‘That is not what I mean.’

‘Then what do you mean?’

’Listen.  If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?’

‘Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?’

‘Or a follower of Isis?’

‘Before, or after death?’

He hesitated.  I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of interest,—­to be frank, I was keenly interested too!—­but, on a sudden there came into his eyes a glint of something that was almost terror.  When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted awkwardness.

‘In—­in the very act of dying.’

‘In the very act of dying?’

’If—­he had seen a follower of Isis in—­the very act of dying, assume—­the form of a—­a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?’

I stared,—­as who would not?  Such an extraordinary question was rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,—­yet I was almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more extraordinary still.

’Look here, Lessingham, I can see you’ve a capital tale to tell,—­ so tell it, man!  Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not the kind of tale in which ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,—­anyhow, it’s hardly fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it unappeased.’

He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more, until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless mask,—­somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not altogether to his liking.  His voice was once more bland and self-contained.

’I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle.  I suppose I have.’

‘But what is the taradiddle?—­don’t you see I’m burning?’

’Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour.  Until I have permission to unloose it, my tongue is tied.’  He picked up his hat and umbrella from where he had placed them on the table.  Holding them in his left hand, he advanced to me with his right outstretched.  ’It is very good of you to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such interruptions mean, —­believe me, I am not ungrateful.  What is this?’

On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of paper,—­the size and shape of half a sheet of post note.  At this he stooped to glance.  As he did so, something surprising occurred.  On the instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him.  His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor.  He retreated, gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him, until he reached the wall on the other side of the room.  A more amazing spectacle than he presented I never saw.

‘Lessingham!’ I exclaimed.  ‘What’s wrong with you?’