began doing it in blots
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
dabbled a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one
dot where you want it is a marvel 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 itch 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 eddying 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 softening 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 steadily 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 incurably
commonplace and comic. I know you can't get up a persecution 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 d