bold,