For the fraction of a flash it seemed to leave the ledge of rock like a flying ship; then the very sky seemed to turn over like a wheel, and it lay a ruin amid the tall grasses below, a line of gray smoke going up slowly from it into the silent air.  A little lower the figure of a man with gray hair lay tumbled down the steep green slope, his limbs lying all at random, and his face turned away.

The eccentric fisherman dropped his net and walked swiftly toward the spot, his new acquaintance following him.  As they drew near there seemed a sort of monstrous irony in the fact that the dead machine was still throbbing and thundering as busily as a factory, while the man lay so still.

He was unquestionably dead.  The blood flowed in the grass from a hopelessly fatal fracture at the back of the skull; but the face, which was turned to the sun, was uninjured and strangely arresting in itself.  It was one of those cases of a strange face so unmistakable as to feel familiar.  We feel, somehow, that we ought to recognize it, even though we do not.  It was of the broad, square sort with great jaws, almost like that of a highly intellectual ape; the wide mouth shut so tight as to be traced by a mere line; the nose short with the sort of nostrils that seem to gape with an appetite for the air.  The oddest thing about the face was that one of the eyebrows was cocked up at a much sharper angle than the other.  March thought he had never seen a face so naturally alive as that dead one.  And its ugly energy seemed all the stranger for its halo of hoary hair.  Some papers lay half fallen out of the pocket, and from among them March extracted a card-case.  He read the name on the card aloud.

“Sir Humphrey Turnbull.  I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere.”

His companion only gave a sort of a little sigh and was silent for a moment, as if ruminating, then he merely said, “The poor fellow is quite gone,” and added some scientific terms in which his auditor once more found himself out of his depth.

“As things are,” continued the same curiously well-informed person, “it will be more legal for us to leave the body as it is until the police are informed.  In fact, I think it will be well if nobody except the police is informed.  Don’t be surprised if I seem to be keeping it dark from some of our neighbors round here.”  Then, as if prompted to regularize his rather abrupt confidence, he said:  “I’ve come down to see my cousin at Torwood; my name is Horne Fisher.  Might be a pun on my pottering about here, mightn’t it?”

“Is Sir Howard Horne your cousin?” asked March.  “I’m going to Torwood Park to see him myself; only about his public work, of course, and the wonderful stand he is making for his principles.  I think this Budget is the greatest thing in English history.  If it fails, it will be the most heroic failure in English history.  Are you an admirer of your great kinsman, Mr. Fisher?”