I lit one of my prohibited Turkish cigarettes, and as I did so I saw that Drummond was staring with curious intentness at a letter and a parcel that lay on the hall table. The parcel was about the size of a cigar box, and the label outside proclaimed that it came from Asprey’s.
He led the way upstairs, carrying them both with him. And then having drawn himself some beer, and waved his hand at the cask in the corner for us to help ourselves, he slit the envelope open with a paper knife.
“I thought as much,” he said after he had read the contents. “But how very crude; and how very untruthful. Though it shows they possess a confidence in their ability, which is not so far justified by results.”
We looked over his shoulder at the typewritten slip he held in his hand. It ran as follows:—
“Mr. Stockton is dead because he knew too much: a traitor is dead because he was a traitor. Unless you stop at once, a fool will die because he was a fool.”
“How crude,” he repeated. “How very crude. I’m afraid our opponents are not very clever. They must have been going to the movies or something. It is rare to find three lies in such a short space. Toby, bring me a basin chock-full of water, will you? There’s one in the bathroom.”
His eyes were fixed on the parcel, and he was smiling grimly.
“To be certain of success is an admirable trait, Stockton,” he murmured, “if you succeed. If, on the contrary, you fail, it is ill-advised to put your convictions on paper. Almost as ill-advised, in fact, as to send livestock disguised as a cigarette-case.”
“What on earth do you mean?” I asked.
“Put your ear against that parcel and listen,” he answered shortly.
And suddenly I heard it—a faint rustling, and then a gentle scraping noise.
“You’re having an excellent blooding to this sort of game,” he laughed. “In fact, I’ve rarely known events come crowding so thick and fast. But crude—oh! so crude, as I said before.”
“Here you are, old man. Is there enough water?”
Toby had reentered the room with the basin.
“Ample,” answered Drummond, picking up the parcel and holding it under the surface. “Give me that paperweight, Stockton, and then we can resume our beer.”
Fascinated I watched the bubbles rise to the surface. At first they came slowly, then as the water permeated the wrappings they rose in a steady stream. And then clear and distinct there came a dreadful hissing noise, and the surface of the water became blurred with a faint tremor as if the box itself was shaking.
“A pleasant little pet,” murmured Drummond, watching the basin with interest. “There’s no doubt about it, you fellows, that the air of rapidity grows more and more marked.”
At last the bubbles ceased; the whole parcel was waterlogged.
“We’ll give it five minutes,” said Drummond, “before inspecting Asprey’s latest.”
We waited, I at any rate with ill-concealed impatience, till the time was up and Drummond took the parcel out of the water. He cut the string and removed the paper. Inside was a wooden box with holes drilled in it, and the water was draining out of it back into the basin.
With the paper-knife he prised open the lid, and even he gave a startled exclamation when he saw what was inside. Personally it filled me with a feeling of nausea, and I saw Toby Sinclair clutch the table.
It was a spider of sorts, but such a spider as I have never dreamed of in my wildest nightmares. Its body was the size of a hen’s egg; its six legs the size of a crab’s. And it was covered with coarse black hair. Even in death it looked the manifestation of all evil, with its great protruding eyes and short sharp jaws, and with a shudder I turned away.
“A jest I do not like,” said Drummond quietly, tipping the corpse out into the basin. “Hullo! Another note.”
He was staring at the bottom of the box, and there sure enough was an envelope. It was sodden with water, but the letter inside was legible. And for a while we stared at it uncomprehendingly.
“This is to introduce William. If you decide to keep him, his favourite diet is one of small birds and mice. He is a married man, and since I hated to part him from his wife I have sent her along too. She is addressed to the most suitable person in the house to receive a lady.”
As I say, for a moment or two we stared at the note uncomprehendingly, and then Drummond gave a sudden strangled grunt in his throat and dashed from the room.
“Phyllis,” he flung at us hoarsely, from the door.
“Good Lord! his wife,” cried Toby, and with sick fear in our hearts we followed him.
“It’s all right, darling,” came his voice from above us, but there was no answer. And when we got to the open door and looked into the room the silence was not surprising.
Cowering in a corner, her eyes dilated with horror, there stood a girl. She was staring at something on the carpet—something that was hidden from us by the bed. Her lips were moving, but no sound came from them, and she never even lifted her eyes to look at her husband.
And I don’t wonder. Even now, though eighteen months have passed, my skin still creeps as I recall that moment. If the dead thing below had been horrible, what words can I use for the living? As with many spiders, the female was larger than the male, and the thing which stood on its six great legs about a yard from her feet looked the size of a puppy. It was squat and
