“Rather,” said Mr. Fisher.  “He’s the best shot I know.”

Then, as if sincerely repentant of his nonchalance, he added, with a sort of enthusiasm: 

“No, but really, he’s a beautiful shot.”

As if fired by his own words, he took a sort of leap at the ledges of the rock above him, and scaled them with a sudden agility in startling contrast to his general lassitude.  He had stood for some seconds on the headland above, with his aquiline profile under the Panama hat relieved against the sky and peering over the countryside before his companion had collected himself sufficiently to scramble up after him.

The level above was a stretch of common turf on which the tracks of the fated car were plowed plainly enough; but the brink of it was broken as with rocky teeth; broken boulders of all shapes and sizes lay near the edge; it was almost incredible that any one could have deliberately driven into such a death trap, especially in broad daylight.

“I can’t make head or tail of it,” said March.  “Was he blind?  Or blind drunk?”

“Neither, by the look of him,” replied the other.

“Then it was suicide.”

“It doesn’t seem a cozy way of doing it,” remarked the man called Fisher.  “Besides, I don’t fancy poor old Puggy would commit suicide, somehow.”

“Poor old who?” inquired the wondering journalist.  “Did you know this unfortunate man?”

“Nobody knew him exactly,” replied Fisher, with some vagueness.  “But one knew him, of course.  He’d been a terror in his time, in Parliament and the courts, and so on; especially in that row about the aliens who were deported as undesirables, when he wanted one of ’em hanged for murder.  He was so sick about it that he retired from the bench.  Since then he mostly motored about by himself; but he was coming to Torwood, too, for the week-end; and I don’t see why he should deliberately break his neck almost at the very door.  I believe Hoggs—­I mean my cousin Howard—­was coming down specially to meet him.”

“Torwood Park doesn’t belong to your cousin?” inquired March.

“No; it used to belong to the Winthrops, you know,” replied the other.  “Now a new man’s got it; a man from Montreal named Jenkins.  Hoggs comes for the shooting; I told you he was a lovely shot.”

This repeated eulogy on the great social statesman affected Harold March as if somebody had defined Napoleon as a distinguished player of nap.  But he had another half-formed impression struggling in this flood of unfamiliar things, and he brought it to the surface before it could vanish.

“Jenkins,” he repeated.  “Surely you don’t mean Jefferson Jenkins, the social reformer?  I mean the man who’s fighting for the new cottage-estate scheme.  It would be as interesting to meet him as any Cabinet Minister in the world, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“Yes; Hoggs told him it would have to be cottages,” said Fisher.  “He said the breed of cattle had improved too often, and people were beginning to laugh.  And, of course, you must hang a peerage on to something; though the poor chap hasn’t got it yet.  Hullo, here’s somebody else.”