the man who knew too much-第17节

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V。　THE　FAD　OF　THE　FISHERMAN

A　thing　can　sometimes　be　too　extraordinary　to　be　remembered。　If　it　is　clean　out　of　the　course　of　things；　and　has　apparently　no　causes　and　no　consequences；　subsequent　events　do　not　recall　it；　and　it　remains　only　a　subconscious　thing；　to　be　stirred　by　some　accident　long　after。　It　drifts　apart　like　a　forgotten　dream；　and　it　was　in　the　hour　of　many　dreams；　at　daybreak　and　very　soon　after　the　end　of　dark；　that　such　a　strange　sight　was　given　to　a　man　sculling　a　boat　down　a　river　in　the　West　country。　The　man　was　awake；　indeed；　he　considered　himself　rather　wide　awake；　being　the　political　journalist；　Harold　March；　on　his　way　to　interview　various　political　celebrities　in　their　country　seats。　But　the　thing　he　saw　was　so　inconsequent　that　it　might　have　been　imaginary。　It　simply　slipped　past　his　mind　and　was　lost　in　later　and　utterly　different　events；　nor　did　he　even　recover　the　memory　till　he　had　long　afterward　discovered　the　meaning。

Pale　mists　of　morning　lay　on　the　fields　and　the　rushes　along　one　margin　of　the　river；　along　the　other　side　ran　a　wall　of　tawny　brick　almost　overhanging　the　water。　He　had　shipped　his　oars　and　was　drifting　for　a　moment　with　the　stream；　when　he　turned　his　head　and　saw　that　the　monotony　of　the　long　brick　wall　was　broken　by　a　bridge；　rather　an　elegant　eighteenth…century　sort　of　bridge　with　little　columns　of　white　stone　turning　gray。　There　had　been　floods　and　the　river　still　stood　very　high；　with　dwarfish　trees　waist　deep　in　it；　and　rather　a　narrow　arc　of　white　dawn　gleamed　under　the　curve　of　the　bridge。

As　his　own　boat　went　under　the　dark　archway　he　saw　another　boat　coming　toward　him；　rowed　by　a　man　as　solitary　as　himself。　His　posture　prevented　much　being　seen　of　him；　but　as　he　neared　the　bridge　he　stood　up　in　the　boat　and　turned　round。　He　was　already　so　close　to　the　dark　entry；　however；　that　his　whole　figure　was　black　against　the　morning　light；　and　March　could　see　nothing　of　his　face　except　the　end　of　two　long　whiskers　or　mustaches　that　gave　something　sinister　to　the　silhouette；　like　horns　in　the　wrong　place。　Even　these　details　March　would　never　have　noticed　but　for　what　happened　in　the　same　instant。　As　the　man　came　under　the　low　bridge　he　made　a　leap　at　it　and　hung；　with　his　legs　dangling；　letting　the　boat　float　away　from　under　him。　March　had　a　momentary　vision　of　two　black　kicking　legs；　then　of　one　black　kicking　leg；　and　then　of　nothing　except　the　eddying　stream　and　the　long　perspective　of　the　wall。　But　whenever　he　thought　of　it　again；　long　afterward；　when　he　understood　the　story　in　which　it　figured；　it　was　always　fixed　in　that　one　fantastic　shapeas　if　those　wild　legs　were　a　grotesque　graven　ornament　of　the　bridge　itself；　in　the　manner　of　a　gargoyle。　At　the　moment　he　merely　passed；　staring；　down　the　stream。　He　could　see　no　flying　figure　on　the　bridge；　so　it　must　have　already　fled；　but　he　was　half　conscious　of　some　faint　significance　in　the　fact　that　among　the　trees　round　the　bridgehead　opposite　the　wall　he　saw　a　lamp…post；　and；　beside　the　lamp…post；　the　broad　blue　back　of　an　unconscious　policeman。

Even　before　reaching　the　shrine　of　his　political　pilgrimage　he　had　many　other　things　to　think　of　besides　the　odd　incident　of　the　bridge；　for　the　management　of　a　boat　by　a　solitary　man　was　not　always　easy　even　on　such　a　solitary　stream。　And　indeed　it　was　only　by　an　unforeseen　accident　that　he　was　solitary。　The　boat　had　been　purchased　and　the　whole　expedition　planned　in　conjunction　with　a　friend；　who　had　at　the　last　moment　been　forced　to　alter　all　his　arrangements。　Harold　March　was　to　have　traveled　with　his　friend　Horne　Fisher　on　that　inland　voyage　to　Willowood　Place；　where　the　Prime　Minister　was　a　guest　at　the　moment。　More　and　more　people　were　hearing　of　Harold　March；　for　his　striking　political　articles　were　opening　to　him　the　doors　of　larger　and　larger　salons；　but　he　had　never　met　the　Prime　Minister　yet。　Scarcely　anybody　among　the　general　public　had　ever　heard　of　Horne　Fisher；　but　he　had　known　the　Prime　Minister　all　his　life。　For　these　reasons；　had　the　two　taken　the　projected　journey　together；　March　might　have　been　slightly　disposed　to　hasten　it　and　Fisher　vaguely　content　to　lengthen　it　out。　For　Fisher　was　one　of　those　people　who　are　born　knowing　the　Prime　Minister。　The　knowledge　seemed　to　have　no　very　exhilarant　effect；　and　in　his　case　bore　some　resemblance　to　being　born　tired。　But　he　was　distinctly　annoyed　to　receive；　just　as　he　was　doing　a　little　light　packing　of　fishing　tackle　and　cigars　for　the　journey；　a　telegram　from　Willowood　asking　him　to　come　down　at　once　by　train；　as　the　Prime　Minister　had　to　leave　that　night。　Fisher　knew　that　his　friend　the　journalist　could　not　possibly　start　till　the　next　day；　and　he　liked　his　friend　the　journalist；　and　had　looked　forward　to　a　few　days　on　the　river。　He　did　not　particularly　like　or　dislike　the　Prime　Minister；　but　he　intensely　disliked　the　alternative　of　a　few　hours　in　the　train。　Nevertheless；　he　accepted　Prime　Ministers　as　he　accepted　railway　trainsas　part　of　a　system　which　he；　at　least；　was　not　the　revolutionist　sent　on　earth　to　destroy。　So　he　telephoned　to　March；　asking　him；　with　many　apologetic　curses　and　faint　damns；　to　take　the　boat　down　the　river　as　arranged；　that　they　might　meet　at　Willowood　by　the　time　settled；　then　he　went　outside　and　hailed　a　taxicab　to　take　him　to　the　railway　station。　There　he　paused　at　the　bookstall　to　add　to　his　light　luggage　a　number　of　cheap　murder　stories；　which　he　read　with　great　pleasure；　and　without　any　premonition　that　he　was　about　to　walk　into　as　strange　a　story　in　real　life。

A　little　before　sunset　he　arrived；　with　his　light　suitcase　in　hand；　before　the　gate　of　the　long　riverside　gardens　of　Willowood　Place；　one　of　the　smaller　seats　of　Sir　Isaac　Hook；　the　master　of　much　shipping　and　many　newspapers。　He　entered　by　the　gate　giving　on　the　road；　at　the　opposite　side　to　the　river；　but　there　was　a　mixed　quality　in　all　that　watery　landscape　which　perpetually　reminded　a　traveler　that　the　river　was　near。　White　gleams　of　water　would　shine　suddenly　like　swords　or　spears　in　the　green　thickets。　And　even　in　the　garden　itself；　divided　into　courts　and　curtained　with　hedges　and　high　garden　trees；　there　hung　everywhere　in　the　air　the　music　of　water。　The　first　of　the　green　courts　which　he　entered　appeared　to　be　a　somewhat　neglected　croquet　lawn；　in　which　was　a　solitary　young　man　playing　croquet　against　himself。　Yet　he　was　not　an　enthusiast　for　the　game；　or　even　for　the　garden；　and　his　sallow　but　well…featured　face　looked　rather　sullen　than　otherwise。　He　was　only　one　of　those　young　men　who　cannot　support　the　burden　of　consciousness　unless　they　are　doing　something；　and　whose　conceptions　of　doing　something　are　limited　to　a　game　of　some　kind。　He　was　dark　and　well。　dressed　in　a　light　holiday　fashion；　and　Fisher　recognized　him　at　once　as　a　young　man　named　James　Bullen；　called；　for　some　unknown　reason；　Bunker。　He　was　the　nephew　of　Sir　Isaac；　but；　what　was　much　more　important　at　the　moment；　he　was　also　the　private　secretary　of　the　Prime　Minister。

〃Hullo；　Bunker！〃　observed　Horne　Fisher。　〃You're　the　sort　of　man　I　wanted　to　see。　Has　your　chief　come　down　yet？〃

〃He's　only　staying　for　dinner；〃　replied　Bullen；　with　his　eye　on　the　yellow　ball。　〃He's　got　a　great　speech　to…morrow　at　Birmingham　and　he's　going　straight　through　to…night。　He's　motoring　himself　there；　driving　the　car；　I　mean。　It's　the　one　thing　he's　really　proud　of。〃

〃You　mean　you're　staying　here　with　your　uncle；　like　a　good　boy？〃　replied　Fisher。　〃But　what　will　the　Chief　do　at　Birmingham　without　the　epigrams　whispered　to　him　by　his　brilliant　secretary？〃

〃Don't　you　start　ragging　me；〃　said　the　young　man　called　Bunker。　〃I'm　only　too　glad　not　to　go　trailing　after　him。　He　doesn't　know　a　thing　about　maps　or　money　or　hotels　or　anything；　and　I　have　to　dance　about　like　a　courier。　As　for　my　　uncle；　as　I'm　supposed　to　come　into　the　estate；　it's　only　decent　to　be　here　sometimes。〃

〃Very　proper；〃　replied　the　other。　〃Well；　I　shall　see　you　later　on；〃　and；　crossing　the　lawn；　he　passed　out　through　a　gap　in　the　hedge。

He　was　walking　across　the　lawn　toward　the　landing　stage　on　the　river；　and　still　felt　all　around　him；　under　the　dome　of　golden　evening；　an　Old　World　savor　and　reverberation　in　that　riverhaunted　garden。　The　next　square　of　turf　which　he　crossed　seemed　at　first　sight　quite　deserted；　till　he　saw　in　the　twilight　of　trees　in　one　corner　of　it　a　hammock　and　in　the　hammock　a　man；　reading　a　newspaper　and　swinging　one　leg　over　the　edge　of　the　net。

Him　also　he　hailed　by　name；　and　the　man　slipped　to　the　ground　and　strolled　forward。　It　seemed　fated　that　he　should　feel　something　of　the　past　in　the　accidents　of　that　place；　for　the　figure　might　well　have　been　an　early…Victorian　ghost　revisiting　the　ghosts　of　the　croquet　hoops　and　mallets。　It　was　the　figure　of　an　elderly　man　with　long　whiskers　that　looked　almost　fantastic；　and　a　quaint　and　careful　cut　of　collar　and　cravat。　Having　been　a　fashionable　dandy　forty　years　ago；　he　had　managed　to　preserve　the　dandyism　while　ignoring　the　fashions。　A　white　top…hat　lay　beside　the　Morning　Post　in　the　hammock　behind　him。　This　was　the　Duke　of　Westmoreland；　the　relic　of　a　family　really　some　centuries　old；　and　the　antiquity　was　not　heraldry　b