I。THEFACEINTHETARGET
　　HaroldMarch，therisingreviewerandsocialcritic，waswalkingvigorouslyacrossagreattablelandofmoorsandcommons，thehorizonofwhichwasfringedwiththefar—offwoodsofthefamousestateofTorwoodPark。Hewasagood—lookingyoungmanintweeds，withverypalecurlyhairandpalecleareyes。
　　Walkinginwindandsunintheverylandscapeofliberty，hewasstillyoungenoughtorememberhispoliticsandnotmerelytrytoforgetthem。ForhiserrandatTorwoodParkwasapoliticalone;itwastheplaceofappointmentnamedbynolessapersonthantheChancelloroftheExchequer，SirHowardHorne，thenintroducinghisso—calledSocialistbudget，andpreparedtoexpounditinaninterviewwithsopromisingapenman。HaroldMarchwasthesortofmanwhoknowseverythingaboutpolitics，andnothingaboutpoliticians。Healsoknewagreatdealaboutart，letters，philosophy，andgeneralculture;aboutalmosteverything，indeed，excepttheworldhewaslivingin。
　　Abruptly，inthemiddleofthosesunnyandwindyflats，hecameuponasortofcleftalmostnarrowenoughtobecalledacrackintheland。Itwasjustlargeenoughtobethewater—courseforasmallstreamwhichvanishedatintervalsundergreentunnelsofundergrowth，asifinadwarfishforest。
　　Indeed，hehadanoddfeelingasifhewereagiantlookingoverthevalleyofthepygmies。Whenhedroppedintothehollow，however，theimpressionwaslost;therockybanks，thoughhardlyabovetheheightofacottage，hungoverandhadtheprofileofaprecipice。Ashebegantowanderdownthecourseofthestream，inidlebutromanticcuriosity，andsawthewatershininginshortstripsbetweenthegreatgraybouldersandbushesassoftasgreatgreenmosses，hefellintoquiteanoppositeveinoffantasy。Itwasratherasiftheearthhadopenedandswallowedhimintoasortofunderworldofdreams。Andwhenhebecameconsciousofahumanfiguredarkagainstthesilverstream，sittingonalargeboulderandlookingratherlikealargebird，itwasperhapswithsomeofthepremonition’spropertoamanwhomeetsthestrangestfriendshipofhislife。
　　Themanwasapparentlyfishing;oratleastwasfixedinafisherman’sattitudewithmorethanafisherman’simmobility。Marchwasabletoexaminethemanalmostasifhehadbeenastatueforsomeminutesbeforethestatuespoke。Hewasatall，fairman，cadaverous，andalittlelackadaisical，withheavyeyelidsandahighbridgednose。Whenhisfacewasshadedwithhiswidewhitehat，hislightmustacheandlithefiguregavehimalookofyouth。
　　ButthePanamalayonthemossbesidehim;andthespectatorcouldseethathisbrowwasprematurelybald;andthis，combinedwithacertainhollownessabouttheeyes，hadanairofheadworkandevenheadache。Butthemostcuriousthingabouthim，realizedafterashortscrutiny，wasthat，thoughhelookedlikeafisherman，hewasnotfishing。
　　Hewasholding，insteadofarod，somethingthatmighthavebeenalanding—netwhichsomefishermenuse，butwhichwasmuchmoreliketheordinarytoynetwhichchildrencarry，andwhichtheygenerallyuseindifferentlyforshrimpsorbutterflies。Hewasdippingthisintothewateratintervals，gravelyregardingitsharvestofweedormud，andemptyingitoutagain。
　　"No，Ihaven’tcaughtanything，"heremarked，calmly，asifansweringanunspokenquery。"WhenI
　　doIhavetothrowitbackagain;especiallythebigfish。ButsomeofthelittlebeastsinterestmewhenI
　　get’em。"
　　"Ascientificinterest，Isuppose？"observedMarch。
　　"Ofaratheramateurishsort，Ifear，"answeredthestrangefisherman。"Ihaveasortofhobbyaboutwhattheycall’phenomenaofphosphorescence。’Butitwouldberatherawkwardtogoaboutinsocietycryingstinkingfish。"
　　"Isupposeitwould，"saidMarch，withasmile。
　　"Ratheroddtoenteradrawing—roomcarryingalargeluminouscod，"continuedthestranger，inhislistlessway。"Howquaintitwould，beifonecouldcarryitaboutlikealantern，orhavelittlespratsforcandles。Someoftheseabeastswouldreallybeveryprettylikelampshades;thebluesea—snailthatglittersalloverlikestarlight;andsomeoftheredstarfishreallyshinelikeredstars。But，naturally，I’mnotlookingforthemhere。"
　　Marchthoughtofaskinghimwhathewaslookingfor;but，feelingunequaltoatechnicaldiscussionatleastasdeepasthedeep—seafishes，hereturnedtomoreordinarytopics。
　　"Delightfulsortofholethisis，"hesaid。"Thislittledellandriverhere。It’slikethoseplacesStevensontalksabout，wheresomethingoughttohappen。"
　　"Iknow，"answeredtheother。"Ithinkit’sbecausetheplaceitself，sotospeak，seemstohappenandnotmerelytoexist。Perhapsthat’swhatoldPicassoandsomeoftheCubistsaretryingtoexpressbyanglesandjaggedlines。Lookatthatwalllikelowcliffsthatjutsforwardjustatrightanglestotheslopeofturfsweepinguptoit。That’slikeasilentcollision。It’slikeabreakerandtheback—washofawave。"
　　Marchlookedatthelow—browedcragoverhangingthegreenslopeandnodded。Hewasinterestedinamanwhoturnedsoeasilyfromthetechnicalitiesofsciencetothoseofart;andaskedhimifheadmiredthenewangularartists。
　　"AsIfeelit，theCubistsarenotCubistenough，"
　　repliedthestranger。"Imeanthey’renotthickenough。Bymakingthingsmathematicaltheymakethemthin。Takethelivinglinesoutofthatlandscape，simplifyittoarightangle，andyouflattenitouttoamerediagramonpaper。Diagramshavetheirownbeauty;butitisofjusttheothersort，Theystandfortheunalterablethings;thecalm，eternal，mathematicalsortoftruths;whatsomebodycallsthe’whiteradianceof’——"
　　Hestopped，andbeforethenextwordcamesomethinghadhappenedalmosttooquicklyandcompletelytoberealized。Frombehindtheoverhangingrockcameanoiseandrushlikethatofarailwaytrain;andagreatmotorcarappeared。Ittoppedthecrestofcliff，blackagainstthesun，likeabattle—chariotrushingtodestructioninsomewildepic。Marchautomaticallyputouthishandinonefutilegesture，asiftocatchafallingtea—cupinadrawing—room。
　　Forthefractionofaflashitseemedtoleavetheledgeofrocklikeaflyingship;thentheveryskyseemedtoturnoverlikeawheel，anditlayaruinamidthetallgrassesbelow，alineofgraysmokegoingupslowlyfromitintothesilentair。Alittlelowerthefigureofamanwithgrayhairlaytumbleddownthesteepgreenslope，hislimbslyingallatrandom，andhisfaceturnedaway。
　　Theeccentricfishermandroppedhisnetandwalkedswiftlytowardthespot，hisnewacquaintancefollowinghim。Astheydrewnearthereseemedasortofmonstrousironyinthefactthatthedeadmachinewasstillthrobbingandthunderingasbusilyasafactory，whilethemanlaysostill。
　　Hewasunquestionablydead。Thebloodflowedinthegrassfromahopelesslyfatalfractureatthebackoftheskull;buttheface，whichwasturnedtothesun，wasuninjuredandstrangelyarrestinginitself。Itwasoneofthosecasesofastrangefacesounmistakableastofeelfamiliar。Wefeel，somehow，thatweoughttorecognizeit，eventhoughwedonot。
　　Itwasofthebroad，squaresortwithgreatjaws，almostlikethatofahighlyintellectualape;thewidemouthshutsotightastobetracedbyamereline;thenoseshortwiththesortofnostrilsthatseemtogapewithanappetitefortheair。Theoddestthingaboutthefacewasthatoneoftheeyebrowswascockedupatamuchsharperanglethantheother。Marchthoughthehadneverseenafacesonaturallyaliveasthatdeadone。Anditsuglyenergyseemedallthestrangerforitshaloofhoaryhair。Somepaperslayhalffallenoutofthepocket，andfromamongthemMarchextractedacard—case。Hereadthenameonthecardaloud。
　　"SirHumphreyTurnbull。I’msureI’veheardthatnamesomewhere。"
　　Hiscompaniononlygaveasortofalittlesighandwassilentforamoment，asifruminating，thenhemerelysaid，"Thepoorfellowisquitegone，"andaddedsomescientifictermsinwhichhisauditoroncemorefoundhimselfoutofhisdepth。
　　"Asthingsare，"continuedthesamecuriouslywell—informedperson，"itwillbemorelegalforustoleavethebodyasitisuntilthepoliceareinformed。Infact，Ithinkitwillbewellifnobodyexceptthepoliceisinformed。Don’tbesurprisedifIseemtobekeepingitdarkfromsomeofourneighborsroundhere。"Then，asifpromptedtoregularizehisratherabruptconfidence，hesaid：
　　"I’vecomedowntoseemycousinatTorwood;mynameisHorneFisher。Mightbeapunonmypotteringabouthere，mightn’tit？"
　　"IsSirHowardHorneyourcousin？"askedMarch。"I’mgoingtoTorwoodParktoseehimmyself;onlyabouthispublicwork，ofcourse，andthewonderfulstandheismakingforhisprinciples。I
　　thinkthisBudgetisthegreatestthinginEnglishhistory。Ifitfails，itwillbethemostheroicfailureinEnglishhistory。Areyouanadmirerofyourgreatkinsman，Mr。Fisher？"
　　"Rather，"saidMr。Fisher。"He’sthebestshotI
　　know。"
　　Then，asifsincerelyrepentantofhisnonchalance，headded，withasortofenthusiasm：
　　"No，butreally，he’saBEAUTIFULshot。"
　　Asiffiredbyhisownwords，hetookasortofleapattheledgesoftherockabovehim，andscaledthemwithasuddenagilityinstartlingcontrasttohisgenerallassitude。Hehadstoodforsomesecondsontheheadlandabove，withhisaquilineprofileunderthePanamahatrelievedagainsttheskyandpeeringoverthecountrysidebeforehiscompanionhadcollectedhimselfsufficientlytoscrambleupafterhim。
　　Thelevelabovewasastretchofcommonturfonwhichthetracksofthefatedcarwereplowedplainlyenough;butthebrinkofitwasbrokenaswithrockyteeth;brokenbouldersofallshapesandsizeslayneartheedge;itwasalmostincrediblethatanyonecouldhavedeliberatelydrivenintosuchadeathtrap，especiallyinbroaddaylight。
　　"Ican’tmakeheadortailofit，"saidMarch。
　　"Washeblind？Orblinddrunk？"
　　"Neither，bythelookofhim，"repliedtheother。
　　"Thenitwassuicide。"
　　"Itdoesn’tseemacozywayofdoingit，"remarkedthemancalledFisher。"Besides，Idon’tfancypooroldPuggywouldcommitsuicide，somehow。"
　　"Pooroldwho？"inquiredthewonderingjournalist。，"Didyouknowthisunfortunateman？"
　　"Nobodyknewhimexactly，"repliedFisher，withsomevagueness。"ButoneKNEWhim，ofcourse。
　　He’dbeenaterrorinhistime，inParliamentandthecourts，andsoon;especiallyinthatrowaboutthealienswhoweredeportedasundesirables，whenhewantedoneof’emhangedformurder。Hewassosickaboutitthatheretiredfromthebench。Sincethenhemostlymotoredaboutbyhimself;buthewascomingtoTorwood，too，fortheweek—end;andI
　　don’tseewhyheshoulddeliberatelybreakhisneckalmostattheverydoor。IbelieveHoggs——ImeanmycousinHoward——wascomingdownspeciallytomeethim。"
　　"TorwoodParkdoesn’tbelongtoyourcousin？"
　　inquiredMarch。
　　"No;itusedtobelongtotheWinthrops，youknow，"repliedtheother。"Nowanewman’sgotit;amanfromMontrealnamedJenkins。Hoggscomesfortheshooting;Itoldyouhewasalovelyshot。"
　　ThisrepeatedeulogyonthegreatsocialstatesmanaffectedHaroldMarchasifsomebodyhaddefinedNapoleonasadistinguishedplayerofnap。Buthehadanotherhalf—formedimpressionstrugglinginthisfloodofunfamiliarthings，andhebroughtittothesurfacebeforeitcouldvanish。
　　"Jenkins，"herepeated。"Surelyyoudon’tmeanJeffersonJenkins，thesocialreformer？Imeanthemanwho’sfightingforthenewcottage—estatescheme。ItwouldbeasinterestingtomeethimasanyCabinetMinisterintheworld，ifyou’llexcusemysayingso。"
　　"Yes;Hoggstoldhimitwouldhavetobecottages，"saidFisher。"Hesaidthebreedofcattlehadimprovedtoooften，andpeoplewerebeginningtolaugh。And，ofcourse，youmusthangapeerageontosomething;thoughthepoorchaphasn’tgotityet。
　　Hullo，here’ssomebodyelse。"
　　Theyhadstartedwalkinginthetracksofthecar，leavingitbehindtheminthehollow，stillhumminghorriblylikeahugeinsectthathadkilledaman。Thetrackstookthemtothecorneroftheroad，onearmofwhichwentoninthesamelinetowardthedistantgatesofthepark。Itwasclearthatthecarhadbeendrivendownthelongstraightroad，andthen，insteadofturningwiththeroadtotheleft，hadgonestraightonovertheturftoitsdoom。ButitwasnotthisdiscoverythathadrivetedFisher’seye，butsomethingevenmoresolid。Attheangleofthewhiteroadadarkandsolitaryfigurewasstandingalmostasstillasafingerpost。Itwasthatofabigmaninroughshooting—clothes，bareheaded，andwithtousledcurlyhairthatgavehimaratherwildlook。Onanearerapproachthisfirstmorefantasticimpressionfaded;
　　inafulllightthefiguretookonmoreconventionalcolors，asofanordinarygentlemanwhohappenedtohavecomeoutwithoutahatandwithoutverystudiouslybrushinghishair。Butthemassivestatureremained，andsomethingdeepandevencavernousaboutthesettingoftheeyesredeemed。hisanimalgoodlooksfromthecommonplace。ButMarchhadnotimetostudythemanmoreclosely，for，muchtohisastonishment，hisguidemerelyobserved，"Hullo，Jack！"andwalkedpasthimasifhehadindeedbeenasignpost，andwithoutattemptingtoinformhimofthecatastrophebeyondtherocks。Itwasrelativelyasmallthing，butitwasonlythefirstinastringofsingularanticsonwhichhisnewandeccentricfriendwasleadinghim。
　　Themantheyhadpassedlookedaftertheminratherasuspiciousfashion，butFishercontinuedserenelyonhiswayalongthestraightroadthatranpastthegatesofthegreatestate。
　　"That’sJohnBurke，thetraveler，"hecondescendedtoexplain。"Iexpectyou’veheardofhim;shootsbiggameandallthat。SorryIcouldn’tstoptointroduceyou，butIdaresayyou’llmeethimlateron。"
　　"Iknowhisbook，ofcourse，"saidMarch，withrenewedinterest。"Thatiscertainlyafinepieceofdescription，abouttheirbeingonlyconsciousoftheclosenessoftheelephantwhenthecolossalheadblockedoutthemoon。"
　　"Yes，youngHalkettwritesjollywell，Ithink。
　　What？Didn’tyouknowHalkettwroteBurke’sbookforhim？Burkecan’tuseanythingexceptagun;andyoucan’twritewiththat。Oh，he’sgenuineenoughinhisway，youknow，asbraveasalion，oragooddealbraverbyallaccounts。"
　　"Youseemtoknowallabouthim，"observedMarch，witharatherbewilderedlaugh，"andaboutagoodmanyotherpeople。"
　　Fisher’sbaldbrowbecameabruptlycorrugated，andacuriousexpressioncameintohiseyes。
　　"Iknowtoomuch，"hesaid。"That’swhat’sthematterwithme。That’swhat’sthematterwithallofus，andthewholeshow;weknowtoomuch。Toomuchaboutoneanother;toomuchaboutourselves。
　　That’swhyI’mreallyinterested，justnow，aboutonethingthatIdon’tknow。"
　　"Andthatis？"inquiredtheother。
　　"Whythatpoorfellowisdead。"
　　Theyhadwalkedalongthestraightroadfornearlyamile，conversingatintervalsinthisfashion;andMarchhadasingularsenseofthewholeworldbeingturnedinsideout。Mr。HorneFisherdidnotespeciallyabusehisfriendsandrelativesinfashionablesociety;
　　ofsomeofthemhespokewithaffection。Buttheyseemedtobeanentirelynewsetofmenandwomen，whohappenedtohavethesamenervesasthemenandwomenmentionedmostofteninthenewspapers。
　　Yetnofuryofrevoltcouldhaveseemedtohimmoreutterlyrevolutionarythanthiscoldfamiliarity。Itwaslikedaylightontheothersideofstagescenery。
　　Theyreachedthegreatlodgegatesofthepark，and，toMarch’ssurprise，passedthemandcontinuedalongtheinterminablewhite，straightroad。ButhewashimselftooearlyforhisappointmentwithSirHoward，andwasnotdisinclinedtoseetheendofhisnewfriend’sexperiment，whateveritmightbe。Theyhadlongleftthemoorlandbehindthem，andhalfthewhiteroadwasgrayinthegreatshadowoftheTorwoodpineforests，themselveslikegraybarsshutteredagainstthesunshineandwithin，amidthatclearnoon，manufacturingtheirownmidnight。Soon，however，riftsbegantoappearinthemlikegleamsofcoloredwindows;thetreesthinnedandfellawayastheroadwentforward，showingthewild，irregularcopsesinwhich，asFishersaid，thehouse—partyhadbeenblazingawayallday。
　　Andabouttwohundredyardsfartherontheycametothefirstturnoftheroad。
　　AtthecornerstoodasortofdecayedinnwiththedingysignofTheGrapes。Thesignboardwasdarkandindecipherablebynow，andhungblackagainsttheskyandthegraymoorlandbeyond，aboutasinvitingasagallows。Marchremarkedthatitlookedlikeatavernforvinegarinsteadofwine。
　　"Agoodphrase，"saidFisher，"andsoitwouldbeifyouweresillyenoughtodrinkwineinit。Butthebeerisverygood，andsoisthebrandy。"
　　Marchfollowedhimtothebarparlorwithsomewonder，andhisdimsenseofrepugnancewasnotdismissedbythefirstsightoftheinnkeeper，whowaswidelydifferentfromthegenialinnkeepersofromance，abonyman，verysilentbehindablackmustache，butwithblack，restlesseyes。Taciturnashewas，theinvestigatorsucceededatlastinextractingascrapofinformationfromhim，bydintoforderingbeerandtalkingtohimpersistentlyandminutelyonthesubjectofmotorcars。Heevidentlyregardedtheinnkeeperasinsomesingularwayanauthorityonmotorcars;asbeingdeepinthesecretsofthemechanism，management，andmismanagementofmotorcars;holdingthemanallthetimewithaglitteringeyeliketheAncientMariner。Outofallthisrathermysteriousconversationtheredidemergeatlastasortofadmissionthatoneparticularmotorcar，ofagivendescription，hadstoppedbeforetheinnaboutanhourbefore，andthatanelderlymanhadalighted，requiringsomemechanicalassistance。
　　Askedifthevisitorrequiredanyotherassistance，theinnkeepersaidshortlythattheoldgentlemanhadfilledhisflaskandtakenapacketofsandwiches。
　　Andwiththesewordsthesomewhatinhospitablehosthadwalkedhastilyoutofthebar，andtheyheardhimbangingdoorsinthedarkinterior。
　　Fisher’swearyeyewanderedroundthedustyanddrearyinnparlorandresteddreamilyonaglasscasecontainingastuffedbird，withagunhungonhooksaboveit，whichseemedtobeitsonlyornament。
　　"Puggywasahumorist，"heobserved，"atleastinhisownrathergrimstyle。Butitseemsrathertoogrimajokeforamantobuyapacketofsandwicheswhenheisjustgoingtocommitsuicide。"
　　"Ifyoucometothat，"answeredMarch，"itisn’tveryusualforamantobuyapacketofsandwicheswhenhe’sjustoutsidethedoorofagrandhousehe’sgoingtostopat。"
　　"No……no，"repeatedFisher，almostmechanically;
　　andthensuddenlycockedhiseyeathisinterlocutorwithamuchlivelierexpression。
　　"ByJove！that’sanidea。You’reperfectlyright。
　　Andthatsuggestsaveryqueeridea，doesn’tit？"
　　Therewasasilence，andthenMarchstartedwithirrationalnervousnessasthedooroftheinnwasflungopenandanothermanwalkedrapidlytothecounter。Hehadstruckitwithacoinandcalledoutforbrandybeforehesawtheothertwoguests，whoweresittingatabarewoodentableunderthewindow。Whenheturnedaboutwitharatherwildstare，Marchhadyetanotherunexpectedemotion，forhisguidehailedthemanasHoggsandintroducedhimasSirHowardHorne。
　　Helookedratherolderthanhisboyishportraitsintheillustratedpapers，asisthewayofpoliticians;hisflat，fairhairwastouchedwithgray，buthisfacewasalmostcomicallyround，withaRomannosewhich，whencombinedwithhisquick，brighteyes，raisedavaguereminiscenceofaparrot。Hehadacapratheratthebackofhisheadandagununderhisarm。
　　HaroldMarchhadimaginedmanythingsabouthismeetingwiththegreatpoliticalreformer，buthehadneverpicturedhimwithagununderhisarm，drinkingbrandyinapublichouse。
　　"Soyou’restoppingatJink’s，too，"saidFisher。
　　"EverybodyseemstobeatJink’s。"
　　"Yes，"repliedtheChancelloroftheExchequer。
　　"Jollygoodshooting。Atleastallofitthatisn’tJink’sshooting。Ineverknewachapwithsuchgoodshootingthatwassuchabadshot。Mindyou，he’sajollygoodfellowandallthat;Idon’tsayawordagainsthim。Butheneverlearnedtoholdagunwhenhewaspackingporkorwhateverhedid。Theysayheshotthecockadeoffhisownservant’shat;justlikehimtohavecockades，ofcourse。Heshottheweathercockoffhisownridiculousgildedsummerhouse。It’stheonlycockhe’lleverkill，I
　　shouldthink。Areyoucominguptherenow？"
　　Fishersaid，rathervaguely，thathewasfollowingsoon，whenhehadfixedsomethingup;andtheChancelloroftheExchequerlefttheinn。Marchfanciedhehadbeenalittleupsetorimpatientwhenhecalledforthebrandy;buthehadtalkedhimselfbackintoasatisfactorystate，ifthetalkhadnotbeenquitewhathisliteraryvisitorhadexpected。Fisher，afewminutesafterward，slowlyledthewayoutofthetavernandstoodinthemiddleoftheroad，lookingdowninthedirectionfromwhichtheyhadtraveled。
　　Thenhewalkedbackabouttwohundredyardsinthatdirectionandstoodstillagain。
　　"Ishouldthinkthisisabouttheplace，"hesaid。
　　"Whatplace？"askedhiscompanion。
　　"Theplacewherethepoorfellowwaskilled，"saidFisher，sadly。
　　"Whatdoyoumean？"demandedMarch。
　　"Hewassmashedupontherocksamileandahalffromhere。"
　　"No，hewasn’t，"repliedFisher。"Hedidn’tfallontherocksatall。Didn’tyounoticethatheonlyfellontheslopeofsoftgrassunderneath？ButIsawthathehadabulletinhimalready。"
　　Thenafterapauseheadded：
　　"Hewasaliveattheinn，buthewasdeadlongbeforehecametotherocks。Sohewasshotashedrovehiscardownthisstripofstraightroad，andIshouldthinksomewhereabouthere。Afterthat，ofcourse，thecarwentstraightonwithnobodytostoporturnit。It’sreallyaverycunningdodgeinitsway;forthebodywouldbefoundfaraway，andmostpeoplewouldsay，asyoudo，thatitwasanaccidenttoamotorist。Themurderermusthavebeenacleverbrute。"
　　"Butwouldn’ttheshotbeheardattheinnorsomewhere？"askedMarch。
　　"Itwouldbeheard。Butitwouldnotbenoticed。That，"continuedtheinvestigator，"iswherehewascleveragain。Shootingwasgoingonallovertheplaceallday;verylikelyhetimedhisshotsoastodrownitinanumberofothers。Certainlyhewasafirst—classcriminal。Andhewassomethingelseaswell。"
　　"Whatdoyoumean？"askedhiscompanion，withacreepypremonitionofsomethingcoming，heknewnotwhy。
　　"Hewasafirst—classshot，"saidFisher。
　　Hehadturnedhisbackabruptlyandwaswalkingdownanarrow，grassylane，littlemorethanacarttrack，whichlayoppositetheinnandmarkedtheendofthegreatestateandthebeginningoftheopenmoors。Marchploddedafterhimwiththesameidleperseverance，andfoundhimstaringthroughagapingiantweedsandthornsattheflatfaceofapaintedpaling。Frombehindthepalingrosethegreatgraycolumnsofarowofpoplars，whichfilledtheheavensabovethemwithdark—greenshadowandshookfaintlyinawindwhichhadsunkslowlyintoabreeze。Theafternoonwasalreadydeepeningintoevening，andthetitanicshadowsofthepoplarslengthenedoverathirdofthelandscape。
　　"Areyouafirst—classcriminal？"askedFisher，inafriendlytone。"I’mafraidI’mnot。ButIthinkIcanmanagetobeasortoffourth—rateburglar。"
　　Andbeforehiscompanioncouldreplyhehadmanagedtoswinghimselfupandoverthefence;
　　Marchfollowedwithoutmuchbodilyeffort，butwithconsiderablementaldisturbance。Thepoplarsgrewsocloseagainstthefencethattheyhadsomedifficultyinslippingpastthem，andbeyondthepoplarstheycouldseeonlyahighhedgeoflaurel，greenandlustrousinthelevelsun。Somethinginthislimitationbyaseriesoflivingwallsmadehimfeelasifhewerereallyenteringashatteredhouseinsteadofanopenfield。Itwasasifhecameinbyadisuseddoororwindowandfoundthewayblockedbyfurniture。Whentheyhadcircumventedthelaurelhedge，theycameoutonasortofterraceofturf，whichfellbyonegreensteptoanoblonglawnlikeabowlinggreen。Beyondthiswastheonlybuildinginsight，alowconservatory，whichseemedfarawayfromanywhere，likeaglasscottagestandinginitsownfieldsinfairyland。Fisherknewthatlonelylookoftheoutlyingpartsofagreathousewellenough。Herealizedthatitismoreofasatireonaristocracythanifitwerechokedwithweedsandlitteredwithruins。Foritisnotneglectedandyetitisdeserted;atanyrate，itisdisused。Itisregularlysweptandgarnishedforamasterwhonevercomes。
　　Lookingoverthelawn，however，hesawoneobjectwhichhehadnotapparentlyexpected。
　　Itwasasortoftripodsupportingalargediskliketheroundtopofatabletippedsideways，anditwasnotuntiltheyhaddroppedontothelawnandwalkedacrosstolookatitthatMarchrealizedthatitwasatarget。Itwaswornandweatherstained;thegaycolorsofitsconcentricringswerefaded;possiblyithadbeensetupinthosefar—offVictoriandayswhentherewasafashionofarchery。Marchhadoneofhisvaguevisionsofladiesincloudycrinolinesandgentlemeninoutlandishhatsandwhiskersrevisitingthatlostgardenlikeghosts。
　　Fisher，whowaspeeringmorecloselyatthetarget，startledhimbyanexclamation。
　　"Hullo！"hesaid。"Somebodyhasbeenpepperingthisthingwithshot，afterall，andquitelately，too。Why，IbelieveoldJink’sbeentryingtoimprovehisbadshootinghere。"
　　"Yes，anditlooksasifitstillwantedimproving，"answeredMarch，laughing。"Notoneoftheseshotsisanywherenearthebull’s—eye;theyseemjustscatteredaboutinthewildestway。"
　　"Inthewildestway，"repeatedFisher，stillpeeringintentlyatthetarget。Heseemedmerelytoassent，butMarchfanciedhiseyewasshiningunderitssleepylidandthathestraightenedhisstoopingfigurewithastrangeeffort。
　　"Excusemeamoment，"hesaid，feelinginhispockets。"IthinkI’vegotsomeofmychemicals;andafterthatwe’llgouptothehouse。"Andhestoopedagainoverthetarget，puttingsomethingwithhisfingerovereachoftheshot—holes，sofarasMarchcouldseemerelyadull—graysmear。
　　Thentheywentthroughthegatheringtwilightupthelonggreenavenuestothegreathouse。
　　Hereagain，however，theeccentricinvestigatordidnotenterbythefrontdoor。Hewalkedroundthehouseuntilhefoundawindowopen，and，leapingintoit，introducedhisfriendtowhatappearedtobethegun—room。Rowsoftheregularinstrumentsforbringingdownbirdsstoodagainstthewalls;butacrossatableinthewindowlayoneortwoweaponsofaheavierandmoreformidablepattern。
　　"HulloItheseareBurke’sbig—gamerifles，"
　　saidFisher。"Ineverknewhekeptthemhere。"
　　Heliftedoneofthem，examineditbriefly，andputitdownagain，frowningheavily。Almostashedidsoastrangeyoungmancamehurriedlyintotheroom。Hewasdarkandsturdy，withabumpyforeheadandabulldogjaw，andhespokewithacurtapology。
　　"IleftMajorBurke’sgunshere，"hesaid，"andhewantsthempackedup。He’sgoingawayto—night。"
　　Andhecarriedoffthetworifleswithoutcastingaglanceatthestranger;throughtheopenwindowtheycouldseehisshort，darkfigurewalkingawayacrosstheglimmeringgarden。
　　Fishergotoutofthewindowagainandstoodlookingafterhim。
　　"That’sHalkett，whomItoldyouabout，"hesaid。"IknewhewasasortofsecretaryandhadtodowithBurke’spapers;butIneverknewhe。hadanythingtodowithhisguns。Buthe’sjustthesortofsilent，sensiblelittledevilwhomightbeverygoodatanything;thesortofmanyouknowforyearsbeforeyoufindhe’sachesschampion。"
　　Hehadbeguntowalkinthedirectionofthedisappearingsecretary，andtheysooncamewithinsightoftherestofthehouse—partytalkingandlaughingonthelawn。Theycouldseethetallfigureandloosemaneofthelion—hunterdominatingthelittlegroup。
　　"Bytheway，"observedFisher，"whenweweretalkingaboutBurkeandHalkett，Isaidthatamancouldn’tverywellwritewithagun。
　　Well，I’mnotsosurenow。Didyoueverhearofanartistsocleverthathecoulddrawwithagun？There’sawonderfulchaplooseabouthere。"
　　SirHowardhailedFisherandhisfriendthejournalistwithalmostboisterousamiability。ThelatterwaspresentedtoMajorBurkeandMr。
　　Halkettandalso（bywayofaparenthesis）tohishost，Mr。Jenkins，acommonplacelittlemaninloudtweeds，whomeverybodyelseseemedtotreatwithasortofaffection，asifhewereababy。
　　TheirrepressibleChancelloroftheExchequerwasstilltalkingaboutthebirdshehadbroughtdown，thebirdsthatBurkeandHalketthadbroughtdown，andthebirdsthatJenkins，theirhost，hadfailedtobringdown。Itseemedtobeasortofsociablemonomania。
　　"Youandyourbiggame，"heejaculated，aggressively，toBurke。"Why，anybodycouldshootbiggame。Youwanttobeashottoshootsmallgame。"
　　"Quiteso，"interposedHorneFisher。"Nowifonlyahippopotamuscouldflyupintheairoutofthatbush，oryoupreservedflyingelephantsontheestate，why，then——"
　　"WhyevenJinkmighthitthatsortofbird，"
　　criedSirHoward，hilariouslyslappinghishostontheback。"Evenhemighthitahaystackorahippopotamus。"
　　"Lookhere，youfellows，"saidFisher。"I
　　wantyoutocomealongwithmeforaminuteandshootatsomethingelse。Notahippopotamus。AnotherkindofqueeranimalI’vefoundontheestate。It’sananimalwiththreelegsandoneeye，andit’sallthecolorsoftherainbow。"
　　"Whatthedeuceareyoutalkingabout？"
　　askedBurke。
　　"Youcomealongandsee，"repliedFisher，cheerfully。
　　Suchpeopleseldomrejectanythingnonsensical，fortheyarealwaysseekingforsomethingnew。Theygravelyrearmedthemselvesfromthegun—roomandtroopedalongatthetailoftheirguide，SirHowardonlypausing，inasortofecstasy，topointoutthecelebratedgiltsummerhouseonwhichthegiltweathercockstillstoodcrooked。Itwasduskturningtodarkbythetimetheyreachedtheremotegreenbythepoplarsandacceptedthenewandaimlessgameofshootingattheoldmark。
　　Thelastlightseemedtofadefromthelawn，andthepoplarsagainstthesunsetwerelikegreatplumesuponapurplehearse，whenthefutileprocessionfinallycurvedround，andcameoutinfrontofthetarget。
　　SirHowardagainslappedhishostontheshoulder，shovinghimplayfullyforwardtotakethefirstshot。Theshoulderandarmhetouchedseemedunnaturallystiffandangular。Mr。
　　Jenkinswasholdinghisguninanattitudemoreawkwardthananythathissatiricfriendshadseenorexpected。
　　Atthesameinstantahorriblescreamseemedtocomefromnowhere。Itwassounnaturalandsounsuitedtothescenethatitmighthavebeenmadebysomeinhumanthingflyingonwingsabovethemoreavesdroppinginthedarkwoodsbeyond。ButFisherknewthatithadstartedandstoppedonthepalelipsofJeffersonJenkins，ofMontreal，andnooneatthatmomentcatchingsightofJeffersonJenkins’sfacewouldhavecomplainedthatitwascommonplace。
　　Thenextmomentatorrentofgutturalbutgood—humoredoathscamefromMajorBurkeasheandthetwoothermensawwhatwasinfrontofthem。Thetargetstoodupinthedimgrasslikeadarkgoblingrinningatthem，anditwasliterallygrinning。Ithadtwoeyeslikestars，andinsimilarlividpointsoflightwerepickedoutthetwoupturnedandopennostrilsandthetwoendsofthewideandtightmouth。
　　Afewwhitedotsaboveeacheyeindicatedthehoaryeyebrows;andoneofthemranupwardalmosterect。ItwasabrilliantcaricaturedoneinbrightbottedlinesandMarchknewofwhom。Itshoneintheshadowygrass，smearedwithseafireasifoneofthesubmarinemonstershadcrawledintothetwilightgarden;butithadtheheadofadeadman。
　　"It’sonlyluminouspaint，"saidBurke。"OldFisher’sbeenhavingajokewiththatphosphorescentstuffofhis。"
　　"SeemstobemeantforoldPuggy"’observedSirHoward。"Hitshimoffverywell。"
　　Withthattheyalllaughed，exceptJenkins。
　　Whentheyhadalldone，hemadeanoiselikethefirsteffortofananimaltolaugh，andHorneFishersuddenlystrodeacrosstohimandsaid：
　　"Mr。Jenkins，Imustspeaktoyouatonceinprivate。"
　　Itwasbythelittlewatercourseinthemoors，ontheslopeunderthehangingrock，thatMarchmethisnewfriendFisher，byappointment，shortlyaftertheuglyandalmostgrotesquescenethathadbrokenupthegroupinthegarden。
　　"Itwasamonkey—trickofmine，"observedFisher，gloomily，"puttingphosphorusonthetarget;buttheonlychancetomakehimjumpwastogivehimthehorrorssuddenly。Andwhenhesawthefacehe’dshotatshiningonthetargethepracticedon，alllitupwithaninfernallight，hedidjump。Quiteenoughformyownintellectualsatisfaction。"
　　"I’mafraidIdon’tquiteunderstandevennow，"saidMarch，"exactlywhathedidorwhyhedidit。"
　　"Yououghtto，"repliedFisher，withhisratherdrearysmile，"foryougavemethefirstsuggestionyourself。Ohyes，youdid;anditwas。
　　averyshrewdone。Yousaidamanwouldn’ttakesandwicheswithhimtodineatagreathouse。Itwasquitetrue;andtheinferencewasthat，thoughhewasgoingthere，hedidn’tmeantodinethere。Or，atanyrate，thathemightnotbediningthere。Itoccurredtomeatoncethatheprobablyexpectedthevisittobeunpleasant，orthereceptiondoubtful，orsomethingthatwouldpreventhisacceptinghospitality。
　　ThenitstruckmethatTurnbullwasaterrortocertainshadycharactersinthepast，andthathehadcomedowntoidentifyanddenounceoneofthem。Thechancesatthestartpointedtothehost——thatis，Jenkins。I’mmorallycertainnowthatJenkinswastheundesirablealienTurnbullwantedtoconvictinanothershooting—affair，butyouseetheshootinggentlemanhadanothershotinhislocker。"
　　"Butyousaidhewouldhavetobeaverygoodshot，"protestedMarch。
　　"Jenkinsisaverygoodshot，"saidFisher。
　　"Averygoodshotwhocanpretendtobeaverybadshot。ShallItellyouthesecondhintIhiton，afteryours，tomakemethinkitwasJenkins？Itwasmycousin’saccountofhisbadshooting。He’dshotacockadeoffahatandaweathercockoffabuilding。Now，infact，amanmustshootverywellindeedtoshootsobadlyasthat。Hemustshootveryneatlytohitthecockadeandnotthehead，oreventhehat。
　　Iftheshotshadreallygoneatrandom，thechancesareathousandtoonethattheywouldnothavehitsuchprominentandpicturesqueobjects。Theywerechosenbecausetheywereprominentandpicturesqueobjects。Theymakeastorytogotheroundofsociety。Hekeepsthecrookedweathercockinthesummerhousetoperpetuatethestoryofalegend。Andthenhelayinwaitwithhisevileyeandwickedgun，safelyambushedbehindthelegendofhisownincompetence。
　　"Butthereismorethanthat。Thereisthesummerhouseitself。Imeanthereisthewholething。There’sallthatJenkinsgetschaffedabout，thegildingandthegaudycolorsandallthevulgaritythat’ssupposedtostamphimasanupstart。Now，asamatteroffact，upstartsgenerallydon’tdothis。Godknowsthere’senoughof’eminsociety;andoneknows’emwellenough。Andthisistheverylastthingtheydo。
　　They’regenerallyonlytookeentoknowtherightthinganddoit;andtheyinstantlyputthemselvesbodyandsoulintothehandsofartdecoratorsandartexperts，whodothewholethingforthem。There’shardlyanothermillionairealivewhohasthemoralcouragetohaveagiltmonogramonachairlikethatoneinthegun—room。Forthatmatter，there’sthenameaswellasthemonogram。NameslikeTompkinsandJenkinsandJinksarefunnywithoutbeingvulgar;Imeantheyarevulgarwithoutbeingcommon。Ifyoupreferit，theyarecommonplacewithoutbeingcommon。TheyarejustthenamestobechosentoLOOKordinary，butthey’rereallyratherextraordinary。DoyouknowmanypeoplecalledTompkins？It’sagooddealrarerthanTalbot。It’sprettymuchthesamewiththecomicclothesoftheparvenu。JenkinsdresseslikeacharacterinPunch。Butthat’sbecauseheisacharacterinPunch。Imeanhe’safictitiouscharacter。He’safabulousanimal。Hedoesn’texist。
　　"Haveyoueverconsideredwhatitmustbeliketobeamanwhodoesn’texist？Imeantobeamanwithafictitiouscharacterthathehastokeepupattheexpensenotmerelyofpersonaltalents：Tobeanewkindofhypocritehidingatalentinanewkindofnapkin。Thismanhaschosenhishypocrisyveryingeniously;itwasreallyanewone。Asubtlevillainhasdressedupasadashinggentlemanandaworthybusinessmanandaphilanthropistandasaint;buttheloudchecksofacomicallittlecadwerereallyratheranewdisguise。Butthedisguisemustbeveryirksometoamanwhocanreallydothings。
　　Thisisadexterouslittlecosmopolitanguttersnipewhocandoscoresofthings，notonlyshoot，butdrawandpaint，andprobablyplaythefiddle。
　　Nowamanlikethatmayfindthehidingofhistalentsuseful;buthecouldneverhelpwantingtousethemwheretheywereuseless。Ifhecandraw，hewilldrawabsent—mindedlyonblottingpaper。IsuspectthisrascalhasoftendrawnpooroldPuggy’sfaceonblottingpaper。Probablyhebegandoingitinblotsasheafterwarddiditindots，orrathershots。Itwasthesamesortofthing;hefoundadisusedtargetinadesertedyardandcouldn’tresistindulginginalittlesecretshooting，likesecretdrinking。Youthoughttheshotsallscatteredandirregular，andsotheywere;butnotaccidental。Notwodistanceswerealike;
　　butthedifferentpointswereexactlywherehewantedtoputthem。There’snothingneedssuchmathematicalprecisionasawildcaricature。I’vedabbledalittleindrawingmyself，andIassureyouthattoputonedotwhereyouwantitisamarvelwithapenclosetoapieceofpaper。Itwasamiracletodoitacrossagardenwithagun。Butamanwhocanworkthosemiracleswillalwaysitchtoworkthem，ifit’sonlyinthedark。"
　　AfterapauseMarchobserved，thoughtfully，"Buthecouldn’thavebroughthimdownlikeabirdwithoneofthoselittleguns。"
　　"No;thatwaswhyIwentintothegun—room，"
　　repliedFisher。"HediditwithoneofBurke’srifles，andBurkethoughtheknewthesoundofit。That’swhyherushedoutwithoutahat，lookingsowild。Hesawnothingbutacarpassingquickly，whichhefollowedforalittleway，andthenconcludedhe’dmadeamistake。"
　　Therewasanothersilence，duringwhichFishersatonagreatstoneasmotionlessasontheirfirstmeeting，andwatchedthegrayandsilverrivereddyingpastunderthebushes。ThenMarchsaid，abruptly，"Ofcourseheknowsthetruthnow。"
　　"NobodyknowsthetruthbutyouandI，"
　　answeredFisher，withacertainsofteninginhisvoice。"AndIdon’tthinkyouandIwilleverquarrel。"
　　"Whatdoyoumean？"askedMarch，inanalteredaccent。"Whathaveyoudoneaboutit？"
　　HorneFishercontinuedtogazesteadilyattheeddyingstream。Atlasthesaid，"Thepolicehaveproveditwasamotoraccident。"
　　"Butyouknowitwasnot。"
　　"ItoldyouthatIknowtoomuch，"repliedFisher，withhiseyeontheriver。"Iknowthat，andIknowagreatmanyotherthings。Iknowtheatmosphereandthewaythewholethingworks。Iknowthisfellowhassucceededinmakinghimselfsomethingincurablycommonplaceandcomic。Iknowyoucan’tgetupapersecutionofoldTooleorLittleTich。IfIweretotellHoggsorHalkettthatoldJinkwasanassassin，theywouldalmostdieoflaughterbeforemyeyes。Oh，I
　　don’tsaytheirlaughter’squiteinnocent，thoughit’sgenuineinitsway。TheywantoldJink，andtheycouldn’tdowithouthim。I
　　don’tsayI’mquiteinnocent。IlikeHoggs;Idon’twanthimtobedownandout;andhe’dbedoneforifJinkcan’tpayforhiscoronet。Theyweredevilishnearthelineatthelastelection。
　　Buttheonlyrealobjectiontoitisthatit’simpossible。Nobodywouldbelieveit;it’snotinthepicture。Thecrookedweathercockwouldalwaysturnitintoajoke。"
　　"Don’tyouthinkthisisinfamous？"askedMarch，quietly。
　　"Ithinkagoodmanythings，"repliedtheother。"Ifyoupeopleeverhappentoblowthewholetangleofsocietytohellwithdynamite，Idon’tknowthatthehumanracewillbemuchtheworse。Butdon’tbetoohardonmemerelybecauseIknowwhatsocietyis。That’swhyI
　　moonawaymytimeoverthingslikestinkingfish。"
　　Therewasapauseashesettledhimselfdownagainbythestream;andthenheadded：
　　"ItoldyoubeforeIhadtothrowbackthebigfish。"
　　II。THEVANISHINGPRINCE
　　Thistalebeginsamongatangleoftalesroundanamethatisatoncerecentandlegendary。ThenameisthatofMichaelO’Neill，popularlycalledPrinceMichael，partlybecauseheclaimeddescentfromancientFenianprinces，andpartlybecausehewascreditedwithaplantomakehimselfprincepresidentofIreland，asthelastNapoleondidofFrance。Hewasundoubtedlyagentlemanofhonorablepedigreeandofmanyaccomplishments，buttwoofhisaccomplishmentsemergedfromalltherest。Hehadatalentforappearingwhenhewasnotwantedandatalentfordisappearingwhenhewaswanted，especiallywhenhewaswantedbythepolice。Itmaybeaddedthathisdisappearancesweremoredangerousthanhisappearances。Inthelatterheseldomwentbeyondthesensational——pastingupseditiousplacards，tearingdownofficialplacards，makingflamboyantspeeches，orunfurlingforbiddenflags。Butinordertoeffecttheformerhewouldsometimesfightforhisfreedomwithstartlingenergy，fromwhichmenweresometimesluckytoescapewithabrokenheadinsteadofabrokenneck。Hismostfamousfeatsofescape，however，wereduetodexterityandnottoviolence。Onacloudlesssummermorninghehadcomedownacountryroadwhitewithdust，and，pausingoutsideafarmhouse，hadtoldthefarmer’sdaughter，withelegantindifference，thatthelocalpolicewereinpursuitofhim。Thegirl’snamewasBridgetRoyce，asomberandevensullentypeofbeauty，andshelookedathimdarkly，asifindoubt，andsaid，"Doyouwantmetohideyou？"
　　Uponwhichheonlylaughed，leapedlightlyoverthestonewall，andstrodetowardthefarm，merelythrowingoverhisshouldertheremark，"Thankyou，I
　　havegenerallybeenquitecapableofhidingmyself。"
　　Inwhichproceedingheactedwithatragicignoranceofthenatureofwomen;andtherefellonhispathinthatsunshineashadowofdoom。