The last light seemed to fade from the lawn, and the poplars against the sunset were like great plumes upon a purple hearse, when the futile procession finally curved round, and came out in front of the target.  Sir Howard again slapped his host on the shoulder, shoving him playfully forward to take the first shot.  The shoulder and arm he touched seemed unnaturally stiff and angular.  Mr. Jenkins was holding his gun in an attitude more awkward than any that his satiric friends had seen or expected.

At the same instant a horrible scream seemed to come from nowhere.  It was so unnatural and so unsuited to the scene that it might have been made by some inhuman thing flying on wings above them or eavesdropping in the dark woods beyond.  But Fisher knew that it had started and stopped on the pale lips of Jefferson Jenkins, of Montreal, and no one at that moment catching sight of Jefferson Jenkins’s face would have complained that it was commonplace.  The next moment a torrent of guttural but good-humored oaths came from Major Burke as he and the two other men saw what was in front of them.  The target stood up in the dim grass like a dark goblin grinning at them, and it was literally grinning.  It had two eyes like stars, and in similar livid points of light were picked out the two upturned and open nostrils and the two ends of the wide and tight mouth.  A few white dots above each eye indicated the hoary eyebrows; and one of them ran upward almost erect.  It was a brilliant caricature done in bright dotted lines and March knew of whom.  It shone in the shadowy grass, smeared with sea fire as if one of the submarine monsters had crawled into the twilight garden; but it had the head of a dead man.

“It’s only luminous paint,” said Burke.  “Old Fisher’s been having a joke with that phosphorescent stuff of his.”

“Seems to be meant for old Puggy"’ observed Sir Howard.  “Hits him off very well.”

With that they all laughed, except Jenkins.  When they had all done, he made a noise like the first effort of an animal to laugh, and Horne Fisher suddenly strode across to him and said: 

“Mr. Jenkins, I must speak to you at once in private.”

It was by the little watercourse in the moors, on the slope under the hanging rock, that March met his new friend Fisher, by appointment, shortly after the ugly and almost grotesque scene that had broken up the group in the garden.

“It was a monkey-trick of mine,” observed Fisher, gloomily, “putting phosphorus on the target; but the only chance to make him jump was to give him the horrors suddenly.  And when he saw the face he’d shot at shining on the target he practiced on, all lit up with an infernal light, he did jump.  Quite enough for my own intellectual satisfaction.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand even now,” said March, “exactly what he did or why he did it.”