They had started walking in the tracks of the car, leaving it behind them in the hollow, still humming horribly like a huge insect that had killed a man.  The tracks took them to the corner of the road, one arm of which went on in the same line toward the distant gates of the park.  It was clear that the car had been driven down the long straight road, and then, instead of turning with the road to the left, had gone straight on over the turf to its doom.  But it was not this discovery that had riveted Fisher’s eye, but something even more solid.  At the angle of the white road a dark and solitary figure was standing almost as still as a finger post.  It was that of a big man in rough shooting-clothes, bareheaded, and with tousled curly hair that gave him a rather wild look.  On a nearer approach this first more fantastic impression faded; in a full light the figure took on more conventional colors, as of an ordinary gentleman who happened to have come out without a hat and without very studiously brushing his hair.  But the massive stature remained, and something deep and even cavernous about the setting of the eyes redeemed his animal good looks from the commonplace.  But March had no time to study the man more closely, for, much to his astonishment, his guide merely observed, “Hullo, Jack!” and walked past him as if he had indeed been a signpost, and without attempting to inform him of the catastrophe beyond the rocks.  It was relatively a small thing, but it was only the first in a string of singular antics on which his new and eccentric friend was leading him.

The man they had passed looked after them in rather a suspicious fashion, but Fisher continued serenely on his way along the straight road that ran past the gates of the great estate.

“That’s John Burke, the traveler,” he condescended to explain.  “I expect you’ve heard of him; shoots big game and all that.  Sorry I couldn’t stop to introduce you, but I dare say you’ll meet him later on.”

“I know his book, of course,” said March, with renewed interest.  “That is certainly a fine piece of description, about their being only conscious of the closeness of the elephant when the colossal head blocked out the moon.”

“Yes, young Halkett writes jolly well, I think.  What?  Didn’t you know Halkett wrote Burke’s book for him?  Burke can’t use anything except a gun; and you can’t write with that.  Oh, he’s genuine enough in his way, you know, as brave as a lion, or a good deal braver by all accounts.”

“You seem to know all about him,” observed March, with a rather bewildered laugh, “and about a good many other people.”

Fisher’s bald brow became abruptly corrugated, and a curious expression came into his eyes.

“I know too much,” he said.  “That’s what’s the matter with me.  That’s what’s the matter with all of us, and the whole show; we know too much.  Too much about one another; too much about ourselves.  That’s why I’m really interested, just now, about one thing that I don’t know.”