Neither of them noted the brilliant sun upon the mahogany director’s table, nor the glint it gave the diamond upon the finger of Elijah Wilson in the portrait hanging behind MacArthur’s desk.
MacArthur re-seated himself, rubbed his eyelids listlessly and then, his blue eyes upon Higgins’ gray ones, asked:
“You know about last night?”
Higgins nodded and replied:
“We must do something, Doctor. After that the murderer will either strike immediately, or wait indefinitely. In either case, we need a man on the ward day as well as night. May I call the agency now?”
“Why not use a local man?”
Higgins shook his head decisively.
“Too much depends on the man to take someone I am not sure of. With your permission?”
He reached for the telephone and MacArthur said, “You have it.”
“New York. Digby 4-3872. Mr. Anderson. James P. Anderson. Put it through right away, please.”