The Red Hand | Page 9

in chalks, displayed his
brilliant impressions on the pavement, soliciting the approval and the
coppers of the gay and serious.
"This," said Dyson, "is more than delightful! An artist is provided to
my hand."
IV
The Artist of the Pavement
MR. PHILLIPPS, in spite of all disavowals -- in spite of the wall of
sense of whose enclosure and limit he was wont to make his boast --
yet felt in his heart profoundly curious as to the case of Sir Thomas
Vivian. Though he kept a brave face for his friend, his reason could not
decently resist the conclusion that Dyson had enunciated, namely, that
the whole affair had a look both ugly and mysterious. There was the
weapon of a vanished race that had pierced the great arteries; the red
hand, the symbol of a hideous faith, that pointed to the slain man; and
then the tablet which Dyson declared he had expected to find, and had
certainly found, bearing the ancient impress of the hand of malediction,
and a legend written beneath in a character compared with which the
most antique cuneiform was a thing of yesterday. Besides all this, there
were other points that tortured and perplexed. How to account for the
bare knife found unstained beneath the body? And the hint that the red
hand upon the wall must have been drawn by some one whose life was
passed in darkness thrilled him with a suggestion of dim and infinite
horror. Hence he was in truth not a little curious as to what was to come,

and some ten days after he had returned the tablet he again visited the
"mystery-man", as he privately named his friend.
Arrived in the grave and airy chambers in Great Russell Street, he
found the moral atmosphere of the place had been transformed. All
Dyson's irritation had disappeared, his brow was smoothed with
complacency, and he sat at a table by the window gazing out into the
street with an expression of grim enjoyment, a pile of books and papers
lying unheeded before him.
"My dear Phillipps, I am delighted to see you! Pray excuse my moving.
Draw your chair up here to the table, and try this admirable shag
tobacco."
"Thank you," said Phillipps, "judging by the flavour of the smoke, I
should think it is a little strong. But what on earth is all this? What are
you looking at?"
"I am on my watch-tower. I assure you that the time seems short while
I contemplate this agreeable street and the classic grace of the Museum
portico."
"Your capacity for nonsense is amazing," replied Phillipps, "but have
you succeeded in deciphering the tablet? It interests me."
"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.
"Do you know, Phillipps," said Dyson, as he strolled at ease up and
down the room, "I will tell you how I work. I go upon the theory of
improbability. The theory is unknown to you? I will explain. Suppose I
stand on the steps of St. Paul's and look out for a blind man lame of the
left leg