“But he must see it; he must be made to understand.  It cannot have been put to him properly.”  Then, with a certain recovery of fullness and even pomposity in the voice, “I shall go and tell him myself.”

Among the queer incidents of that afternoon, March always remembered something almost comical about the clear picture of the old gentleman in his wonderful white hat carefully stepping from stone to stone across the river, like a figure crossing the traffic in Piccadilly.  Then he disappeared behind the trees of the island, and March and Fisher turned to meet the Attorney-General, who was coming out of the house with a visage of grim assurance.

“Everybody is saying,” he said, “that the Prime Minister has made the greatest speech of his life.  Peroration and loud and prolonged cheers.  Corrupt financiers and heroic peasants.  We will not desert Denmark again.”

Fisher nodded and turned away toward the towing path, where he saw the duke returning with a rather dazed expression.  In answer to questions he said, in a husky and confidential voice: 

“I really think our poor friend cannot be himself.  He refused to listen; he—­ah—­suggested that I might frighten the fish.”

A keen ear might have detected a murmur from Mr. Fisher on the subject of a white hat, but Sir John Harker struck it more decisively: 

“Fisher was quite right.  I didn’t believe it myself, but it’s quite clear that the old fellow is fixed on this fishing notion by now.  If the house caught fire behind him he would hardly move till sunset.”

Fisher had continued his stroll toward the higher embanked ground of the towing path, and he now swept a long and searching gaze, not toward the island, but toward the distant wooded heights that were the walls of the valley.  An evening sky as clear as that of the previous day was settling down all over the dim landscape, but toward the west it was now red rather than gold; there was scarcely any sound but the monotonous music of the river.  Then came the sound of a half-stifled exclamation from Horne Fisher, and Harold March looked up at him in wonder.

“You spoke of bad news,” said Fisher.  “Well, there is really bad news now.  I am afraid this is a bad business.”

“What bad news do you mean?” asked his friend, conscious of something strange and sinister in his voice.

“The sun has set,” answered Fisher.

He went on with the air of one conscious of having said something fatal.  “We must get somebody to go across whom he will really listen to.  He may be mad, but there’s method in his madness.  There nearly always is method in madness.  It’s what drives men mad, being methodical.  And he never goes on sitting there after sunset, with the whole place getting dark.  Where’s his nephew?  I believe he’s really fond of his nephew.”

“Look!” cried March, abruptly.  “Why, he’s been across already.  There he is coming back.”