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."
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.
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