March had one of his vague visions of ladies in cloudy
crinolines and gentlemen in outlandish hats and whiskers revisiting
that lost garden like ghosts.
Fisher, who was peering more closely at the target, startled him by
an exclamation.
"Hullo!" he said. "Somebody has been peppering this thing with
shot, after all, and quite lately, too. Why, I believe old Jink's
been trying to improve his bad shooting here."
"Yes, and it looks as if it still wanted improving," answered March,
laughing. "Not one of these shots is anywhere near the bull's-eye;
they seem just scattered about in the wildest way."
"In the wildest way," repeated Fisher, still peering intently at the
target. He seemed merely to assent, but March fancied his eye was
shining under its sleepy lid and that he straightened his stooping
figure with a strange effort.
"Excuse me a moment," he said, feeling in his pockets. "I think I've
got some of my chemicals; and after that we'll go up to the house."
And he stooped again over the target, putting something with his
finger over each of the shot-holes, so far as March could see merely
a dull-gray smear. Then they went through the gathering twilight up
the long green avenues to the great house.
Here again, however, the eccentric investigator did not enter by the
front door.
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