‘You promise me?’

’I do.—­And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more gently.  Judgment in my case has still to be given.  You will find that I am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine.  And there are few things more disagreeable to one’s self-esteem than to learn, too late, that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly.  Think of all that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean if I have to turn my back on it,—­ owing to a mischievous twist of fortune’s wheel.’

He turned, is if to go.  Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude of listening.

‘What’s that?’

There was a sound of droning,—­I recalled what Marjorie had said of her experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle.  The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began to change,—­it was pitiable to witness.  I rushed to him.

‘Lessingham!—­don’t be a fool!—­play the man!’

He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were being compressed in a vice.

‘Then—­I shall have to have some more brandy.’

Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it.  I gave him the decanter and the glass.  He helped himself to a copious libation.  By the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone.  He put down the empty tumbler.

’When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,—­but then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation of a tete-a-tete with the devil.’

Again he turned to leave the room,—­and this time he actually went.  I let him go alone.  I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and the hall-door close.  Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and—­I wondered.

I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a slight noise at my side.  Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come fluttering through the open window.  It fell almost at my feet.  I picked it up.  It was a picture of a beetle,—­a facsimile of the one which had had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before.

‘If this was intended for St Paul, it’s a trifle late;—­unless—­’

I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor.  I looked up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;—­in which expectation I was agreeably disappointed.  The newcomer was feminine.  It was Miss Grayling.  As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were red as roses.

’I hope I am not interrupting you again, but—­I left my purse here.’  She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘And—­I want you to come and lunch with me.’

I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,—­and I lunched with Dora Grayling.