# The Goddess: A Demon/Chapter 23
### CHAPTER XXIII IN THE PASSAGE

The inspector I dragged in by the collar of his coat. I slammed the door in the faces of his friends, keeping my foot against it while I shot the bolts.
"This won't do! I'm not going to stand any more of your nonsense! You let my men in!"
There was a flaming gas-bracket in the passage. By its flare I eyed the inspector.
"You be so good as to understand, Mr. Symonds, that I'm going to have no more of your nonsense." He put his hand up to his mouth—a whistle between his fingers. Gripping his wrist, I pinned him by the throat against the wall. "If you are not careful, you'll get hurt."
He gasped out, between his clenched teeth, "I'll make you pay for this! You let my men in!"
"I'll not let your men in—until you and I have had an explanation."
The lady interposed. "Don't hurt him!"
"I'll not hurt him—unless he compels me. ​Look here, Symonds, there's been a mystification—a hideous blunder."
"I don't want to have anything to say to you. You open that door!"
His hands returned to his lips. Again I had to pin him against the wall; this time I wrenched the whistle from between his fingers.
"If you give any sort of signal, you'll be sorry."
"You've broken my wrist!"
"I haven't; but I will if you don't look out. I tell you, man, that we've been on the wrong scent; you and I, and all of us. It isn't Edwin Lawrence who's been murdered; he isn't even dead."
"Don't tell your tales to me."
"Tales! I tell you tales! Here's Mr. Edwin Lawrence to tell his own."
Lawrence was standing a few steps farther down the passage, an apparently interested spectator of what had been taking place. Symonds turned to him.
"This man? Who is this man?"
Lawrence thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes.
"I'm the corpse on whom the coroner's been sitting."
"Don't play your mountebank tricks with me, sir."
​"I'm the murdered man."
"Indeed? And pray what may be your name?"
"Edwin Lawrence—at your service, entirely to command. Though I may mention that that's only a form of words; since, at present, I'm really, and actually, in the service of another—a lady. Bound to her hand and foot by a tie there's no dissolving."
Symonds perceived that in his manner, to say the least, there was something curious. As he looked at me I endeavoured to give him the assurance which I saw that he required.
"It is Mr. Edwin Lawrence, you may safely take my word for it. The lady can confirm what I say."
Which the lady did upon the instant. The inspector was still, plainly, in a state of uncertainty; which, under the circumstances, was scarcely strange.
"I don't know if this is a trick which you have got up between you, and which you think you can play off on me; but, anyhow, who do you say the dead man is?"
Lawrence chose to take the question as addressed to him. He chuckled; there was something in the chuckle which suggested the maniac more vividly than anything which had gone before.
​"Who's the dead man? Ah! there's the puzzle—and the joke! The dead man must be me. It's in the papers—in people's mouths—it's the talk of the town. The police are searching for the wretch that slew me—the coroner and his jury have viewed my body. It's plain the dead man must be me. And yet, although it's very odd, he isn't. It's the rarest jest that ever yet was played—and all hers." He pointed with his thumb along the passage. "It's all her doing, conception and execution, both. And how she has enjoyed it! Ever since she has done nothing else but laugh. Can't you hear her? She's laughing now!"
There did seem to come, through the door which was at the end of the passage, the sound of a woman's laughter. We all heard it. The lady drew closer to me; I gritted my teeth; the inspector, with whom, as yet, it had no uncomfortable associations, treated it as though it were nothing out of the way.
"Who's it you've got in there?"
Lawrence raised his hands as if they had been notes of exclamation.
"A goddess! Such an one!—a pearl of the pantheon! A demon!—out of the very heart of hell!" He fingered his shirt-collar as if it were tight about his neck. "That's why she relished her humorous conception more than I have. The ​qualities which go to the complete enjoyment of the jokes she plays, I lack. The laughter she compels has characteristics which I do not find altogether to my taste. It gets upon my brain; steals my sleep; nips my heart; fills the world with—faces; grinning faces, all of them—like his. And so I'm resolved to tell the joke, and I promise that it shan't be spoilt in telling." This with a smile upon his lips, a something elusive in his eyes, which, to my mind, again betrayed the lunatic. He threw out his arms with a burst of sudden wildness. "Let them all come in—the whole street—the city-ful! So that as many as may be may be gathered together for the enjoyment of the joke!"
Symonds and I exchanged glances. I spoke to him in an undertone.
"If you take my advice, you will listen to what he has to say. Before he's finished, the whole story will have come out."
All the time there had been knockings at the door. Now some one without made himself prominent above the others. A shout came through the panels.
"Symonds! Is that you in there? Shall we break down the door?"
The voice was Hume's. I proffered a suggestion to the inspector.
"There is no reason why Dr. Hume should ​not come in. He will be able to resolve your doubts as to whether or not this is Mr. Edwin Lawrence. Your men I should advise you to keep outside. They will be close at hand if they are wanted."
He regarded me askance, evidently still by no means sure as to the nature of the part which I might be playing.
"You are a curious person, Mr. Ferguson. You have your own ideas of the way in which justice is administered in England. However, you shall have your own way. Let Dr. Hume come in. My men can wait outside till they are wanted."
I unbolted the door, keeping my foot against it, to guard against a sudden rush. The crowd was still in waiting. It had evidently grown larger. As the people saw that the door was being opened, there were cries and exclamations. Hume was standing just outside. It seemed that it had been his intention to make a dart within; but the spectacle of me in the doorway caused him to hesitate. By him were the inspector's friends. Misunderstanding the situation, they made an effort to force the door wider open. It was all I could do to hold it against them.
"Hume, you can come in. Inspector Symonds, give your men their instructions."
"Gray, are you there?"
​"Yes, sir! Do you want us?"
"Not just now. I may do shortly; keep where you are. Send along for some one to keep those people moving."
"Very good, sir. Are you all right in there?"
"For the present I am. Keep a sharp lookout. If you hear me give the word, come in at once—if you have to break down the door to do it."
"Right, sir!"
I rebolted the door, boos and groans coming from the crowd as they perceived themselves being shut out from the sight of anything which there might be to see. Hume had entered. He was looking about him as if the position of affairs were beyond his comprehension.
"Symonds, what does all this mean? Ferguson, what new madness have you been up to? Miss Moore, you here! This is no place for you!"
"I think it is."
"I say it's not. You ought to be in bed. Who gave you permission to leave your room?"
"I gave myself permission, thank you. I am quite able to take care of myself. And, if I'm not, here's Mr. Ferguson."
"Mr. Ferguson! Mr. Ferguson stands in need of some one to take care of him." He turned to me, "If you've had a hand in bringing Miss ​Moore here, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, if you're capable of shame, which I'm beginning to doubt Surely your own sense of decency, embryonic though it may be, ought to have told you that it is no place for her. What is this den which you have brought her to?"
"Here is some one who can tell you better than I. Ask him, not me."
Lawrence broke into laughter.
"That's it, Ferguson. Hume, ask the corpse."
Hume stared at the speaker, as if he had been a spectre; which, apparently, he was more than half disposed to believe that he was.
"Lawrence! Edwin Lawrence! Is it a living man, some demoniacal likeness, or is it a ghost? My God! is it a ghost?"
Again Lawrence laughed. He went closer to the bewildered doctor; his eyes flaming, his manner growing wilder as he continued speaking.
"A ghost, Hume, write it down a ghost! I wonder if I could cheat myself into believing I'm a ghost? Hume, you're an authority on madness. Look at me; do you think I'm mad? It's a question I've been putting to myself since—she began to be humorous. I see things—I hear things—like the men who've been—thirsty. There's a face which looks into mine—a face all cut and slashed and sliced into ribbons; and, as ​the blood streams down the cheek-bones, which are laid all bare, its teeth grin at me, inside the torn and broken jaws, and it says, 'After all I've done, this is the end!' I strike at it, with both my fists, where the eyeballs ought to be, but I can't knock it away; it won't go, it keeps on being there, I can't sleep, though I'd give all the world to. I'm afraid to try, because, when I shut my eyes, I see it plainer. The blood gets on my hands; the taste gets into my mouth; the idiot words get on my brain, 'After all I've done, this is the end!' I can't get away from the face and the words; whatever I do, wherever I go, they're there. I seem to carry them with me. I've been drinking, but I can't drink enough to shut them out; I can't get drunk. And, Hume, do you think I'm mad? I hope I am. For while I'm being tortured she laughs; she keeps laughing all the time. It's her notion of a jest. I hope that it's but a madman's fancy, what I see and hear; and that, when I get my reason back again, they'll go—the face and the words. You're a scientific man. Tell me if I'm mad."
Hume turned towards me. His countenance was pasty-hued.
"What devil's trick is this?"
Lawrence answered, in his own fashion, as if the question had been addressed to him.
​"That's what it is—a devil's trick! Hers! The Goddess's! She's a demon! I'll—I'll tell you how it was done. She's got me—by the throat; bought me—body and soul. But I don't care, I'll be even. She shan't do all the scoring; I will play a hand, although, directly afterwards, she drags me down to hell with her. Let her drag! I'm in hell already. It can't be worse—where she has sprung from."
Taking Hume by the shoulder with one hand, with the other he pointed to the door which was at the end of the passage. He was dreadful to look at. As he himself said, he already looked as if he were suffering the torments of the damned.
"She's in there—behind that door. But although she is in there she's with me here. She's always with me, wherever I am; she, the face, and the words. You think I'm romancing, passing off on you the coinage of a madman's brain. I would it were so. I wish that they were lies of my own invention, a maniac's imaginings. Come with me; judge for yourself. You shall see her. I will show you how the devil's trick was done."
He led the way along the passage. We followed. I know not what thoughts were in the minds of the others. I do know that I myself had never before been so conscious of a ​sense of discomfort. The lady slipped her hand into mine. It was cold. Her fingers trembled. Even then I would have stayed her from seeing what we were to see if I could; but I could not. It was as if we were being borne onward together in a dream. All the while I had a suspicion that, of us all, Inspector Symonds was most at his ease, while it seemed to me that Hume carried himself like a man who moved to execution.