?" asked March.

"And why?" asked Prince, sharply. "If he'd killed his man and got
his papers, he'd be away like the wind. He wouldn't potter about in
a garden excavating the pedestals of statues. Besides--Hullo, who's
that up there?"

High on the ridge above them, drawn in dark thin lines against the
sky, was a figure looking so long and lean as to be almost spidery.
The dark silhouette of the head showed two small tufts like horns;
and they could almost have sworn that the horns moved.

"Archer!" shouted Herries, with sudden passion, and called to him
with curses to come down. The figure drew back at the first cry,
with an agitated movement so abrupt as almost to be called an antic.
The next moment the man seemed to reconsider and collect himself,
and began to come down the zigzag garden path, but with obvious
reluctance, his feet falling in slower and slower rhythm. Through
March's mind were throbbing the phrases that this man himself had
used, about going mad in the middle of the night and wrecking the
stone figure. Just so, he could fancy, the maniac who had done such
a thing might climb the crest of the hill, in that feverish dancing
fashion, and look down on the wreck he had made. But the wreck he
had made here was not only a wreck of stone.

When the man emerged at last on to the garden path, with the full
light on his face and figure, he was walking slowly indeed, but
easily, and with no appearance of fear.

"This is a terrible thing," he said. "I saw it from above; I was
taking a stroll along the ridge."

"Do you mean that you saw the murder?" demanded March, "or the
accident? I mean did you see the statue fall?"

"No," said Archer, "I mean I saw the statue fallen."

Prince seemed to be paying but little attention; his eye was riveted
on an object lying on the path a yard or two from the corpse. It
seemed to be a rusty iron bar bent crooked at one end.

"One thing I don't understand," he said, "is all this blood. The
poor fellow's skull isn't smashed; most likely his neck is broken;
but blood seems to have spouted as if all his arteries were severed.
I was wondering if some other instrument . . . that iron thing, for
instance; but I don't see that even that is sharp enough. I suppose
nobody knows what it is."

"I know what it is," said Archer in his deep but somewhat shaky
voice. "I've seen it in my nightmares. It was the iron clamp or prop
on the pedestal, stuck on to keep the wretched image up