“Before we go any farther,” he said, “there is something you ought to know.  You and I have seen some mysterious things and got to the bottom of them before now; and it’s only right that you should get to the bottom of this one.  But in dealing with the death of my uncle I must begin at the other end from where our old detective yarns began.  I will give you the steps of deduction presently, if you want to listen to them; but I did not reach the truth of this by steps of deduction.  I will first of all tell you the truth itself, because I knew the truth from the first.  The other cases I approached from the outside, but in this case I was inside.  I myself was the very core and center of everything.”

Something in the speaker’s pendent eyelids and grave gray eyes suddenly shook March to his foundations; and he cried, distractedly, “I don’t understand!” as men do when they fear that they do understand.  There was no sound for a space but the happy chatter of the birds, and then Horne Fisher said, calmly: 

“It was I who killed my uncle.  If you particularly want more, it was I who stole the state papers from him.”

“Fisher!” cried his friend in a strangled voice.

“Let me tell you the whole thing before we part,” continued the other, “and let me put it, for the sake of clearness, as we used to put our old problems.  Now there are two things that are puzzling people about that problem, aren’t there?  The first is how the murderer managed to slip off the dead man’s coat, when he was already pinned to the ground with that stone incubus.  The other, which is much smaller and less puzzling, is the fact of the sword that cut his throat being slightly stained at the point, instead of a good deal more stained at the edge.  Well, I can dispose of the first question easily.  Horne Hewitt took off his own coat before he was killed.  I might say he took off his coat to be killed.”

“Do you call that an explanation?” exclaimed March.  “The words seem more meaningless, than the facts.”

“Well, let us go on to the other facts,” continued Fisher, equably.  “The reason that particular sword is not stained at the edge with Hewitt’s blood is that it was not used to kill Hewitt.”

“But the doctor,” protested March, “declared distinctly that the wound was made by that particular sword.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Fisher.  “He did not declare that it was made by that particular sword.  He declared it was made by a sword of that particular pattern.”

“But it was quite a queer and exceptional pattern,” argued March; “surely it is far too fantastic a coincidence to imagine—­”

“It was a fantastic coincidence,” reflected Horne Fisher.  “It’s extraordinary what coincidences do sometimes occur.  By the oddest chance in the world, by one chance in a million, it so happened that another sword of exactly the same shape was in the same garden at the same time.  It may be partly explained, by the fact that I brought them both into the garden myself . . . come, my dear fellow; surely you can see now what it means.  Put those two things together; there were two duplicate swords and he took off his coat for himself.  It may assist your speculations to recall the fact that I am not exactly an assassin.”