Abruptly9, in the middle of those sunny and windy flats, he came upon a sort of cleft10 almost narrow enough to be called a crack in the land. It was just large enough to be the water-course for a small stream which vanished at intervals11 under green tunnels of undergrowth, as if in a dwarfish12 forest. Indeed, he had an odd feeling as if he were a giant looking over the valley of the pygmies. When he dropped into the hollow, however, the impression was lost; the rocky banks, though hardly above the height of a cottage, hung over and had the profile of a precipice13. As he began to wander down the course of the stream, in idle but romantic curiosity, and saw the water shining in short strips between the great gray boulders15 and bushes as soft as great green mosses17, he fell into quite an opposite vein18 of fantasy. It was rather as if the earth had opened and swallowed him into a sort of underworld of dreams. And when he became conscious of a human figure dark against the silver stream, sitting on a large boulder14 and looking rather like a large bird, it was perhaps with some of the premonitions proper to a man who meets the strangest friendship of his life.
The man was apparently19 fishing; or at least was fixed20 in a fisherman's attitude with more than a fisherman's immobility. March was able to examine the man almost as if he had been a statue for some minutes before the statue spoke21. He was a tall, fair man, cadaverous, and a little lackadaisical22, with heavy eyelids23 and a highbridged nose. When his face was shaded with his wide white hat, his light mustache and lithe24 figure gave him a look of youth. But the Panama lay on the moss16 beside him; and the spectator could see that his brow was prematurely25 bald; and this, combined with a certain hollowness about the eyes, had an air of headwork and even headache. But the most curious thing about him, realized after a short scrutiny26, was that, though he looked like a fisherman, he was not fishing.
He was holding, instead of a rod, something that might have been a landing-net which some fishermen use, but which was much more like the ordinary toy net which children carry, and which they generally use indifferently for shrimps27 or butterflies. He was dipping this into the water at intervals, gravely regarding its harvest of weed or mud, and emptying it out again.
"No, I haven't caught anything," he remarked, calmly, as if answering an unspoken query28. "When I do I have to throw it back again; especially the big fish. But some of the little beasts interest me when I get 'em."
"A scientific interest, I suppose?" observed March.
"Of a rather amateurish30 sort, I fear," answered the strange fisherman. "I have a sort of hobby about what they call 'phenomena31 of phosphorescence.' But it would be rather awkward to go about in society carrying stinking32 fish."
"I suppose it would," said March, with a smile.
"Rather odd to enter a drawing-room carrying a large luminous33 cod," continued the stranger, in his listless way. "How quaint34 it would be if one could carry it about like a lantern, or have little sprats for candles. Some of the seabeasts would really be very pretty like lampshades; the blue sea-snail that glitters all over like starlight; and some of the red starfish really shine like red stars. But, naturally, I'm not looking for them here."
March thought of asking him what he was looking for; but, feeling unequal to a technical discussion at least as deep as the deep-sea fishes, he returned to more ordinary topics.
"Delightful35 sort of hole this is," he said. "This little dell and river here. It's like those places Stevenson talks about, where something ought to happen."
"I know," answered the other. "I think it's because the place itself, so to speak, seems to happen and not merely to exist. Perhaps that's what old Picasso and some of the Cubists are trying to express by angles and jagged lines. Look at that wall like low cliffs that juts36 forward just at right angles to the slope of turf sweeping37 up to it. That's like a silent collision. It's like a breaker and the back-wash of a wave."
March looked at the low-browed crag overhanging the green slope and nodded. He was interested in a man who turned so easily from the technicalities of science to those of art; and asked him if he admired the new angular artists.
"As I feel it, the Cubists are not Cubist enough," replied the stranger. "I mean they're not thick enough. By making things mathematical they make them thin. Take the living lines out of that landscape, simplify it to a right angle, and you flatten38 it out to a mere2 diagram on paper. Diagrams have their own beauty; but it is of just the other sort. They stand for the unalterable things; the calm, eternal, mathematical sort of truths; what somebody calls the 'white radiance of'—"
He stopped, and before the next word came something had happened almost too quickly and completely to be realized. From behind the overhanging rock came a noise and rush like that of a railway train; and a great motor car appeared. It topped the crest39 of cliff, black against the sun, like a battle-chariot rushing to destruction in some wild epic40. March automatically put out his hand in one futile41 gesture, as if to catch a falling tea-cup in a drawing-room.
For the fraction of a flash it seemed to leave the ledge42 of rock like a flying ship; then the very sky seemed to turn over like a wheel, and it lay a ruin amid the tall grasses below, a line of gray smoke going up slowly from it into the silent air. A little lower the figure of a man with gray hair lay tumbled down the steep green slope, his limbs lying all at random43, and his face turned away.
The eccentric fisherman dropped his net and walked swiftly toward the spot, his new acquaintance following him. As they drew near there seemed a sort of monstrous44 irony45 in the fact that the dead machine was still throbbing46 and thundering as busily as a factory, while the man lay so still.
He was unquestionably dead. The blood flowed in the grass from a hopelessly fatal fracture at the back of the skull47; but the face, which was turned to the sun, was uninjured and strangely arresting in itself. It was one of those cases of a strange face so unmistakable as to feel familiar. We feel, somehow, that we ought to recognize it, even though we do not. It was of the broad, square sort with great jaws48, almost like that of a highly intellectual ape; the wide mouth shut so tight as to be traced by a mere line; the nose short with the sort of nostrils50 that seem to gape51 with an appetite for the air. The oddest thing about the face was that one of the eyebrows52 was cocked up at a much sharper angle than the other. March thought he had never seen a face so naturally alive as that dead one. And its ugly energy seemed all the stranger for its halo of hoary53 hair. Some papers lay half fallen out of the pocket, and from among them March extracted a card-case. He read the name on the card aloud.
"Sir Humphrey Turnbull. I'm sure I've heard that name somewhere."
His companion only gave a sort of a little sigh and was silent for a moment, as if ruminating54, then he merely said, "The poor fellow is quite gone," and added some scientific terms in which his auditor55 once more found himself out of his depth.
"As things are," continued the same curiously56 well-informed person, "it will be more legal for us to leave the body as it is until the police are informed. In fact, I think it will be well if nobody except the police is informed. Don't be surprised if I seem to be keeping it dark from some of our neighbors round here." Then, as if prompted to regularize his rather abrupt8 confidence, he said: "I've come down to see my cousin at Torwood; my name is Horne Fisher. Might be a pun on my pottering about here, mightn't it?"
"Is Sir Howard Horne your cousin?" asked March. "I'm going to Torwood Park to see him myself; only about his public work, of course, and the wonderful stand he is making for his principles. I think this Budget is the greatest thing in English history. If it fails, it will be the most heroic failure in English history. Are you an admirer of your great kinsman57, Mr. Fisher?"
"Rather," said Mr. Fisher. "He's the best shot I know."
"No, but really, he's a beautiful shot."
As if fired by his own words, he took a sort of leap at the ledges60 of the rock above him, and scaled them with a sudden agility61 in startling contrast to his general lassitude. He had stood for some seconds on the headland above, with his aquiline62 profile under the Panama hat relieved against the sky and peering over the countryside before his companion had collected himself sufficiently63 to scramble64 up after him.
The level above was a stretch of common turf on which the tracks of the fated car were plowed65 plainly enough; but the brink66 of it was broken as with rocky teeth; broken boulders of all shapes and sizes lay near the edge; it was almost incredible that any one could have deliberately67 driven into such a death trap, especially in broad daylight.
"I can't make head or tail of it," said March. "Was he blind? Or blind drunk?"
"Neither, by the look of him," replied the other.
"Then it was suicide."
"It doesn't seem a cozy68 way of doing it," remarked the man called Fisher. "Besides, I don't fancy poor old Puggy would commit suicide, somehow."
"Poor old who?" inquired the wondering journalist. "Did you know this unfortunate man?"
"Nobody knew him exactly," replied Fisher, with some vagueness. "But one knew him, of course. He'd been a terror in his time, in Parliament and the courts, and so on; especially in that row about the aliens who were deported69 as undesirables70, when he wanted one of 'em hanged for murder. He was so sick about it that he retired72 from the bench. Since then he mostly motored about by himself; but he was coming to Torwood, too, for the week-end; and I don't see why he should deliberately break his neck almost at the very door. I believe Hoggs—I mean my cousin Howard—was coming down specially29 to meet him."
"Torwood Park doesn't belong to your cousin?" inquired March.
"No; it used to belong to the Winthrops, you know," replied the other. "Now a new man's got it; a man from Montreal named Jenkins. Hoggs comes for the shooting; I told you he was a lovely shot."
This repeated eulogy73 on the great social statesman affected74 Harold March as if somebody had defined Napoleon as a distinguished75 player of nap. But he had another half-formed impression struggling in this flood of unfamiliar76 things, and he brought it to the surface before it could vanish.
"Jenkins," he repeated. "Surely you don't mean Jefferson Jenkins, the social reformer? I mean the man who's fighting for the new cottage-estate scheme. It would be as interesting to meet him as any Cabinet Minister in the world, if you'll excuse my saying so."
"Yes; Hoggs told him it would have to be cottages," said Fisher. "He said the breed of cattle had improved too often, and people were beginning to laugh. And, of course, you must hang a peerage on to something; though the poor chap hasn't got it yet. Hullo, here's somebody else."
They had started walking in the tracks of the car, leaving it behind them in the hollow, still humming horribly like a huge insect that had killed a man. The tracks took them to the corner of the road, one arm of which went on in the same line toward the distant gates of the park. It was clear that the car had been driven down the long straight road, and then, instead of turning with the road to the left, had gone straight on over the turf to its doom77. But it was not this discovery that had riveted78 Fisher's eye, but something even more solid. At the angle of the white road a dark and solitary79 figure was standing80 almost as still as a finger post. It was that of a big man in rough shooting-clothes, bareheaded, and with tousled curly hair that gave him a rather wild look. On a nearer approach this first more fantastic impression faded; in a full light the figure took on more conventional colors, as of an ordinary gentleman who happened to have come out without a hat and without very studiously brushing his hair. But the massive stature81 remained, and something deep and even cavernous about the setting of the eyes redeemed82 his animal good looks from the commonplace. But March had no time to study the man more closely, for, much to his astonishment83, his guide merely observed, "Hullo, Jack84!" and walked past him as if he had indeed been a signpost, and without attempting to inform him of the catastrophe85 beyond the rocks. It was relatively86 a small thing, but it was only the first in a string of singular antics on which his new and eccentric friend was leading him.
The man they had passed looked after them in rather a suspicious fashion, but Fisher continued serenely87 on his way along the straight road that ran past the gates of the great estate.
"That's John Burke, the traveler," he condescended88 to explain. "I expect you've heard of him; shoots big game and all that. Sorry I couldn't stop to introduce you, but I dare say you'll meet him later on."
"I know his book, of course," said March, with renewed interest. "That is certainly a fine piece of description, about their being only conscious of the closeness of the elephant when the colossal89 head blocked out the moon."
"Yes, young Halkett writes jolly well, I think. What? Didn't you know Halkett wrote Burke's book for him? Burke can't use anything except a gun; and you can't write with that. Oh, he's genuine enough in his way, you know, as brave as a lion, or a good deal braver by all accounts."
"You seem to know all about him," observed March, with a rather bewildered laugh, "and about a good many other people."
Fisher's bald brow became abruptly corrugated90, and a curious expression came into his eyes.
"I know too much," he said. "That's what's the matter with me. That's what's the matter with all of us, and the whole show; we know too much. Too much about one another; too much about ourselves. That's why I'm really interested, just now, about one thing that I don't know."
"And that is?" inquired the other.
"Why that poor fellow is dead."
They had walked along the straight road for nearly a mile, conversing91 at intervals in this fashion; and March had a singular sense of the whole world being turned inside out. Mr. Horne Fisher did not especially abuse his friends and relatives in fashionable society; of some of them he spoke with affection. But they seemed to be an entirely92 new set of men and women, who happened to have the same nerves as the men and women mentioned most often in the newspapers. Yet no fury of revolt could have seemed to him more utterly93 revolutionary than this cold familiarity. It was like daylight on the other side of stage scenery.
They reached the great lodge94 gates of the park, and, to March's surprise, passed them and continued along the interminable white, straight road. But he was himself too early for his appointment with Sir Howard, and was not disinclined to see the end of his new friend's experiment, whatever it might be. They had long left the moorland behind them, and half the white road was gray in the great shadow of the Torwood pine forests, themselves like gray bars shuttered against the sunshine and within, amid that clear noon, manufacturing their own midnight. Soon, however, rifts95 began to appear in them like gleams of colored windows; the trees thinned and fell away as the road went forward, showing the wild, irregular copses in which, as Fisher said, the house-party had been blazing away all day. And about two hundred yards farther on they came to the first turn of the road.
At the corner stood a sort of decayed inn with the dingy96 sign of The Grapes. The signboard was dark and indecipherable by now, and hung black against the sky and the gray moorland beyond, about as inviting97 as a gallows98. March remarked that it looked like a tavern99 for vinegar instead of wine.
"A good phrase," said Fisher, "and so it would be if you were silly enough to drink wine in it. But the beer is very good, and so is the brandy."
March followed him to the bar parlor100 with some wonder, and his dim sense of repugnance101 was not dismissed by the first sight of the innkeeper, who was widely different from the genial102 innkeepers of romance, a bony man, very silent behind a black mustache, but with black, restless eyes. Taciturn as he was, the investigator103 succeeded at last in extracting a scrap104 of information from him, by dint105 of ordering beer and talking to him persistently106 and minutely on the subject of motor cars. He evidently regarded the innkeeper as in some singular way an authority on motor cars; as being deep in the secrets of the mechanism107, management, and mismanagement of motor cars; holding the man all the time with a glittering eye like the Ancient Mariner108. Out of all this rather mysterious conversation there did emerge at last a sort of admission that one particular motor car, of a given description, had stopped before the inn about an hour before, and that an elderly man had alighted, requiring some mechanical assistance. Asked if the visitor required any other assistance, the innkeeper said shortly that the old gentleman had filled his flask109 and taken a packet of sandwiches. And with these words the somewhat inhospitable host had walked hastily out of the bar, and they heard him banging doors in the dark interior.
Fisher's weary eye wandered round the dusty and dreary110 inn parlor and rested dreamily on a glass case containing a stuffed bird, with a gun hung on hooks above it, which seemed to be its only ornament111.
"Puggy was a humorist," he observed, "at least in his own rather grim style. But it seems rather too grim a joke for a man to buy a packet of sandwiches when he is just going to commit suicide."
"If you come to that," answered March, "it isn't very usual for a man to buy a packet of sandwiches when he's just outside the door of a grand house he's going to stop at."
"No . . . no," repeated Fisher, almost mechanically; and then suddenly cocked his eye at his interlocutor with a much livelier expression.
"By Jove! that's an idea. You're perfectly112 right. And that suggests a very queer idea, doesn't it?"
There was a silence, and then March started with irrational113 nervousness as the door of the inn was flung open and another man walked rapidly to the counter. He had struck it with a coin and called out for brandy before he saw the other two guests, who were sitting at a bare wooden table under the window. When he turned about with a rather wild stare, March had yet another unexpected emotion, for his guide hailed the man as Hoggs and introduced him as Sir Howard Horne.
He looked rather older than his boyish portraits in the illustrated114 papers, as is the way of politicians; his flat, fair hair was touched with gray, but his face was almost comically round, with a Roman nose which, when combined with his quick, bright eyes, raised a vague reminiscence of a parrot. He had a cap rather at the back of his head and a gun under his arm. Harold March had imagined many things about his meeting with the great political reformer, but he had never pictured him with a gun under his arm, drinking brandy in a public house.
"So you're stopping at Jink's, too," said Fisher. "Everybody seems to be at Jink's."
"Yes," replied the Chancellor of the Exchequer. "Jolly good shooting. At least all of it that isn't Jink's shooting. I never knew a chap with such good shooting that was such a bad shot. Mind you, he's a jolly good fellow and all that; I don't say a word against him. But he never learned to hold a gun when he was packing pork or whatever he did. They say he shot the cockade off his own servant's hat; just like him to have cockades, of course. He shot the weathercock off his own ridiculous gilded115 summerhouse. It's the only cock he'll ever kill, I should think. Are you coming up there now?"
Fisher said, rather vaguely116, that he was following soon, when he had fixed something up; and the Chancellor of the Exchequer left the inn. March fancied he had been a little upset or impatient when he called for the brandy; but he had talked himself back into a satisfactory state, if the talk had not been quite what his literary visitor had expected. Fisher, a few minutes afterward117, slowly led the way out of the tavern and stood in the middle of the road, looking down in the direction from which they had traveled. Then he walked back about two hundred yards in that direction and stood still again.
"I should think this is about the place," he said.
"What place?" asked his companion.
"The place where the poor fellow was killed," said Fisher, sadly.
"What do you mean?" demanded March.
"He was smashed up on the rocks a mile and a half from here."
"No, he wasn't," replied Fisher. "He didn't fall on the rocks at all. Didn't you notice that he only fell on the slope of soft grass underneath118? But I saw that he had a bullet in him already."
Then after a pause he added:
"He was alive at the inn, but he was dead long before he came to the rocks. So he was shot as he drove his car down this strip of straight road, and I should think somewhere about here. After that, of course, the car went straight on with nobody to stop or turn it. It's really a very cunning dodge119 in its way; for the body would be found far away, and most people would say, as you do, that it was an accident to a motorist. The murderer must have been a clever brute120."
"But wouldn't the shot be heard at the inn or somewhere?" asked
March.
"It would be heard. But it would not be noticed. That," continued the investigator, "is where he was clever again. Shooting was going on all over the place all day; very likely he timed his shot so as to drown it in a number of others. Certainly he was a first-class criminal. And he was something else as well."
"What do you mean?" asked his companion, with a creepy premonition of something coming, he knew not why.
"He was a first-class shot," said Fisher. He had turned his back abruptly and was walking down a narrow, grassy121 lane, little more than a cart track, which lay opposite the inn and marked the end of the great estate and the beginning of the open moors. March plodded122 after him with the same idle perseverance123, and found him staring through a gap in giant weeds and thorns at the flat face of a painted paling. From behind the paling rose the great gray columns of a row of poplars, which filled the heavens above them with dark-green shadow and shook faintly in a wind which had sunk slowly into a breeze. The afternoon was already deepening into evening, and the titanic124 shadows of the poplars lengthened125 over a third of the landscape.
"Are you a first-class criminal?" asked Fisher, in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid I'm not. But I think I can manage to be a sort of fourth-rate burglar."
And before his companion could reply he had managed to swing himself up and over the fence; March followed without much bodily effort, but with considerable mental disturbance126. The poplars grew so close against the fence that they had some difficulty in slipping past them, and beyond the poplars they could see only a high hedge of laurel, green and lustrous127 in the level sun. Something in this limitation by a series of living walls made him feel as if he were really entering a shattered house instead of an open field. It was as if he came in by a disused door or window and found the way blocked by furniture. When they had circumvented128 the laurel hedge, they came out on a sort of terrace of turf, which fell by one green step to an oblong lawn like a bowling129 green. Beyond this was the only building in sight, a low conservatory130, which seemed far away from anywhere, like a glass cottage standing in its own fields in fairyland. Fisher knew that lonely look of the outlying parts of a great house well enough. He realized that it is more of a satire131 on aristocracy than if it were choked with weeds and littered with ruins. For it is not neglected and yet it is deserted132; at any rate, it is disused. It is regularly swept and garnished133 for a master who never comes.
Looking over the lawn, however, he saw one object which he had not apparently expected. It was a sort of tripod supporting a large disk like the round top of a table tipped sideways, and it was not until they had dropped on to the lawn and walked across to look at it that March realized that it was a target. It was worn and weatherstained; the gay colors of its concentric rings were faded; possibly it had been set up in those far-off Victorian days when there was a fashion of archery. March had one of his vague visions of ladies in cloudy crinolines and gentlemen in outlandish hats and whiskers revisiting that lost garden like ghosts.
Fisher, who was peering more closely at the target, startled him by an exclamation134.
"Hullo!" he said. "Somebody has been peppering this thing with shot, after all, and quite lately, too. Why, I believe old Jink's been trying to improve his bad shooting here."
"Yes, and it looks as if it still wanted improving," answered March, laughing. "Not one of these shots is anywhere near the bull's-eye; they seem just scattered135 about in the wildest way."
"In the wildest way," repeated Fisher, still peering intently at the target. He seemed merely to assent136, but March fancied his eye was shining under its sleepy lid and that he straightened his stooping figure with a strange effort.
"Excuse me a moment," he said, feeling in his pockets. "I think I've got some of my chemicals; and after that we'll go up to the house." And he stooped again over the target, putting something with his finger over each of the shot-holes, so far as March could see merely a dull-gray smear137. Then they went through the gathering138 twilight139 up the long green avenues to the great house.
Here again, however, the eccentric investigator did not enter by the front door. He walked round the house until he found a window open, and, leaping into it, introduced his friend to what appeared to be the gun-room. Rows of the regular instruments for bringing down birds stood against the walls; but across a table in the window lay one or two weapons of a heavier and more formidable pattern.
"Hullo! these are Burke's big-game rifles," said Fisher. "I never knew he kept them here." He lifted one of them, examined it briefly140, and put it down again, frowning heavily. Almost as he did so a strange young man came hurriedly into the room. He was dark and sturdy, with a bumpy141 forehead and a bulldog jaw49, and he spoke with a curt142 apology.
"I left Major Burke's guns here," he said, "and he wants them packed up. He's going away to-night."
And he carried off the two rifles without casting a glance at the stranger; through the open window they could see his short, dark figure walking away across the glimmering143 garden. Fisher got out of the window again and stood looking after him.
"That's Halkett, whom I told you about," he said. "I knew he was a sort of secretary and had to do with Burke's papers; but I never knew he had anything to do with his guns. But he's just the sort of silent, sensible little devil who might be very good at anything; the sort of man you know for years before you find he's a chess champion."
He had begun to walk in the direction of the disappearing secretary, and they soon came within sight of the rest of the house-party talking and laughing on the lawn. They could see the tall figure and loose mane of the lion-hunter dominating the little group.
"By the way," observed Fisher, "when we were talking about Burke and Halkett, I said that a man couldn't very well write with a gun. Well, I'm not so sure now. Did you ever hear of an artist so clever that he could draw with a gun? There's a wonderful chap loose about here."
Sir Howard hailed Fisher and his friend the journalist with almost boisterous144 amiability145. The latter was presented to Major Burke and Mr. Halkett and also (by way of a parenthesis) to his host, Mr. Jenkins, a commonplace little man in loud tweeds, whom everybody else seemed to treat with a sort of affection, as if he were a baby.
The irrepressible Chancellor of the Exchequer was still talking about the birds he had brought down, the birds that Burke and Halkett had brought down, and the birds that Jenkins, their host, had failed to bring down. It seemed to be a sort of sociable146 monomania.
"You and your big game," he ejaculated, aggressively, to Burke. "Why, anybody could shoot big game. You want to be a shot to shoot small game."
"Quite so," interposed Horne Fisher. "Now if only a hippopotamus147 could fly up in the air out of that bush, or you preserved flying elephants on the estate, why, then—"
"Why even Jink might hit that sort of bird," cried Sir Howard, hilariously148 slapping his host on the back. "Even he might hit a haystack or a hippopotamus."
"Look here, you fellows," said Fisher. "I want you to come along with me for a minute and shoot at something else. Not a hippopotamus. Another kind of queer animal I've found on the estate. It's an animal with three legs and one eye, and it's all the colors of the rainbow."
"What the deuce are you talking about?" asked Burke.
"You come along and see," replied Fisher, cheerfully.
Such people seldom reject anything nonsensical, for they are always seeking for something new. They gravely rearmed themselves from the gun-room and trooped along at the tail of their guide, Sir Howard only pausing, in a sort of ecstasy149, to point out the celebrated150 gilt151 summerhouse on which the gilt weathercock still stood crooked152. It was dusk turning to dark by the time they reached the remote green by the poplars and accepted the new and aimless game of shooting at the old mark.
The last light seemed to fade from the lawn, and the poplars against the sunset were like great plumes153 upon a purple hearse, when the futile procession finally curved round, and came out in front of the target. Sir Howard again slapped his host on the shoulder, shoving him playfully forward to take the first shot. The shoulder and arm he touched seemed unnaturally155 stiff and angular. Mr. Jenkins was holding his gun in an attitude more awkward than any that his satiric156 friends had seen or expected.
At the same instant a horrible scream seemed to come from nowhere. It was so unnatural154 and so unsuited to the scene that it might have been made by some inhuman157 thing flying on wings above them or eavesdropping158 in the dark woods beyond. But Fisher knew that it had started and stopped on the pale lips of Jefferson Jenkins, of Montreal, and no one at that moment catching159 sight of Jefferson Jenkins's face would have complained that it was commonplace. The next moment a torrent160 of guttural but good-humored oaths came from Major Burke as he and the two other men saw what was in front of them. The target stood up in the dim grass like a dark goblin grinning at them, and it was literally161 grinning. It had two eyes like stars, and in similar livid points of light were picked out the two upturned and open nostrils and the two ends of the wide and tight mouth. A few white dots above each eye indicated the hoary eyebrows; and one of them ran upward almost erect162. It was a brilliant caricature done in bright dotted lines and March knew of whom. It shone in the shadowy grass, smeared163 with sea fire as if one of the submarine monsters had crawled into the twilight garden; but it had the head of a dead man.
"It's only luminous paint," said Burke. "Old Fisher's been having a joke with that phosphorescent stuff of his."
"Seems to be meant for old Puggy"' observed Sir Howard. "Hits him off very well."
With that they all laughed, except Jenkins. When they had all done, he made a noise like the first effort of an animal to laugh, and Horne Fisher suddenly strode across to him and said:
"Mr. Jenkins, I must speak to you at once in private."
It was by the little watercourse in the moors, on the slope under the hanging rock, that March met his new friend Fisher, by appointment, shortly after the ugly and almost grotesque164 scene that had broken up the group in the garden.
"It was a monkey-trick of mine," observed Fisher, gloomily, "putting phosphorus on the target; but the only chance to make him jump was to give him the horrors suddenly. And when he saw the face he'd shot at shining on the target he practiced on, all lit up with an infernal light, he did jump. Quite enough for my own intellectual satisfaction."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand even now," said March, "exactly what he did or why he did it."
"You ought to," replied Fisher, with his rather dreary smile, "for you gave me the first suggestion yourself. Oh yes, you did; and it was a very shrewd one. You said a man wouldn't take sandwiches with him to dine at a great house. It was quite true; and the inference was that, though he was going there, he didn't mean to dine there. Or, at any rate, that he might not be dining there. It occurred to me at once that he probably expected the visit to be unpleasant, or the reception doubtful, or something that would prevent his accepting hospitality. Then it struck me that Turnbull was a terror to certain shady characters in the past, and that he had come down to identify and denounce one of them. The chances at the start pointed165 to the host—that is, Jenkins. I'm morally certain now that Jenkins was the undesirable71 alien Turnbull wanted to convict in another shooting-affair, but you see the shooting gentleman had another shot in his locker166."
"But you said he would have to be a very good shot," protested
March.
"Jenkins is a very good shot," said Fisher. "A very good shot who can pretend to be a very bad shot. Shall I tell you the second hint I hit on, after yours, to make me think it was Jenkins? It was my cousin's account of his bad shooting. He'd shot a cockade off a hat and a weathercock off a building. Now, in fact, a man must shoot very well indeed to shoot so badly as that. He must shoot very neatly167 to hit the cockade and not the head, or even the hat. If the shots had really gone at random, the chances are a thousand to one that they would not have hit such prominent and picturesque168 objects. They were chosen because they were prominent and picturesque objects. They make a story to go the round of society. He keeps the crooked weathercock in the summerhouse to perpetuate169 the story of a legend. And then he lay in wait with his evil eye and wicked gun, safely ambushed170 behind the legend of his own incompetence171.
"But there is more than that. There is the summerhouse itself. I mean there is the whole thing. There's all that Jenkins gets chaffed about, the gilding172 and the gaudy173 colors and all the vulgarity that's supposed to stamp him as an upstart. Now, as a matter of fact, upstarts generally don't do this. God knows there's enough of 'em in society; and one knows 'em well enough. And this is the very last thing they do. They're generally only too keen to know the right thing and do it; and they instantly put themselves body and soul into the hands of art decorators and art experts, who do the whole thing for them. There's hardly another millionaire alive who has the moral courage to have a gilt monogram174 on a chair like that one in the gun-room. For that matter, there's the name as well as the monogram. Names like Tompkins and Jenkins and Jinks are funny without being vulgar; I mean they are vulgar without being common. If you prefer it, they are commonplace without being common. They are just the names to be chosen to look ordinary, but they're really rather extraordinary. Do you know many people called Tompkins? It's a good deal rarer than Talbot. It's pretty much the same with the comic clothes of the parvenu175. Jenkins dresses like a character in Punch. But that's because he is a character in Punch. I mean he's a fictitious176 character. He's a fabulous177 animal. He doesn't exist.
"Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a man who doesn't exist? I mean to be a man with a fictitious character that he has to keep up at the expense not merely of personal talents: To be a new kind of hypocrite hiding a talent in a new kind of napkin. This man has chosen his hypocrisy178 very ingeniously; it was really a new one. A subtle villain179 has dressed up as a dashing gentleman and a worthy180 business man and a philanthropist and a saint; but the loud checks of a comical little cad were really rather a new disguise. But the disguise must be very irksome to a man who can really do things. This is a dexterous181 little cosmopolitan182 guttersnipe who can do scores of things, not only shoot, but draw and paint, and probably play the fiddle183. Now a man like that may find the hiding of his talents useful; but he could never help wanting to use them where they were useless. If he can draw, he will draw absent-mindedly on blotting184 paper. I suspect this rascal185 has often drawn186 poor old Puggy's face on blotting paper. Probably he began doing it in blots187 as he afterward did it in dots, or rather shots. It was the same sort of thing; he found a disused target in a deserted yard and couldn't resist indulging in a little secret shooting, like secret drinking. You thought the shots all scattered and irregular, and so they were; but not accidental. No two distances were alike; but the different points were exactly where he wanted to put them. There's nothing needs such mathematical precision as a wild caricature. I've dabbled188 a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one dot where you want it is a marvel189 with a pen close to a piece of paper. It was a miracle to do it across a garden with a gun. But a man who can work those miracles will always itch190 to work them, if it's only in the dark."
After a pause March observed, thoughtfully, "But he couldn't have brought him down like a bird with one of those little guns."
"No; that was why I went into the gun-room," replied Fisher. "He did it with one of Burke's rifles, and Burke thought he knew the sound of it. That's why he rushed out without a hat, looking so wild. He saw nothing but a car passing quickly, which he followed for a little way, and then concluded he'd made a mistake."
There was another silence, during which Fisher sat on a great stone as motionless as on their first meeting, and watched the gray and silver river eddying191 past under the bushes. Then March said, abruptly, "Of course he knows the truth now."
"Nobody knows the truth but you and I," answered Fisher, with a certain softening192 in his voice. "And I don't think you and I will ever quarrel."
"What do you mean?" asked March, in an altered accent. "What have you done about it?"
Horne Fisher continued to gaze steadily193 at the eddying stream. At last he said, "The police have proved it was a motor accident."
"But you know it was not."
"I told you that I know too much," replied Fisher, with his eye on the river. "I know that, and I know a great many other things. I know the atmosphere and the way the whole thing works. I know this fellow has succeeded in making himself something incurably194 commonplace and comic. I know you can't get up a persecution195 of old Toole or Little Tich. If I were to tell Hoggs or Halkett that old Jink was an assassin, they would almost die of laughter before my eyes. Oh, I don't say their laughter's quite innocent, though it's genuine in its way. They want old Jink, and they couldn't do without him. I don't say I'm quite innocent. I like Hoggs; I don't want him to be down and out; and he'd be done for if Jink can't pay for his coronet. They were devilish near the line at the last election. But the only real objection to it is that it's impossible. Nobody would believe it; it's not in the picture. The crooked weathercock would always turn it into a joke."
"I think a good many things," replied the other. "If you people ever happen to blow the whole tangle197 of society to hell with dynamite198, I don't know that the human race will be much the worse. But don't be too hard on me merely because I know what society is. That's why I moon away my time over things like stinking fish."
There was a pause as he settled himself down again by the stream; and then he added:
"I told you before I had to throw back the big fish."
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1
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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2
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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3
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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6
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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7
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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8
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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10
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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11
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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12
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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13
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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14
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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15
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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16
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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18
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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19
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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20
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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23
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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24
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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25
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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26
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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27
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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28
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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29
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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30
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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31
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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32
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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33
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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34
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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35
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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36
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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37
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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38
flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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39
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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40
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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41
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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42
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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43
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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44
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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45
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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46
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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47
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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48
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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49
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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50
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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51
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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52
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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53
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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54
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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55
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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56
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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58
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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59
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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60
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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61
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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62
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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63
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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64
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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65
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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66
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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67
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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68
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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69
deported
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 )；举止 | |
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70
undesirables
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| 不受欢迎的人，不良分子( undesirable的名词复数 ) | |
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71
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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72
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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73
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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74
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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77
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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78
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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79
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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80
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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81
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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82
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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83
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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84
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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85
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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86
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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87
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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88
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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89
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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90
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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91
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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92
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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93
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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94
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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95
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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96
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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97
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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98
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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99
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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100
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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101
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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102
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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103
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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104
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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105
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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106
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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107
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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108
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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109
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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110
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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111
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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112
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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113
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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114
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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115
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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116
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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117
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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118
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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119
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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120
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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121
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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122
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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123
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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124
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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125
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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127
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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128
circumvented
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的过去式和过去分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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129
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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130
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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131
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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132
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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133
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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135
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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136
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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137
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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138
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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139
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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140
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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141
bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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142
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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143
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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144
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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145
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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146
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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147
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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148
hilariously
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149
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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150
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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151
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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152
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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153
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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154
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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155
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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156
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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157
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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158
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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159
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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160
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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161
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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162
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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163
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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164
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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165
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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166
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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167
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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168
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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169
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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170
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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171
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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172
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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173
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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174
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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175
parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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176
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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177
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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178
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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179
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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180
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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181
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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182
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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183
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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184
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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185
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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186
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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187
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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188
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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189
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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190
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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191
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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192
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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193
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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194
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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195
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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196
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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197
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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198
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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