problems as those of Prince Michael.  Horne Fisher was fifteen years older; his thin hair had faded to frontal baldness, and his long, thin hands dropped less with affectation and more with fatigue.  And he told the story of the Irish adventure of his youth, because it recorded the first occasion on which he had ever come in contact with crime, or discovered how darkly and how terribly crime can be entangled with law.

“Hooker Wilson was the first criminal I ever knew, and he was a policeman,” explained Fisher, twirling his wine glass.  “And all my life has been a mixed-up business of the sort.  He was a man of very real talent, and perhaps genius, and well worth studying, both as a detective and a criminal.  His white face and red hair were typical of him, for he was one of those who are cold and yet on fire for fame; and he could control anger, but not ambition.  He swallowed the snubs of his superiors in that first quarrel, though he boiled with resentment; but when he suddenly saw the two heads dark against the dawn and framed in the two windows, he could not miss the chance, not only of revenge, but of the removal of the two obstacles to his promotion.  He was a dead shot and counted on silencing both, though proof against him would have been hard in any case.  But, as a matter of fact, he had a narrow escape, in the case of Nolan, who lived just long enough to say, ‘Wilson’ and point.  We thought he was summoning help for his comrade, but he was really denouncing his murderer.  After that it was easy to throw down the ladder above him (for a man up a ladder cannot see clearly what is below and behind) and to throw himself on the ground as another victim of the catastrophe.

“But there was mixed up with his murderous ambition a real belief, not only in his own talents, but in his own theories.  He did believe in what he called a fresh eye, and he did want scope for fresh methods.  There was something in his view, but it failed where such things commonly fail, because the fresh eye cannot see the unseen.  It is true about the ladder and the scarecrow, but not about the life and the soul; and he made a bad mistake about what a man like Michael would do when he heard a woman scream.  All Michael’s very vanity and vainglory made him rush out at once; he would have walked into Dublin Castle for a lady’s glove.  Call it his pose or what you will, but he would have done it.  What happened when he met her is another story, and one we may never know, but from tales I’ve heard since, they must have been reconciled.  Wilson was wrong there; but there was something, for all that, in his notion that the newcomer sees most, and that the man on the spot may know too much to know anything.  He was right about some things.  He was right about me.”

“About you?” asked Harold March in some wonder.