the man who knew too much-第5节

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　moral　courage　to　have　a　gilt　monogram　on　a　chair　like　that　one　in　the　gun…room。　For　that　matter；　there's　the　name　as　well　as　the　monogram。　Names　like　Tompkins　and　Jenkins　and　Jinks　are　funny　without　being　vulgar；　I　mean　they　are　vulgar　without　being　common。　If　you　prefer　it；　they　are　commonplace　without　being　common。　They　are　just　the　names　to　be　chosen　to　LOOK　ordinary；　but　they're　really　rather　extraordinary。　Do　you　know　many　people　called　Tompkins？　It's　a　good　deal　rarer　than　Talbot。　It's　pretty　much　the　same　with　the　comic　clothes　of　the　parvenu。　Jenkins　dresses　like　a　character　in　Punch。　But　that's　because　he　is　a　character　in　Punch。　I　mean　he's　a　fictitious　character。　He's　a　fabulous　animal。　He　doesn't　exist。

〃Have　you　ever　considered　what　it　must　be　like　to　be　a　man　who　doesn't　exist？　I　mean　to　be　a　man　with　a　fictitious　character　that　he　has　to　keep　up　at　the　expense　not　merely　of　personal　talents：　To　be　a　new　kind　of　hypocrite　hiding　a　talent　in　a　new　kind　of　napkin。　This　man　has　chosen　his　hypocrisy　very　ingeniously；　it　was　really　a　new　one。　A　subtle　villain　has　dressed　up　as　a　dashing　gentleman　and　a　worthy　business　man　and　a　philanthropist　and　a　saint；　but　the　loud　checks　of　a　comical　little　cad　were　really　rather　a　new　disguise。　But　the　disguise　must　be　very　irksome　to　a　man　who　can　really　do　things。　This　is　a　dexterous　little　cosmopolitan　guttersnipe　who　can　do　scores　of　things；　not　only　shoot；　but　draw　and　paint；　and　probably　play　the　fiddle。　Now　a　man　like　that　may　find　the　hiding　of　his　talents　useful；　but　he　could　never　help　wanting　to　use　them　where　they　were　useless。　If　he　can　draw；　he　will　draw　absent…mindedly　on　blotting　paper。　I　suspect　this　rascal　has　often　drawn　poor　old　Puggy's　face　on　blotting　paper。　Probably　he　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　do　without　him。　I　don't　say　I'm　quite　innocent。　I　like　Hoggs；　I　don't　want　him　to　be　down　and　out；　and　he'd　be　done　for　if　Jink　can't　pay　for　his　coronet。　They　were　devilish　near　the　line　at　the　last　election。　But　the　only　real　objection　to　it　is　that　it's　impossible。　Nobody　would　believe　it；　it's　not　in　the　picture。　The　crooked　weathercock　would　always　turn　it　into　a　joke。〃

〃Don't　you　think　this　is　infamous？〃　asked　March；　quietly。

〃I　think　a　good　many　things；〃　replied　the　other。　〃If　you　people　ever　happen　to　blow　the　whole　tangle　of　society　to　hell　with　dynamite；　I　don't　know　that　the　human　race　will　be　much　the　worse。　But　don't　be　too　hard　on　me　merely　because　I　know　what　society　is。　That's　why　I　moon　away　my　time　over　things　like　stinking　fish。〃

There　was　a　pause　as　he　settled　himself　down　again　by　the　stream；　and　then　he　added：

〃I　told　you　before　I　had　to　throw　back　the　big　fish。〃



II。　THE　VANISHING　PRINCE

This　tale　begins　among　a　tangle　of　tales　round　a　name　that　is　at　once　recent　and　legendary。　The　name　is　that　of　Michael　O'Neill；　popularly　called　Prince　Michael；　partly　because　he　claimed　descent　from　ancient　Fenian　princes；　and　partly　because　he　was　credited　with　a　plan　to　make　himself　prince　president　of　Ireland；　as　the　last　Napoleon　did　of　France。　He　was　undoubtedly　a　gentleman　of　honorable　pedigree　and　of　many　accomplishments；　but　two　of　his　accomplishments　emerged　from　all　the　rest。　He　had　a　talent　for　appearing　when　he　was　not　wanted　and　a　talent　for　disappearing　when　he　was　wanted；　especially　when　he　was　wanted　by　the　police。　It　may　be　added　that　his　disappearances　were　more　dangerous　than　his　appearances。　In　the　latter　he　seldom　went　beyond　the　sensationalpasting　up　seditious　placards；　tearing　down　official　placards；　making　flamboyant　speeches；　or　unfurling　forbidden　flags。　But　in　order　to　effect　the　former　he　would　sometimes　fight　for　his　freedom　with　startling　energy；　from　which　men　were　sometimes　lucky　to　escape　with　a　broken　head　instead　of　a　broken　neck。　His　most　famous　feats　of　escape；　however；　were　due　to　dexterity　and　not　to　violence。　On　a　cloudless　summer　morning　he　had　come　down　a　country　road　white　with　dust；　and；　pausing　outside　a　farmhouse；　had　told　the　farmer's　daughter；　with　elegant　indifference；　that　the　local　police　were　in　pursuit　of　him。　The　girl's　name　was　Bridget　Royce；　a　somber　and　even　sullen　type　of　beauty；　and　she　looked　at　him　darkly；　as　if　in　doubt；　and　said；　〃Do　you　want　me　to　hide　you？〃　Upon　which　he　only　laughed；　leaped　lightly　over　the　stone　wall；　and　strode　toward　the　farm；　merely　throwing　over　his　shoulder　the　remark；　〃Thank　you；　I　have　generally　been　quite　capable　of　hiding　myself。〃　In　which　proceeding　he　acted　with　a　tragic　ignorance　of　the　nature　of　women；　and　there　fell　on　his　path　in　that　sunshine　a　shadow　of　doom。

While　he　disappeared　through　the　farmhouse　the　girl　remained　for　a　few　moments　looking　up　the　road；　and　two　perspiring　policemen　came　plowing　up　to　the　door　where　she　stood。　Though　still　angry；　she　was　still　silent；　and　a　quarter　of　an　hour　later　the　officers　had　searched　the　house　and　were　already　inspecting　the　kitchen　garden　and　cornfield　behind　it。　In　the　ugly　reaction　of　her　mood　she　might　have　been　tempted　even　to　point　out　the　fugitive；　but　for　a　small　difficulty　that　she　had　no　more　notion　than　the　policemen　　had　of　where　he　could　possibly　have　gone。　The　kitchen　garden　was　inclosed　by　a　very　low　wall；　and　the　cornfield　beyond　lay　aslant　like　a　square　patch　on　a　great　green　hill　on　which　he　could　still　have　been　seen　even　as　a　dot　in　the　distance。　Everything　stood　solid　in　its　familiar　place；　the　apple　tree　was　too　small　to　support　or　hide　a　climber；　the　only　shed　stood　open　and　obviously　empty；　there　was　no　sound　save　the　droning　of　summer　flies　and　the　occasional　flutter　of　a　bird　unfamiliar　enough　to　be　surprised　by　the　scarecrow　in　the　field；　there　was　scarcely　a　shadow　save　a　few　blue　lines　that　fell　from　the　thin　tree；　every　detail　was　picked　out　by　the　brilliant　day　light　as　if　in　a　microscope。　The　girl　described　the　scene　later；　with　all　the　passionate　realism　of　her　race；　and；　whether　or　no　the　policemen　had　a　similar　eye　for　the　picturesque；　they　had　at　least　an　eye　for　the　facts　of　the　case；　and　were　compelled　to　give　up　the　chase　and　retire　from　the　scene。　Bridget　Royce　remained　as　if　in　a　trance；　staring　at　the　sunlit　garden　in　which　a　man　had　just　vanished　like　a　fairy。　She　was　still　in　a　sinister　mood；　and　the　miracle　took　in　her　mind　a　character　of　unfriendliness　and　fear；　as　if　the　fairy　were　decidedly　a　bad　fairy。　The　sun　upon　the　glittering　garden　depressed　her　more　than　the　darkness；　but　she　continued　to　stare　at　it。　Then　the　world　itself　went　half…witted　and　she　screamed。　The　scarecrow　moved　in　the　sun　　light。　It　had　stood　with　its　back　to　her　in　a　battered　old　black　hat　and　a　tattered　garment；　and　with　all　its　tatters　flying；　it　strode　away　across　the　hill。

She　did　not　analyze　the　audacious　trick　by　which　the　man　had　turned　to　his　advantage　the　subtle　effects　of　the