"I have reason to think that when you came into this room," he said in
measured tones, "it was not Michaelis who was in your mind; not
principally--perhaps not at all."
"You have reason to think, sir?" muttered Chief Inspector Heat, with
every appearance of astonishment, which up to a certain point was genuine
enough. He had discovered in this affair a delicate and perplexing side,
forcing upon the discoverer a certain amount of insincerity--that sort of
insincerity which, under the names of skill, prudence, discretion, turns
up at one point or another in most human affairs. He felt at the moment
like a tight-rope artist might feel if suddenly, in the middle of the
performance, the manager of the Music Hall were to rush out of the proper
managerial seclusion and begin to shake the rope. Indignation, the sense
of moral insecurity engendered by such a treacherous proceeding joined to
the immediate apprehension of a broken neck, would, in the colloquial
phrase, put him in a state. And there would be also some scandalised
concern for his art too, since a man must identify himself with something
more tangible than his own personality, and establish his pride
somewhere, either in his social position, or in the quality of the work
he is obliged to do, or simply in the superiority of the idleness he may
be fortunate enough to enjoy.
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