March did not answer; he was mesmerized by the strange stones that glittered on the strange sword hilt; and their possible significance was broadening upon him like a dreadful dawn.  It was a curious Asiatic weapon.  He knew what name was connected in his memory with curious Asiatic weapons.  Lord James spoke his secret thought for him, and yet it startled him like an irrelevance.

“Where is the Prime Minister?” Herries had cried, suddenly, and somehow like the bark of a dog at some discovery.

Doctor Prince turned on him his goggles and his grim face; and it was grimmer than ever.

“I cannot find him anywhere,” he said.  “I looked for him at once, as soon as I found the papers were gone.  That servant of yours, Campbell, made a most efficient search, but there are no traces.”

There was a long silence, at the end of which Herries uttered another cry, but upon an entirely new note.

“Well, you needn’t look for him any longer,” he said, “for here he comes, along with your friend Fisher.  They look as if they’d been for a little walking tour.”

The two figures approaching up the path were indeed those of Fisher, splashed with the mire of travel and carrying a scratch like that of a bramble across one side of his bald forehead, and of the great and gray-haired statesman who looked like a baby and was interested in Eastern swords and swordmanship.  But beyond this bodily recognition, March could make neither head nor tail of their presence or demeanor, which seemed to give a final touch of nonsense to the whole nightmare.  The more closely he watched them, as they stood listening to the revelations of the detective, the more puzzled he was by their attitude—­Fisher seemed grieved by the death of his uncle, but hardly shocked at it; the older man seemed almost openly thinking about something else, and neither had anything to suggest about a further pursuit of the fugitive spy and murderer, in spite of the prodigious importance of the documents he had stolen.  When the detective had gone off to busy himself with that department of the business, to telephone and write his report, when Herries had gone back, probably to the brandy bottle, and the Prime Minister had blandly sauntered away toward a comfortable armchair in another part of the garden, Horne Fisher spoke directly to Harold March.

“My friend,” he said, “I want you to come with me at once; there is no one else I can trust so much as that.  The journey will take us most of the day, and the chief business cannot be done till nightfall.  So we can talk things over thoroughly on the way.  But I want you to be with me; for I rather think it is my hour.”

March and Fisher both had motor bicycles; and the first half of their day’s journey consisted in coasting eastward amid the unconversational noise of those uncomfortable engines.  But when they came out beyond Canterbury into the flats of eastern Kent, Fisher stopped at a pleasant little public house beside a sleepy stream; and they sat down to eat and to drink and to speak almost for the first time.  It was a brilliant afternoon, birds were singing in the wood behind, and the sun shone full on their ale bench and table; but the face of Fisher in the strong sunlight had a gravity never seen on it before.