"
"Certainly. Red." Most pencils are red, and I thought this was safe.
But he held his right hand out with a flourish. "I've been writing
with a fountain pen," he said in deep disgust, and turned his back on
me.
But the next moment he had run to the wash-stand and pulled it out
from the wall. Behind it, where it had fallen, lay a towel, covered
with stains, as if some one had wiped bloody hands on it. He held it
up, his face working with excitement. I could only cover my eyes.
"This looks better," he said, and began making a quick search of the
room, running from one piece of furniture to another, pulling out
bureau drawers, drawing the bed out from the wall, and crawling along
the base-board with a lighted match in his hand. He gave a shout of
triumph finally, and reappeared from behind the bed with the broken
end of my knife in his hand.
"Very clumsy," he said. "_Very_ clumsy. Peter the dog could have done
better."
I had been examining the wall-paper about the wash-stand. Among the
ink-spots were one or two reddish ones that made me shiver.
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