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!’

And that moment the room was all in darkness, and there were screams as of someone in an agony of terror or of pain.  I felt that something had come into the room, I knew not whence nor how, —­something of horror.  And the next action of which I was conscious was, that under cover of the darkness, I was flying from the room, propelled by I knew not what.

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.