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 kinsman, Mr. Fisher?"

"Rather," said Mr. Fisher. "He's the best shot I know."

Then, as if sincerely repentant of his nonchalance, he added, with a
sort of enthusiasm:

"No, but really, he's a _beautiful_ shot."

As if fired by his own words, he took a sort of leap at the ledges
of the rock above him, and scaled them with a sudden agility in
startling contrast to his general lassitude. He had stood for some
seconds on the headland above, with his aquiline profile under the
Panama hat relieved against the sky and peering over the countryside
before his companion had collected himself sufficiently to scramble
up after him.

The level above was a stretch of common turf on which the tracks of
the fated car were plowed plainly enough; but the brink 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
deliberately 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 cozy 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 deported as undesirables, when he wanted one of
'em hanged for murder. He was so sick about it that he retired 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 specially to
meet him."

"Torwood Park does