"You remember," said he, "the night when I handed you the rough sketch
I had made of the _scarabaeus_. You recollect, also, that I became
quite vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled a
death's-head. When you first made this assertion I thought you were
jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar spots on the
back of the insect, and admitted to myself that your remark had some,
little foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my graphic powers
irritated me--for I am considered a good artist--and, therefore, when
you handed me the scrap of parchment, I was about to crumple it up and
throw it angrily into the fire."
"The scrap of paper, you mean," said I.
"No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I supposed
it to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I discovered it at
once to be a piece of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you
remember. Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling it up, my glance
fell upon the sketch at which you had been looking, and you may
imagine my astonishment when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a
death's-head just where, it seemed to me, I had made the drawing of
the beetle. For a moment I was too much amazed to think with accuracy.
I knew that my design was very different in detail from this, although
there was a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took a
candle, and seating myself at the other end of the room, proceeded to
scrutinize the parchment more closely.
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