excerpt from the man who knew too much
by g. k. chesterton

"you seem to know all about him," observed march, with a rather bewildered laugh, "and about a good many other people."

fisher's bald brow became abruptly corrugated, and a curious expression came into his eyes.

"i know too much," he said. "that's what's the matter with me. that's what's the matter with all of us, and the whole show; we know too much. too much about one another; too much about ourselves. that's why i'm really interested, just now, about one thing that i don't know."

"and that is? " inquired the other.

"why that poor fellow is dead."

they had walked along the straight road for nearly a mile, conversing at intervals in this fashion; and march had a singular sense of the whole world being turned inside out. mr. horne fisher did not especially abuse his friends and relatives in fashionable society; of some of them he spoke with affection. but they seemed to be an entirely new set of men and women, who happened to have the same nerves as the men and women mentioned most often in the newspapers. yet no fury of revolt could have seemed to him more utterly revolutionary than this cold familiarity. it was like daylight on the other side of stage scenery.

they reached the great lodge gates of the park, and, to march's surprise, passed them and continued along the interminable white, straight road. but he was himself too early for his appointment with sir howard, and was not disinclined to see the end of his new friend's experiment, whatever it might be. they had long left the moorland behind them, and half the white road was gray in the great shadow of the torwood pine forests, themselves like gray bars shuttered against the sunshine and within, amid that clear noon, manufacturing their own midnight. soon, however, rifts began to appear in them like gleams of colored windows; the trees thinned and fell away as the road went forward, showing the wild, irregular copses in which, as fisher said, the house-party had been blazing away all day. and about two hundred yards farther on they came to the first turn of the road.

at the corner stood a sort of decayed inn with the dingy sign of the grapes. the signboard was dark and indecipherable by now, and hung black against the sky and the gray moorland beyond, about as inviting as a gallows. march remarked that it looked like a tavern for vinegar instead of wine.

"a good phrase," said fisher, "and so it would be if you were silly enough to drink wine in it. but the beer is very good, and so is the brandy."

march followed him to the bar parlor with some wonder, and his dim sense of repugnance was not dismissed by the first sight of the innkeeper, who was widely different from the genial innkeepers of romance, a bony man, very silent behind a black mustache, but with black, restless eyes. taciturn as he was, the investigator succeeded at last in extracting a scrap of information from him, by dint of ordering beer and talking to him persistently and minutely on the subject of motor cars. he evidently regarded the innkeeper as in some singular way an authority on motor cars; as being deep in the secrets of the mechanism, management, and mismanagement of motor cars; holding the man all the time with a glittering eye like the ancient mariner. out of all this rather mysterious conversation there did emerge at last a sort of admission that one particular motor car, of a given description, had stopped before the inn about an hour before, and that an elderly man had alighted, requiring some mechanical assistance. asked if the visitor required any other assistance, the innkeeper said shortly that the old gentleman had filled his flask and taken a packet of sandwiches. and with these words the somewhat inhospitable host had walked hastily out of the bar, and they heard him banging doors in the dark interior.

fisher's weary eye wandered round the dusty and dreary inn parlor and rested dreamily on a glass case containing a stuffed bird, with a gun hung on hooks above it, which seemed to be its only ornament.