“I will tell you the truth about Innocent Smith,” said Michael Moon in a low voice.  “Dr. Warner has gone to look for him in vain.  He is not there.  Haven’t you noticed that we never saw him since we found ourselves?  He was an astral baby born on all four of us; he was only our own youth returned.  Long before poor old Warner had clambered out of his cab, the thing we called Smith had dissolved into dew and light on this lawn.  Once or twice more, by the mercy of God, we may feel the thing, but the man we shall never see.  In a spring garden before breakfast we shall smell the smell called Smith.  In the snapping of brisk twigs in tiny fires we shall hear a noise named Smith.  Everything insatiable and innocent in the grasses that gobble up the earth like babies at a bun feast, in the white mornings that split the sky as a boy splits up white firwood, we may feel for one instant the presence of an impetuous purity; but his innocence was too close to the unconsciousness of inanimate things not to melt back at a mere touch into the mild hedges and heavens; he—­”

He was interrupted from behind the house by a bang like that of a bomb.  Almost at the same instant the stranger in the cab sprang out of it, leaving it rocking upon the stones of the road.  He clutched the blue railings of the garden, and peered eagerly over them in the direction of the noise.  He was a small, loose, yet alert man, very thin, with a face that seemed made out of fish bones, and a silk hat quite as rigid and resplendent as Warner’s, but thrust back recklessly on the hinder part of his head.

“Murder!” he shrieked, in a high and feminine but very penetrating voice.  “Stop that murderer there!”

Even as he shrieked a second shot shook the lower windows of the house, and with the noise of it Dr. Herbert Warner came flying round the corner like a leaping rabbit.  Yet before he had reached the group a third discharge had deafened them, and they saw with their own eyes two spots of white sky drilled through the second of the unhappy Herbert’s high hats.  The next moment the fugitive physician fell over a flowerpot, and came down on all fours, staring like a cow.  The hat with the two shot-holes in it rolled upon the gravel path before him, and Innocent Smith came round the corner like a railway train.  He was looking twice his proper size—­a giant clad in green, the big revolver still smoking in his hand, his face sanguine and in shadow, his eyes blazing like all stars, and his yellow hair standing out all ways like Struwelpeter’s.

Though this startling scene hung but an instant in stillness, Inglewood had time to feel once more what he had felt when he saw the other lovers standing on the lawn—­the sensation of a certain cut and coloured clearness that belongs rather to the things of art than to the things of experience.  The broken flowerpot with its red-hot geraniums, the green bulk of Smith and the black bulk of Warner,