“I left Major Burke’s guns here,” he said, “and he wants them packed up.  He’s going away to-night.”

And he carried off the two rifles without casting a glance at the stranger; through the open window they could see his short, dark figure walking away across the glimmering garden.  Fisher got out of the window again and stood looking after him.

“That’s Halkett, whom I told you about,” he said.  “I knew he was a sort of secretary and had to do with Burke’s papers; but I never knew he had anything to do with his guns.  But he’s just the sort of silent, sensible little devil who might be very good at anything; the sort of man you know for years before you find he’s a chess champion.”

He had begun to walk in the direction of the disappearing secretary, and they soon came within sight of the rest of the house-party talking and laughing on the lawn.  They could see the tall figure and loose mane of the lion-hunter dominating the little group.

“By the way,” observed Fisher, “when we were talking about Burke and Halkett, I said that a man couldn’t very well write with a gun.  Well, I’m not so sure now.  Did you ever hear of an artist so clever that he could draw with a gun?  There’s a wonderful chap loose about here.”

Sir Howard hailed Fisher and his friend the journalist with almost boisterous amiability.  The latter was presented to Major Burke and Mr. Halkett and also (by way of a parenthesis) to his host, Mr. Jenkins, a commonplace little man in loud tweeds, whom everybody else seemed to treat with a sort of affection, as if he were a baby.

The irrepressible Chancellor of the Exchequer was still talking about the birds he had brought down, the birds that Burke and Halkett had brought down, and the birds that Jenkins, their host, had failed to bring down.  It seemed to be a sort of sociable monomania.

“You and your big game,” he ejaculated, aggressively, to Burke.  “Why, anybody could shoot big game.  You want to be a shot to shoot small game.”

“Quite so,” interposed Horne Fisher.  “Now if only a hippopotamus could fly up in the air out of that bush, or you preserved flying elephants on the estate, why, then—­”

“Why even Jink might hit that sort of bird,” cried Sir Howard, hilariously slapping his host on the back.  “Even he might hit a haystack or a hippopotamus.”

“Look here, you fellows,” said Fisher.  “I want you to come along with me for a minute and shoot at something else.  Not a hippopotamus.  Another kind of queer animal I’ve found on the estate.  It’s an animal with three legs and one eye, and it’s all the colors of the rainbow.”

“What the deuce are you talking about?” asked Burke.

“You come along and see,” replied Fisher, cheerfully.

Such people seldom reject anything nonsensical, for they are always seeking for something new.  They gravely rearmed themselves from the gun-room and trooped along at the tail of their guide, Sir Howard only pausing, in a sort of ecstasy, to point out the celebrated gilt summerhouse on which the gilt weathercock still stood crooked.  It was dusk turning to dark by the time they reached the remote green by the poplars and accepted the new and aimless game of shooting at the old mark.