"Machen, Arthur - The Shining Pyramid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Machen Arthur)

Mr. Vaughan looked up, a good deal surprised by the question.

"Old red sandstone and limestone, I believe," he said. "We are just beyond the
coal measures, you know."

"But surely there are no flints either in the sandstone or the limestone?"

"No, I never see any flints in the fields. I confess that did strike me as a
little curious.

"I should think so! It is very important. By the way, what size were the flints
used in making these devices?"

"I happen to have brought one with me; I took it this morning."

"From the Half Moon?"

"Exactly. Here it is."

He handed over a small flint, tapering to a point, and about three inches in
length.

Dyson's faced blazed up with excitement as he took the thing from Vaughan.

"Certainly," he said, after a moment's pause, "you have some curious neighbours
in your country. I hardly think they can harbour any designs on your punch-bowl.
Do you know this is a flint arrow-head of vast antiquity, and not only that, but
an arrow-head of a unique kind? I have seen specimens from all parts of the
world, but there are features about this thing that are quite peculiar."

He laid down his pipe, and took out a book from a drawer

"We shall just have time to catch the 5.45 to Castletown," he said.

Chapter 2 - The Eyes on the Wall

Mr. Dyson drew in a long breath of the air of the hills and felt all the
enchantment of the scene about him. It was very early morning, and he stood on
the terrace in the front of the house. Vaughan's ancestor had built on the lower
slope of a great hill, in the shelter of a deep and ancient wood that gathered
on three sides about the house, and on the fourth side, the south-west, the land
fell gently away and sank into the valley, where a brook wound in and out in
mystic esses, and the dark and gleaming alders tracked the stream's course to
the eye. On the terrace in hat sheltered place no wind blew, and far beyond, the
trees were still. Only one sound broke in upon the silence, and Dyson heard the
noise of the brook singing far below, the song of clear and shining water
rippling over the stones, whispering and murmuring as it sank to dark deep
pools. Across the stream, just below the house, rose a grey stone bridge,
vaulted and buttressed, a fragment of the Middle Ages, and then beyond the