The Red Hand
'I have not paid much attention to the tablet recently,' said Dyson. 'I believe the spiral character may wait.'
'Really! And how about the Vivian murder?'
'Ah, you do take an interest in that case? Well, after all, we cannot deny that it was a queer business. But is not "murder" rather a coarse word? It smacks a little, surely, of the police poster. Perhaps I am a trifle decadent, but I cannot help believing in the splendid word; "sacrifice," for example, is surely far finer than "murder".'
'I am all in the dark,' said Phillipps. 'I cannot even imagine by what track you are moving in this labyrinth.'
'I think that before very long the whole matter will be a good deal clearer for us both, but I doubt whether you will like hearing the story.'
Dyson lit his pipe afresh and leant back, not relaxing, however, in his scrutiny of the street. After a somewhat lengthy pause, he startled Phillipps by a loud breath of relief as he rose from the chair by the window and began to pace the floor.
'It's over for the day,' he said, 'and, after all, one gets a little tired.'
Phillipps looked with inquiry into the street. The evening was darkening, and the pile of the Museum was beginning to loom indistinct before the lighting of the lamps, but the pavements were thronged and busy. The artist in chalks across the way was gathering together his materials, and blurring all the brilliance of his designs, and a little lower down there was the clang of shutters being placed in position. Phillipps could see nothing to justify Mr. Dyson's sudden abandonment of his attitude of surveillance, and grew a little irritated by all these thorny enigmas.
499
