And, looking up the river once more, they saw, dark against the sunset reflections, the figure of James Bullen stepping hastily and rather clumsily from stone to stone.  Once he slipped on a stone with a slight splash.  When he rejoined the group on the bank his olive face was unnaturally pale.

The other four men had already gathered on the same spot and almost simultaneously were calling out to him, “What does he say now?”

“Nothing.  He says—­nothing.”

Fisher looked at the young man steadily for a moment; then he started from his immobility and, making a motion to March to follow him, himself strode down to the river crossing.  In a few moments they were on the little beaten track that ran round the wooded island, to the other side of it where the fisherman sat.  Then they stood and looked at him, without a word.

Sir Isaac Hook was still sitting propped up against the stump of the tree, and that for the best of reasons.  A length of his own infallible fishing line was twisted and tightened twice round his throat and then twice round the wooden prop behind him.  The leading investigator ran forward and touched the fisherman’s hand, and it was as cold as a fish.

“The sun has set,” said Horne Fisher, in the same terrible tones, “and he will never see it rise again.”

Ten minutes afterward the five men, shaken by such a shock, were again together in the garden, looking at one another with white but watchful faces.  The lawyer seemed the most alert of the group; he was articulate if somewhat abrupt.

“We must leave the body as it is and telephone for the police,” he said.  “I think my own authority will stretch to examining the servants and the poor fellow’s papers, to see if there is anything that concerns them.  Of course, none of you gentlemen must leave this place.”

Perhaps there was something in his rapid and rigorous legality that suggested the closing of a net or trap.  Anyhow, young Bullen suddenly broke down, or perhaps blew up, for his voice was like an explosion in the silent garden.

“I never touched him,” he cried.  “I swear I had nothing to do with it!”

“Who said you had?” demanded Harker, with a hard eye.  “Why do you cry out before you’re hurt?”

“Because you all look at me like that,” cried the young man, angrily.  “Do you think I don’t know you’re always talking about my damned debts and expectations?”

Rather to March’s surprise, Fisher had drawn away from this first collision, leading the duke with him to another part of the garden.  When he was out of earshot of the others he said, with a curious simplicity of manner: 

“Westmoreland, I am going straight to the point.”

“Well?” said the other, staring at him stolidly.

“You have a motive for killing him,” said Fisher.

The duke continued to stare, but he seemed unable to speak.

“I hope you had a motive for killing him,” continued Fisher, mildly.  “You see, it’s rather a curious situation.  If you have a motive for murdering, you probably didn’t murder.  But if you hadn’t any motive, why, then perhaps, you did.”