He ruminated a moment and then said, in such a fashion that March could
hardly tell if he were changing the subject or no:
"It's hard at first to believe that a fellow like Herries, who had pickled
himself in vice like vinegar, can have any scruple left. But about that I've
noticed a curious thing. Patriotism is not the first virtue. Patriotism rots into
Prussianism when you pretend it is the first virtue. But patriotism is sometimes
the last virtue. A man will swindle or seduce who will not sell his country. But
who knows?"
"But what is to be done?" cried March, indignantly.
"My uncle has the papers safe enough," replied Fisher, "and is sending
them west to-night; but somebody is trying to get at them from outside, I fear
with the assistance of somebody inside. All I can do at present is to try to head
off the man outside; and I must get away now and do it. I shall be back in
about twenty-four hours. While I'm away I want you to keep an eye on these
people and find out what you can. Au revoir." He vanished down the stairs;
and from the window March could see him mount a motor cycle and trail
away toward the neighboring town.
On the following morning, March was sitting in the window seat of the old
inn parlor, which was oak-paneled and ordinarily rather dark; but on that
occasion it was full of the white light of a curiously clear morning—the moon
had shone brilliantly for the last two or three nights. He was himself somewhat
in shadow in the corner of the window seat; and Lord James Herries, coming
in hastily from the garden behind, did not see him. Lord James clutched the
back of a chair, as if to steady himself, and, sitting down abruptly at the table,
littered with the last meal, poured himself out a tumbler of brandy and drank
it. He sat with his back to March, but his yellow face appeared in a round
mirror beyond and the tinge of it was like that of some horrible malady. As
March moved he started violently and faced round.
"My God!" he cried, "have you seen what's outside?"
"Outside?" repeated the other, glancing over his shoulder at the garden.
"Oh, go and look for yourself," cried Herries in a sort of fury.
"Hewitt's murdered and his papers stolen, that's all."
He turned his back again and sat down with a thud; his square shoulders
were shaking. Harold March darted out of the doorway into the back garden
with its steep slope of statues.
The first thing he saw was Doctor Prince, the detective, peering through
his spectacles at something on the ground; the second was the thing he was
peering at. Even after the sensational news he had heard inside, the sight was