to be chosen to look ordinary, but they’re really rather extraordinary.  Do you know many people called Tompkins?  It’s a good deal rarer than Talbot.  It’s pretty much the same with the comic clothes of the parvenu.  Jenkins dresses like a character in Punch.  But that’s because he is a character in Punch.  I mean he’s a fictitious character.  He’s a fabulous animal.  He doesn’t exist.

“Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a man who doesn’t exist?  I mean to be a man with a fictitious character that he has to keep up at the expense not merely of personal talents:  To be a new kind of hypocrite hiding a talent in a new kind of napkin.  This man has chosen his hypocrisy very ingeniously; it was really a new one.  A subtle villain has dressed up as a dashing gentleman and a worthy business man and a philanthropist and a saint; but the loud checks of a comical little cad were really rather a new disguise.  But the disguise must be very irksome to a man who can really do things.  This is a dexterous little cosmopolitan guttersnipe who can do scores of things, not only shoot, but draw and paint, and probably play the fiddle.  Now a man like that may find the hiding of his talents useful; but he could never help wanting to use them where they were useless.  If he can draw, he will draw absent-mindedly on blotting paper.  I suspect this rascal has often drawn poor old Puggy’s face on blotting paper.  Probably he began doing it in blots as he afterward did it in dots, or rather shots.  It was the same sort of thing; he found a disused target in a deserted yard and couldn’t resist indulging in a little secret shooting, like secret drinking.  You thought the shots all scattered and irregular, and so they were; but not accidental.  No two distances were alike; but the different points were exactly where he wanted to put them.  There’s nothing needs such mathematical precision as a wild caricature.  I’ve dabbled a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one dot where you want it is a marvel with a pen close to a piece of paper.  It was a miracle to do it across a garden with a gun.  But a man who can work those miracles will always itch to work them, if it’s only in the dark.”

After a pause March observed, thoughtfully, “But he couldn’t have brought him down like a bird with one of those little guns.”

“No; that was why I went into the gun-room,” replied Fisher.  “He did it with one of Burke’s rifles, and Burke thought he knew the sound of it.  That’s why he rushed out without a hat, looking so wild.  He saw nothing but a car passing quickly, which he followed for a little way, and then concluded he’d made a mistake.”

There was another silence, during which Fisher sat on a great stone as motionless as on their first meeting, and watched the gray and silver river eddying past under the bushes.  Then March said, abruptly, “Of course he knows the truth now.”

“Nobody knows the truth but you and I,” answered Fisher, with a certain softening in his voice.  “And I don’t think you and I will ever quarrel.”