"Let me tell you the whole thing before we part," continued the other, "and
let me put it, for the sake of clearness, as we used to put our old problems.
Now there are two things that are puzzling people about that problem, aren't
there? The first is how the murderer managed to slip off the dead man's coat,
when he was already pinned to the ground with that stone incubus. The other,
which is much smaller and less puzzling, is the fact of the sword that cut his
throat being slightly stained at the point, instead of a good deal more stained at
the edge. Well, I can dispose of the first question easily. Horne Hewitt took off
his own coat before he was killed. I might say he took off his coat to be
killed."
"Do you call that an explanation?" exclaimed March. "The words seem
more meaningless, than the facts."
"Well, let us go on to the other facts," continued Fisher, equably."The reason that particular sword is not stained at the edge with
Hewitt's blood is that it was not used to kill Hewitt."
"But the doctor," protested March, "declared distinctly that the wound was
made by that particular sword."
"I beg your pardon," replied Fisher. "He did not declare that it was made
by that particular sword. He declared it was made by a sword of that particular
pattern."
"But it was quite a queer and exceptional pattern," argued March; "surely it
is far too fantastic a coincidence to imagine—"
"It was a fantastic coincidence," reflected Horne Fisher. "It's extraordinary
what coincidences do sometimes occur. By the oddest chance in the world, by
one chance in a million, it so happened that another sword of exactly the same
shape was in the same garden at the same time. It may be partly explained, by
the fact that I brought them both into the garden myself . . . come, my dear
fellow; surely you can see now what it means. Put those two things together;
there were two duplicate swords and he took off his coat for himself. It may
assist your speculations to recall the fact that I am not exactly an assassin."
"A duel!" exclaimed March, recovering himself. "Of course I ought to have
thought of that. But who was the spy who stole the papers?"
"My uncle was the spy who stole the papers," replied Fisher, "or who tried
to steal the papers when I stopped him—in the only way I could. The papers,
that should have gone west to reassure our friends and give them the plans for
repelling the invasion, would in a few hours have been in the hands of the
invader. What could I do? To have denounced one of our friends at this
moment would have been to play into the hands of your friend Attwood, and