“But how did it happen,” demanded Crane, “that for the first time Bulmer fell in at that particular spot?”

“Because the ice was only loosened at that particular spot, by the only man who knew it,” answered Horne Fisher.  “It was cracked deliberately, with the kitchen chopper, at that special place; and I myself heard the hammering and did not understand it.  The place had been covered with an artificial lake, if only because the whole truth had to be covered with an artificial legend.  But don’t you see that it is exactly what those pagan nobles would have done, to desecrate it with a sort of heathen goddess, as the Roman Emperor built a temple to Venus on the Holy Sepulchre.  But the truth could still be traced out, by any scholarly man determined to trace it.  And this man was determined to trace it.”

“What man?” asked the other, with a shadow of the answer in his mind.

“The only man who has an alibi,” replied Fisher.  “James Haddow, the antiquarian lawyer, left the night before the fatality, but he left that black star of death on the ice.  He left abruptly, having previously proposed to stay; probably, I think, after an ugly scene with Bulmer, at their legal interview.  As you know yourself, Bulmer could make a man feel pretty murderous, and I rather fancy the lawyer had himself irregularities to confess, and was in danger of exposure by his client.  But it’s my reading of human nature that a man will cheat in his trade, but not in his hobby.  Haddow may have been a dishonest lawyer, but he couldn’t help being an honest antiquary.  When he got on the track of the truth about the Holy Well he had to follow it up; he was not to be bamboozled with newspaper anecdotes about Mr. Prior and a hole in the wall; he found out everything, even to the exact location of the well, and he was rewarded, if being a successful assassin can be regarded as a reward.”

“And how did you get on the track of all this hidden history?” asked the young architect.

A cloud came across the brow of Horne Fisher.  “I knew only too much about it already,” he said, “and, after all, it’s shameful for me to be speaking lightly of poor Bulmer, who has paid his penalty; but the rest of us haven’t.  I dare say every cigar I smoke and every liqueur I drink comes directly or indirectly from the harrying of the holy places and the persecution of the poor.  After all, it needs very little poking about in the past to find that hole in the wall, that great breach in the defenses of English history.  It lies just under the surface of a thin sheet of sham information and instruction, just as the black and blood-stained well lies just under that floor of shallow water and flat weeds.  Oh, the ice is thin, but it bears; it is strong enough to support us when we dress up as monks and dance on it, in mockery of the dear, quaint old Middle Ages.  They told me I must put on fancy dress; so I did put on fancy dress, according to my own taste and fancy.  I put on the only costume I think fit for a man who has inherited the position of a gentleman, and yet has not entirely lost the feelings of one.”