The first thing he saw was Doctor Prince, the detective, peering through his spectacles at something on the ground; the second was the thing he was peering at.  Even after the sensational news he had heard inside, the sight was something of a sensation.

The monstrous stone image of Britannia was lying prone and face downward on the garden path; and there stuck out at random from underneath it, like the legs of a smashed fly, an arm clad in a white shirt sleeve and a leg clad in a khaki trouser, and hair of the unmistakable sandy gray that belonged to Horne Fisher’s unfortunate uncle.  There were pools of blood and the limbs were quite stiff in death.

“Couldn’t this have been an accident?” said March, finding words at last.

“Look for yourself, I say,” repeated the harsh voice of Herries, who had followed him with restless movements out of the door.  “The papers are gone, I tell you.  The fellow tore the coat off the corpse and cut the papers out of the inner pocket.  There’s the coat over there on the bank, with the great slash in it.”

“But wait a minute,” said the detective, Prince, quietly.  “In that case there seems to be something of a mystery.  A murderer might somehow have managed to throw the statue down on him, as he seems to have done.  But I bet he couldn’t easily have lifted it up again.  I’ve tried; and I’m sure it would want three men at least.  Yet we must suppose, on that theory, that the murderer first knocked him down as he walked past, using the statue as a stone club, then lifted it up again, took him out and deprived him of his coat, then put him back again in the posture of death and neatly replaced the statue.  I tell you it’s physically impossible.  And how else could he have unclothed a man covered with that stone monument?  It’s worse than the conjurer’s trick, when a man shuffles a coat off with his wrists tied.”

“Could he have thrown down the statue after he’d stripped the corpse?” asked March.

“And why?” asked Prince, sharply.  “If he’d killed his man and got his papers, he’d be away like the wind.  He wouldn’t potter about in a garden excavating the pedestals of statues.  Besides—­Hullo, who’s that up there?”

High on the ridge above them, drawn in dark thin lines against the sky, was a figure looking so long and lean as to be almost spidery.  The dark silhouette of the head showed two small tufts like horns; and they could almost have sworn that the horns moved.

“Archer!” shouted Herries, with sudden passion, and called to him with curses to come down.  The figure drew back at the first cry, with an agitated movement so abrupt as almost to be called an antic.  The next moment the man seemed to reconsider and collect himself, and began to come down the zigzag garden path, but with obvious reluctance, his feet falling in slower and slower rhythm.  Through March’s mind were throbbing the phrases that this man himself had used, about going mad in the middle of the night and wrecking the stone figure.  Just so, he could fancy, the maniac who had done such a thing might climb the crest of the hill, in that feverish dancing fashion, and look down on the wreck he had made.  But the wreck he had made here was not only a wreck of stone.