He then studied the answer on his friend’s fingers. The answer was, “Go to hell!”
The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor.
“Perhaps I should rather say,” said Syme on his fingers, “that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods.”
His companion disdained to reply.
“Or yet again,” tapped Syme, “it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman.”
The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected—
“Dr. Bull!”
The Doctor’s sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme.
“Dr. Bull,” said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, “would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?”
The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move.