The Beetle by Richard Marsh

brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon
the refractory flap. The hatchet went through,—before I had done
with it, it was open with a vengeance.
    But I was destined on the occasion of my first—and, I trust,
last—experience of the burglar's calling, to carry the part
completely through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to
find that at the back were several small drawers, on one of which
my observation was brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite
impossible to disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and,
once more, I had to search for something which would serve as a
rough-and-ready substitute for the missing key.
    There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,—I could
hardly for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question
was such a little one that to have done so would have been to
shiver it to splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather
case, were a pair of revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes
stand in actual peril of their lives. It is possible that Mr
Lessingham, conscious of continually threatened danger, carried
them about with him as a necessary protection. They were
serviceable weapons, large, and somewhat weighty,—of the type
with which, I believe, upon occasion the police are armed. Not
only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the case itself there
was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to charge them all
again.
    I was handling the weapons, wondering—if, in my condition, the
word was applicable—what use I could make of them to enable me to
gain admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from
the street without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a
whirring within my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to
explain to me to what service to apply the revolvers, and I,
perforce, strained every nerve to grasp the meaning of my
invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels drew rapidly nearer,
and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling by, stopped,—in
front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a convulsion of
frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied moment,
I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard, from
the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,—it was as
if I had been rooted to the ground.
    A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was
turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If
I could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but
gone at once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings
and goings were not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear
raging within, outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood,
turning the revolvers over and over, asking myself what it could
be that I was intended to do with them. All at once it came to me
in an illuminating flash,—I was to fire at the lock of the
drawer, and blow it open.
    A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The
servants had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly
sleep through the discharge of a revolver in a room below them,—
not to speak of the person who had just entered the premises, and
whose footsteps were already audible as he came up the stairs. I
struggled to make a dumb protest against the insensate folly which
was hurrying me to infallible destruction, without success. For me
there was only obedience. With a revolver in either hand I marched
towards the bureau as unconcernedly as if I would not have given
my life to have escaped the denouement which I needed but a slight
modicum of common sense to be aware was close at hand. I placed
the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the keyhole of the
drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed me, and
pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the
drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about
which a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me,
immediately following the report of the pistol,