His monologue stopped abruptly with a sharp noise like a thundercrack that rolled in dreary echoes round the dismal mere.  He knew at once what it was—­somebody had fired off a gun.  But as to the meaning of it he was momentarily staggered, and strange thoughts thronged into his mind.  The next moment he laughed; for he saw lying a little way along the path below him the dead bird that the shot had brought down.

At the same moment, however, he saw something else, which interested him more.  A ring of dense trees ran round the back of the island temple, framing the facade of it in dark foliage, and he could have sworn he saw a stir as of something moving among the leaves.  The next moment his suspicion was confirmed, for a rather ragged figure came from under the shadow of the temple and began to move along the causeway that led to the bank.  Even at that distance the figure was conspicuous by its great height and Fisher could see that the man carried a gun under his arm.  There came back into his memory at once the name Long Adam, the poacher.

With a rapid sense of strategy he sometimes showed, Fisher sprang from the bank and raced round the lake to the head of the little pier of stones.  If once a man reached the mainland he could easily vanish into the woods.  But when Fisher began to advance along the stones toward the island, the man was cornered in a blind alley and could only back toward the temple.  Putting his broad shoulders against it, he stood as if at bay; he was a comparatively young man, with fine lines in his lean face and figure and a mop of ragged red hair.  The look in his eyes might well have been disquieting to anyone left alone with him on an island in the middle of a lake.

“Good morning,” said Horne Fisher, pleasantly.  “I thought at first you were a murderer.  But it seems unlikely, somehow, that the partridge rushed between us and died for love of me, like the heroines in the romances; so I suppose you are a poacher.”

“I suppose you would call me a poacher,” answered the man; and his voice was something of a surprise coming from such a scarecrow; it had that hard fastidiousness to be found in those who have made a fight for their own refinement among rough surroundings.  “I consider I have a perfect right to shoot game in this place.  But I am well aware that people of your sort take me for a thief, and I suppose you will try to land me in jail.”

“There are preliminary difficulties,” replied Fisher.  “To begin with, the mistake is flattering, but I am not a gamekeeper.  Still less am I three gamekeepers, who would be, I imagine, about your fighting weight.  But I confess I have another reason for not wanting to jail you.”

“And what is that?” asked the other.

“Only that I quite agree with you,” answered Fisher.  “I don’t exactly say you have a right to poach, but I never could see that it was as wrong as being a thief.  It seems to me against the whole normal notion of property that a man should own something because it flies across his garden.  He might as well own the wind, or think he could write his name on a morning cloud.  Besides, if we want poor people to respect property we must give them some property to respect.  You ought to have land of your own; and I’m going to give you some if I can.”