“You ought to,” replied Fisher, with his rather dreary smile, “for you gave me the first suggestion yourself.  Oh yes, you did; and it was a very shrewd one.  You said a man wouldn’t take sandwiches with him to dine at a great house.  It was quite true; and the inference was that, though he was going there, he didn’t mean to dine there.  Or, at any rate, that he might not be dining there.  It occurred to me at once that he probably expected the visit to be unpleasant, or the reception doubtful, or something that would prevent his accepting hospitality.  Then it struck me that Turnbull was a terror to certain shady characters in the past, and that he had come down to identify and denounce one of them.  The chances at the start pointed to the host—­that is, Jenkins.  I’m morally certain now that Jenkins was the undesirable alien Turnbull wanted to convict in another shooting-affair, but you see the shooting gentleman had another shot in his locker.”

“But you said he would have to be a very good shot,” protested March.

“Jenkins is a very good shot,” said Fisher.  “A very good shot who can pretend to be a very bad shot.  Shall I tell you the second hint I hit on, after yours, to make me think it was Jenkins?  It was my cousin’s account of his bad shooting.  He’d shot a cockade off a hat and a weathercock off a building.  Now, in fact, a man must shoot very well indeed to shoot so badly as that.  He must shoot very neatly to hit the cockade and not the head, or even the hat.  If the shots had really gone at random, the chances are a thousand to one that they would not have hit such prominent and picturesque objects.  They were chosen because they were prominent and picturesque objects.  They make a story to go the round of society.  He keeps the crooked weathercock in the summerhouse to perpetuate the story of a legend.  And then he lay in wait with his evil eye and wicked gun, safely ambushed behind the legend of his own incompetence.

“But there is more than that.  There is the summerhouse itself.  I mean there is the whole thing.  There’s all that Jenkins gets chaffed about, the gilding and the gaudy colors and all the vulgarity that’s supposed to stamp him as an upstart.  Now, as a matter of fact, upstarts generally don’t do this.  God knows there’s enough of ’em in society; and one knows ’em well enough.  And this is the very last thing they do.  They’re generally only too keen to know the right thing and do it; and they instantly put themselves body and soul into the hands of art decorators and art experts, who do the whole thing for them.  There’s hardly another millionaire alive who has the moral courage to have a gilt monogram on a chair like that one in the gun-room.  For that matter, there’s the name as well as the monogram.  Names like Tompkins and Jenkins and Jinks are funny without being vulgar; I mean they are vulgar without being common.  If you prefer it, they are commonplace without being common.  They are just the names