THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN

By G. K. Chesterton

To

LUCIAN OLDERSHAW

CONTENTS

 1. The Absence of Mr Glass 2. The Paradise of Thieves 3. The Duel of Dr Hirsch 4. The Man in the Passage 5. The Mistake of the Machine 6. The Head of Caesar 7. The Purple Wig 8. The Perishing of the Pendragons 9. The God of the Gongs 10. The Salad of Colonel Cray 11. The Strange Crime of John Boulnois 12. The Fairy Tale of Father Brown

ONE -- The Absence of Mr Glass

THE consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist andspecialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front atScarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows, which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-greenmarble. In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of ablue-green dado: for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by aterrible tidiness not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea. It mustnot be supposed that Dr Hood's apartments excluded luxury, or evenpoetry. These things were there, in their place; but one felt that theywere never allowed out of their place. Luxury was there: there stoodupon a special table eight or ten boxes of the best cigars; but theywere built upon a plan so that the strongest were always nearest thewall and the mildest nearest the window. A tantalus containing threekinds of spirit, all of a liqueur excellence, stood always on this tableof luxury; but the fanciful have asserted that the whisky, brandy, andrum seemed always to stand at the same level. Poetry was there: theleft-hand corner of the room was lined with as complete a set ofEnglish classics as the right hand could show of English and foreignphysiologists. But if one took a volume of Chaucer or Shelley from thatrank, its absence irritated the mind like a gap in a man's front teeth. One could not say the books were never read; probably they were, butthere was a sense of their being chained to their places, like theBibles in the old churches. Dr Hood treated his private book-shelf asif it were a public library. And if this strict scientific intangibilitysteeped even the shelves laden with lyrics and ballads and the tablesladen with drink and tobacco, it goes without saying that yet moreof such heathen holiness protected the other shelves that held thespecialist's library, and the other tables that sustained the frail andeven fairylike instruments of chemistry or mechanics. 

Dr Hood paced the length of his string of apartments, bounded--as theboys' geographies say--on the east by the North Sea and on the west bythe serried ranks of his sociological and criminologist library. He wasclad in an artist's velvet, but with none of an artist's negligence; hishair was heavily shot with grey, but growing thick and healthy; his facewas lean, but sanguine and expectant. Everything about him and his roomindicated something at once rigid and restless, like that great northernsea by which (on pure principles of hygiene) he had built his home. 

Fate, being in a funny mood, pushed the door open and introduced intothose long, strict, sea-flanked apartments one who was perhaps the moststartling opposite of them and their master. In answer to a curt butcivil summons, the door opened inwards and there shambled into the rooma shapeless little figure, which seemed to find its own hat and umbrellaas unmanageable as a mass of luggage. The umbrella was a black andprosaic bundle long past repair; the hat was a broad-curved black hat, clerical but not common in England; the man was the very embodiment ofall that is homely and helpless. 

The doctor regarded the new-comer with a restrained astonishment, notunlike that he would have shown if some huge but obviously harmlesssea-beast had crawled into his room. The new-comer regarded the doctorwith that beaming but breathless geniality which characterizes acorpulent charwoman who has just managed to stuff herself into anomnibus. It is a rich confusion of social self-congratulation and bodilydisarray. His hat tumbled to the carpet, his heavy umbrella slippedbetween his knees with a thud; he reached after the one and duckedafter the other, but with an unimpaired smile on his round face spokesimultaneously as follows:

"My name is Brown. Pray excuse me. I've come about that business of theMacNabs. I have heard, you often help people out of such troubles. Prayexcuse me if I am wrong. "

By this time he had sprawlingly recovered the hat, and made an oddlittle bobbing bow over it, as if setting everything quite right. 

"I hardly understand you, " replied the scientist, with a cold intensityof manner. "I fear you have mistaken the chambers. I am Dr Hood, and mywork is almost entirely literary and educational. It is true that I havesometimes been consulted by the police in cases of peculiar difficultyand importance, but--"

"Oh, this is of the greatest importance, " broke in the little man calledBrown. "Why, her mother won't let them get engaged. " And he leaned backin his chair in radiant rationality. 

The brows of Dr Hood were drawn down darkly, but the eyes under themwere bright with something that might be anger or might be amusement. "And still, " he said, "I do not quite understand. "

"You see, they want to get married, " said the man with the clerical hat. "Maggie MacNab and young Todhunter want to get married. Now, what can bemore important than that?"

The great Orion Hood's scientific triumphs had deprived him of manythings--some said of his health, others of his God; but they had notwholly despoiled him of his sense of the absurd. At the last plea of theingenuous priest a chuckle broke out of him from inside, and he threwhimself into an arm-chair in an ironical attitude of the consultingphysician. 

"Mr Brown, " he said gravely, "it is quite fourteen and a half yearssince I was personally asked to test a personal problem: then it wasthe case of an attempt to poison the French President at a Lord Mayor'sBanquet. It is now, I understand, a question of whether some friend ofyours called Maggie is a suitable fiancee for some friend of hers calledTodhunter. Well, Mr Brown, I am a sportsman. I will take it on. I willgive the MacNab family my best advice, as good as I gave the FrenchRepublic and the King of England--no, better: fourteen years better. Ihave nothing else to do this afternoon. Tell me your story. "

The little clergyman called Brown thanked him with unquestionablewarmth, but still with a queer kind of simplicity. It was rather asif he were thanking a stranger in a smoking-room for some trouble inpassing the matches, than as if he were (as he was) practically thankingthe Curator of Kew Gardens for coming with him into a field to find afour-leaved clover. With scarcely a semi-colon after his hearty thanks, the little man began his recital:

"I told you my name was Brown; well, that's the fact, and I'm thepriest of the little Catholic Church I dare say you've seen beyond thosestraggly streets, where the town ends towards the north. In the last andstraggliest of those streets which runs along the sea like a sea-wallthere is a very honest but rather sharp-tempered member of my flock, awidow called MacNab. She has one daughter, and she lets lodgings, andbetween her and the daughter, and between her and the lodgers--well, Idare say there is a great deal to be said on both sides. At present shehas only one lodger, the young man called Todhunter; but he has givenmore trouble than all the rest, for he wants to marry the young woman ofthe house. "

"And the young woman of the house, " asked Dr Hood, with huge and silentamusement, "what does she want?"

"Why, she wants to marry him, " cried Father Brown, sitting up eagerly. "That is just the awful complication. "

"It is indeed a hideous enigma, " said Dr Hood. 

"This young James Todhunter, " continued the cleric, "is a very decentman so far as I know; but then nobody knows very much. He is a bright, brownish little fellow, agile like a monkey, clean-shaven like an actor, and obliging like a born courtier. He seems to have quite a pocketful ofmoney, but nobody knows what his trade is. Mrs MacNab, therefore (beingof a pessimistic turn), is quite sure it is something dreadful, andprobably connected with dynamite. The dynamite must be of a shy andnoiseless sort, for the poor fellow only shuts himself up for severalhours of the day and studies something behind a locked door. He declareshis privacy is temporary and justified, and promises to explain beforethe wedding. That is all that anyone knows for certain, but Mrs MacNabwill tell you a great deal more than even she is certain of. You knowhow the tales grow like grass on such a patch of ignorance as that. There are tales of two voices heard talking in the room; though, whenthe door is opened, Todhunter is always found alone. There are tales ofa mysterious tall man in a silk hat, who once came out of the sea-mistsand apparently out of the sea, stepping softly across the sandy fieldsand through the small back garden at twilight, till he was heard talkingto the lodger at his open window. The colloquy seemed to end in aquarrel. Todhunter dashed down his window with violence, and the man inthe high hat melted into the sea-fog again. This story is told by thefamily with the fiercest mystification; but I really think Mrs MacNabprefers her own original tale: that the Other Man (or whatever it is)crawls out every night from the big box in the corner, which is keptlocked all day. You see, therefore, how this sealed door of Todhunter'sis treated as the gate of all the fancies and monstrosities of the'Thousand and One Nights'. And yet there is the little fellow in hisrespectable black jacket, as punctual and innocent as a parlour clock. He pays his rent to the tick; he is practically a teetotaller; he istirelessly kind with the younger children, and can keep them amusedfor a day on end; and, last and most urgent of all, he has made himselfequally popular with the eldest daughter, who is ready to go to churchwith him tomorrow. "

A man warmly concerned with any large theories has always a relishfor applying them to any triviality. The great specialist havingcondescended to the priest's simplicity, condescended expansively. Hesettled himself with comfort in his arm-chair and began to talk in thetone of a somewhat absent-minded lecturer:

"Even in a minute instance, it is best to look first to the maintendencies of Nature. A particular flower may not be dead in earlywinter, but the flowers are dying; a particular pebble may never bewetted with the tide, but the tide is coming in. To the scientific eyeall human history is a series of collective movements, destructions ormigrations, like the massacre of flies in winter or the return of birdsin spring. Now the root fact in all history is Race. Race producesreligion; Race produces legal and ethical wars. There is no strongercase than that of the wild, unworldly and perishing stock which wecommonly call the Celts, of whom your friends the MacNabs are specimens. Small, swarthy, and of this dreamy and drifting blood, they accepteasily the superstitious explanation of any incidents, just as theystill accept (you will excuse me for saying) that superstitiousexplanation of all incidents which you and your Church represent. It isnot remarkable that such people, with the sea moaning behind themand the Church (excuse me again) droning in front of them, should putfantastic features into what are probably plain events. You, with yoursmall parochial responsibilities, see only this particular Mrs MacNab, terrified with this particular tale of two voices and a tall man out ofthe sea. But the man with the scientific imagination sees, as itwere, the whole clans of MacNab scattered over the whole world, in itsultimate average as uniform as a tribe of birds. He sees thousandsof Mrs MacNabs, in thousands of houses, dropping their little drop ofmorbidity in the tea-cups of their friends; he sees--"

Before the scientist could conclude his sentence, another and moreimpatient summons sounded from without; someone with swishing skirts wasmarshalled hurriedly down the corridor, and the door opened on a younggirl, decently dressed but disordered and red-hot with haste. She hadsea-blown blonde hair, and would have been entirely beautiful if hercheek-bones had not been, in the Scotch manner, a little high in reliefas well as in colour. Her apology was almost as abrupt as a command. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir, " she said, "but I had to follow FatherBrown at once; it's nothing less than life or death. "

Father Brown began to get to his feet in some disorder. "Why, what hashappened, Maggie?" he said. 

"James has been murdered, for all I can make out, " answered the girl, still breathing hard from her rush. "That man Glass has been with himagain; I heard them talking through the door quite plain. Two separatevoices: for James speaks low, with a burr, and the other voice was highand quavery. "

"That man Glass?" repeated the priest in some perplexity. 

"I know his name is Glass, " answered the girl, in great impatience. "I heard it through the door. They were quarrelling--about money, Ithink--for I heard James say again and again, 'That's right, Mr Glass, 'or 'No, Mr Glass, ' and then, 'Two or three, Mr Glass. ' But we're talkingtoo much; you must come at once, and there may be time yet. "

"But time for what?" asked Dr Hood, who had been studying the younglady with marked interest. "What is there about Mr Glass and his moneytroubles that should impel such urgency?"

"I tried to break down the door and couldn't, " answered the girlshortly, "Then I ran to the back-yard, and managed to climb on to thewindow-sill that looks into the room. It was an dim, and seemed to beempty, but I swear I saw James lying huddled up in a corner, as if hewere drugged or strangled. "

"This is very serious, " said Father Brown, gathering his errant hat andumbrella and standing up; "in point of fact I was just putting your casebefore this gentleman, and his view--"

"Has been largely altered, " said the scientist gravely. "I do not thinkthis young lady is so Celtic as I had supposed. As I have nothing elseto do, I will put on my hat and stroll down town with you. "

In a few minutes all three were approaching the dreary tail of theMacNabs' street: the girl with the stern and breathless stride of themountaineer, the criminologist with a lounging grace (which wasnot without a certain leopard-like swiftness), and the priest at anenergetic trot entirely devoid of distinction. The aspect of this edgeof the town was not entirely without justification for the doctor'shints about desolate moods and environments. The scattered houses stoodfarther and farther apart in a broken string along the seashore; theafternoon was closing with a premature and partly lurid twilight; thesea was of an inky purple and murmuring ominously. In the scrappyback garden of the MacNabs which ran down towards the sand, two black, barren-looking trees stood up like demon hands held up in astonishment, and as Mrs MacNab ran down the street to meet them with lean handssimilarly spread, and her fierce face in shadow, she was a little like ademon herself. The doctor and the priest made scant reply to her shrillreiterations of her daughter's story, with more disturbing detailsof her own, to the divided vows of vengeance against Mr Glass formurdering, and against Mr Todhunter for being murdered, or againstthe latter for having dared to want to marry her daughter, and for nothaving lived to do it. They passed through the narrow passage in thefront of the house until they came to the lodger's door at the back, and there Dr Hood, with the trick of an old detective, put his shouldersharply to the panel and burst in the door. 

It opened on a scene of silent catastrophe. No one seeing it, even for aflash, could doubt that the room had been the theatre of some thrillingcollision between two, or perhaps more, persons. Playing-cards laylittered across the table or fluttered about the floor as if a game hadbeen interrupted. Two wine glasses stood ready for wine on a side-table, but a third lay smashed in a star of crystal upon the carpet. A few feetfrom it lay what looked like a long knife or short sword, straight, butwith an ornamental and pictured handle, its dull blade just caught agrey glint from the dreary window behind, which showed the black treesagainst the leaden level of the sea. Towards the opposite corner ofthe room was rolled a gentleman's silk top hat, as if it had just beenknocked off his head; so much so, indeed, that one almost looked to seeit still rolling. And in the corner behind it, thrown like a sack ofpotatoes, but corded like a railway trunk, lay Mr James Todhunter, with a scarf across his mouth, and six or seven ropes knotted round hiselbows and ankles. His brown eyes were alive and shifted alertly. 

Dr Orion Hood paused for one instant on the doormat and drank in thewhole scene of voiceless violence. Then he stepped swiftly across thecarpet, picked up the tall silk hat, and gravely put it upon the headof the yet pinioned Todhunter. It was so much too large for him that italmost slipped down on to his shoulders. 

"Mr Glass's hat, " said the doctor, returning with it and peering intothe inside with a pocket lens. "How to explain the absence of Mr Glassand the presence of Mr Glass's hat? For Mr Glass is not a careless manwith his clothes. That hat is of a stylish shape and systematicallybrushed and burnished, though not very new. An old dandy, I shouldthink. "

"But, good heavens!" called out Miss MacNab, "aren't you going to untiethe man first?"

"I say 'old' with intention, though not with certainty" continued theexpositor; "my reason for it might seem a little far-fetched. The hairof human beings falls out in very varying degrees, but almost alwaysfalls out slightly, and with the lens I should see the tiny hairs in ahat recently worn. It has none, which leads me to guess that Mr Glass isbald. Now when this is taken with the high-pitched and querulousvoice which Miss MacNab described so vividly (patience, my dear lady, patience), when we take the hairless head together with the tone commonin senile anger, I should think we may deduce some advance in years. Nevertheless, he was probably vigorous, and he was almost certainlytall. I might rely in some degree on the story of his previousappearance at the window, as a tall man in a silk hat, but I think Ihave more exact indication. This wineglass has been smashed all overthe place, but one of its splinters lies on the high bracket beside themantelpiece. No such fragment could have fallen there if the vesselhad been smashed in the hand of a comparatively short man like MrTodhunter. "

"By the way, " said Father Brown, "might it not be as well to untie MrTodhunter?"

"Our lesson from the drinking-vessels does not end here, " proceeded thespecialist. "I may say at once that it is possible that the man Glasswas bald or nervous through dissipation rather than age. Mr Todhunter, as has been remarked, is a quiet thrifty gentleman, essentially anabstainer. These cards and wine-cups are no part of his normal habit;they have been produced for a particular companion. But, as ithappens, we may go farther. Mr Todhunter may or may not possess thiswine-service, but there is no appearance of his possessing any wine. What, then, were these vessels to contain? I would at once suggestsome brandy or whisky, perhaps of a luxurious sort, from a flask in thepocket of Mr Glass. We have thus something like a picture of the man, orat least of the type: tall, elderly, fashionable, but somewhat frayed, certainly fond of play and strong waters, perhaps rather too fond ofthem. Mr Glass is a gentleman not unknown on the fringes of society. "

"Look here, " cried the young woman, "if you don't let me pass to untiehim I'll run outside and scream for the police. "

"I should not advise you, Miss MacNab, " said Dr Hood gravely, "to bein any hurry to fetch the police. Father Brown, I seriously ask you tocompose your flock, for their sakes, not for mine. Well, we have seensomething of the figure and quality of Mr Glass; what are the chieffacts known of Mr Todhunter? They are substantially three: that he iseconomical, that he is more or less wealthy, and that he has a secret. Now, surely it is obvious that there are the three chief marks of thekind of man who is blackmailed. And surely it is equally obvious thatthe faded finery, the profligate habits, and the shrill irritation of MrGlass are the unmistakable marks of the kind of man who blackmails him. We have the two typical figures of a tragedy of hush money: on the onehand, the respectable man with a mystery; on the other, the West-endvulture with a scent for a mystery. These two men have met here todayand have quarrelled, using blows and a bare weapon. "

"Are you going to take those ropes off?" asked the girl stubbornly. 

Dr Hood replaced the silk hat carefully on the side table, and wentacross to the captive. He studied him intently, even moving him a littleand half-turning him round by the shoulders, but he only answered:

"No; I think these ropes will do very well till your friends the policebring the handcuffs. "

Father Brown, who had been looking dully at the carpet, lifted his roundface and said: "What do you mean?"

The man of science had picked up the peculiar dagger-sword from thecarpet and was examining it intently as he answered:

"Because you find Mr Todhunter tied up, " he said, "you all jump to theconclusion that Mr Glass had tied him up; and then, I suppose, escaped. There are four objections to this: First, why should a gentleman sodressy as our friend Glass leave his hat behind him, if he left of hisown free will? Second, " he continued, moving towards the window, "thisis the only exit, and it is locked on the inside. Third, this bladehere has a tiny touch of blood at the point, but there is no wound on MrTodhunter. Mr Glass took that wound away with him, dead or alive. Addto all this primary probability. It is much more likely that theblackmailed person would try to kill his incubus, rather than that theblackmailer would try to kill the goose that lays his golden egg. There, I think, we have a pretty complete story. "

"But the ropes?" inquired the priest, whose eyes had remained open witha rather vacant admiration. 

"Ah, the ropes, " said the expert with a singular intonation. "MissMacNab very much wanted to know why I did not set Mr Todhunter free fromhis ropes. Well, I will tell her. I did not do it because Mr Todhuntercan set himself free from them at any minute he chooses. "

"What?" cried the audience on quite different notes of astonishment. 

"I have looked at all the knots on Mr Todhunter, " reiterated Hoodquietly. "I happen to know something about knots; they are quite abranch of criminal science. Every one of those knots he has made himselfand could loosen himself; not one of them would have been made by anenemy really trying to pinion him. The whole of this affair of theropes is a clever fake, to make us think him the victim of the struggleinstead of the wretched Glass, whose corpse may be hidden in the gardenor stuffed up the chimney. "

There was a rather depressed silence; the room was darkening, thesea-blighted boughs of the garden trees looked leaner and blacker thanever, yet they seemed to have come nearer to the window. One couldalmost fancy they were sea-monsters like krakens or cuttlefish, writhingpolypi who had crawled up from the sea to see the end of this tragedy, even as he, the villain and victim of it, the terrible man in the tallhat, had once crawled up from the sea. For the whole air was dense withthe morbidity of blackmail, which is the most morbid of human things, because it is a crime concealing a crime; a black plaster on a blackerwound. 

The face of the little Catholic priest, which was commonly complacentand even comic, had suddenly become knotted with a curious frown. Itwas not the blank curiosity of his first innocence. It was rather thatcreative curiosity which comes when a man has the beginnings of an idea. "Say it again, please, " he said in a simple, bothered manner; "do youmean that Todhunter can tie himself up all alone and untie himself allalone?"

"That is what I mean, " said the doctor. 

"Jerusalem!" ejaculated Brown suddenly, "I wonder if it could possiblybe that!"

He scuttled across the room rather like a rabbit, and peered with quitea new impulsiveness into the partially-covered face of the captive. Thenhe turned his own rather fatuous face to the company. "Yes, that's it!"he cried in a certain excitement. "Can't you see it in the man's face?Why, look at his eyes!"

Both the Professor and the girl followed the direction of his glance. And though the broad black scarf completely masked the lower half ofTodhunter's visage, they did grow conscious of something struggling andintense about the upper part of it. 

"His eyes do look queer, " cried the young woman, strongly moved. "Youbrutes; I believe it's hurting him!"

"Not that, I think, " said Dr Hood; "the eyes have certainly a singularexpression. But I should interpret those transverse wrinkles asexpressing rather such slight psychological abnormality--"

"Oh, bosh!" cried Father Brown: "can't you see he's laughing?"

"Laughing!" repeated the doctor, with a start; "but what on earth can hebe laughing at?"

"Well, " replied the Reverend Brown apologetically, "not to put too finea point on it, I think he is laughing at you. And indeed, I'm a littleinclined to laugh at myself, now I know about it. "

"Now you know about what?" asked Hood, in some exasperation. 

"Now I know, " replied the priest, "the profession of Mr Todhunter. "

He shuffled about the room, looking at one object after another withwhat seemed to be a vacant stare, and then invariably bursting into anequally vacant laugh, a highly irritating process for those who had towatch it. He laughed very much over the hat, still more uproariouslyover the broken glass, but the blood on the sword point sent himinto mortal convulsions of amusement. Then he turned to the fumingspecialist. 

"Dr Hood, " he cried enthusiastically, "you are a great poet! You havecalled an uncreated being out of the void. How much more godlike that isthan if you had only ferreted out the mere facts! Indeed, the mere factsare rather commonplace and comic by comparison. "

"I have no notion what you are talking about, " said Dr Hood ratherhaughtily; "my facts are all inevitable, though necessarily incomplete. A place may be permitted to intuition, perhaps (or poetry if you preferthe term), but only because the corresponding details cannot as yet beascertained. In the absence of Mr Glass--"

"That's it, that's it, " said the little priest, nodding quite eagerly, "that's the first idea to get fixed; the absence of Mr Glass. He is soextremely absent. I suppose, " he added reflectively, "that there wasnever anybody so absent as Mr Glass. "

"Do you mean he is absent from the town?" demanded the doctor. 

"I mean he is absent from everywhere, " answered Father Brown; "he isabsent from the Nature of Things, so to speak. "

"Do you seriously mean, " said the specialist with a smile, "that thereis no such person?"

The priest made a sign of assent. "It does seem a pity, " he said. 

Orion Hood broke into a contemptuous laugh. "Well, " he said, "beforewe go on to the hundred and one other evidences, let us take the firstproof we found; the first fact we fell over when we fell into this room. If there is no Mr Glass, whose hat is this?"

"It is Mr Todhunter's, " replied Father Brown. 

"But it doesn't fit him, " cried Hood impatiently. "He couldn't possiblywear it!"

Father Brown shook his head with ineffable mildness. "I never said hecould wear it, " he answered. "I said it was his hat. Or, if you insiston a shade of difference, a hat that is his. "

"And what is the shade of difference?" asked the criminologist with aslight sneer. 

"My good sir, " cried the mild little man, with his first movement akinto impatience, "if you will walk down the street to the nearest hatter'sshop, you will see that there is, in common speech, a difference betweena man's hat and the hats that are his. "

"But a hatter, " protested Hood, "can get money out of his stock of newhats. What could Todhunter get out of this one old hat?"

"Rabbits, " replied Father Brown promptly. 

"What?" cried Dr Hood. 

"Rabbits, ribbons, sweetmeats, goldfish, rolls of coloured paper, " saidthe reverend gentleman with rapidity. "Didn't you see it all whenyou found out the faked ropes? It's just the same with the sword. Mr Todhunter hasn't got a scratch on him, as you say; but he's got ascratch in him, if you follow me. "

"Do you mean inside Mr Todhunter's clothes?" inquired Mrs MacNabsternly. 

"I do not mean inside Mr Todhunter's clothes, " said Father Brown. "Imean inside Mr Todhunter. "

"Well, what in the name of Bedlam do you mean?"

"Mr Todhunter, " explained Father Brown placidly, "is learning to be aprofessional conjurer, as well as juggler, ventriloquist, and expert inthe rope trick. The conjuring explains the hat. It is without tracesof hair, not because it is worn by the prematurely bald Mr Glass, butbecause it has never been worn by anybody. The juggling explains thethree glasses, which Todhunter was teaching himself to throw up andcatch in rotation. But, being only at the stage of practice, he smashedone glass against the ceiling. And the juggling also explains the sword, which it was Mr Todhunter's professional pride and duty to swallow. But, again, being at the stage of practice, he very slightly grazed theinside of his throat with the weapon. Hence he has a wound inside him, which I am sure (from the expression on his face) is not a seriousone. He was also practising the trick of a release from ropes, like theDavenport Brothers, and he was just about to free himself when we allburst into the room. The cards, of course, are for card tricks, and theyare scattered on the floor because he had just been practising one ofthose dodges of sending them flying through the air. He merely kept histrade secret, because he had to keep his tricks secret, like any otherconjurer. But the mere fact of an idler in a top hat having oncelooked in at his back window, and been driven away by him with greatindignation, was enough to set us all on a wrong track of romance, andmake us imagine his whole life overshadowed by the silk-hatted spectreof Mr Glass. "

"But What about the two voices?" asked Maggie, staring. 

"Have you never heard a ventriloquist?" asked Father Brown. "Don't youknow they speak first in their natural voice, and then answer themselvesin just that shrill, squeaky, unnatural voice that you heard?"

There was a long silence, and Dr Hood regarded the little man whohad spoken with a dark and attentive smile. "You are certainly a veryingenious person, " he said; "it could not have been done better in abook. But there is just one part of Mr Glass you have not succeeded inexplaining away, and that is his name. Miss MacNab distinctly heard himso addressed by Mr Todhunter. "

The Rev. Mr Brown broke into a rather childish giggle. "Well, that, "he said, "that's the silliest part of the whole silly story. When ourjuggling friend here threw up the three glasses in turn, he countedthem aloud as he caught them, and also commented aloud when he failed tocatch them. What he really said was: 'One, two and three--missed a glassone, two--missed a glass. ' And so on. "

There was a second of stillness in the room, and then everyone withone accord burst out laughing. As they did so the figure in the cornercomplacently uncoiled all the ropes and let them fall with a flourish. Then, advancing into the middle of the room with a bow, he producedfrom his pocket a big bill printed in blue and red, which announced thatZALADIN, the World's Greatest Conjurer, Contortionist, Ventriloquist andHuman Kangaroo would be ready with an entirely new series of Tricksat the Empire Pavilion, Scarborough, on Monday next at eight o'clockprecisely. 

TWO. -- The Paradise of Thieves

THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his favourite restaurant, which overlooked theMediterranean, was covered by an awning and fenced by little lemon andorange trees. Waiters in white aprons were already laying out on whitetables the insignia of an early and elegant lunch; and this seemed toincrease a satisfaction that already touched the top of swagger. Muscarihad an eagle nose like Dante; his hair and neckerchief were dark andflowing; he carried a black cloak, and might almost have carried a blackmask, so much did he bear with him a sort of Venetian melodrama. Heacted as if a troubadour had still a definite social office, like abishop. He went as near as his century permitted to walking the worldliterally like Don Juan, with rapier and guitar. 

For he never travelled without a case of swords, with which he hadfought many brilliant duels, or without a corresponding case for hismandolin, with which he had actually serenaded Miss Ethel Harrogate, thehighly conventional daughter of a Yorkshire banker on a holiday. Yet hewas neither a charlatan nor a child; but a hot, logical Latin who likeda certain thing and was it. His poetry was as straightforward as anyoneelse's prose. He desired fame or wine or the beauty of women witha torrid directness inconceivable among the cloudy ideals or cloudycompromises of the north; to vaguer races his intensity smelt of dangeror even crime. Like fire or the sea, he was too simple to be trusted. 

The banker and his beautiful English daughter were staying at the hotelattached to Muscari's restaurant; that was why it was his favouriterestaurant. A glance flashed around the room told him at once, however, that the English party had not descended. The restaurant was glittering, but still comparatively empty. Two priests were talking at a table ina corner, but Muscari (an ardent Catholic) took no more notice of themthan of a couple of crows. But from a yet farther seat, partly concealedbehind a dwarf tree golden with oranges, there rose and advanced towardsthe poet a person whose costume was the most aggressively opposite tohis own. 

This figure was clad in tweeds of a piebald check, with a pink tie, asharp collar and protuberant yellow boots. He contrived, in thetrue tradition of 'Arry at Margate, to look at once startling andcommonplace. But as the Cockney apparition drew nearer, Muscari wasastounded to observe that the head was distinctly different from thebody. It was an Italian head: fuzzy, swarthy and very vivacious, thatrose abruptly out of the standing collar like cardboard and the comicpink tie. In fact it was a head he knew. He recognized it, above allthe dire erection of English holiday array, as the face of an old butforgotten friend name Ezza. This youth had been a prodigy at college, and European fame was promised him when he was barely fifteen; but whenhe appeared in the world he failed, first publicly as a dramatist and ademagogue, and then privately for years on end as an actor, a traveller, a commission agent or a journalist. Muscari had known him last behindthe footlights; he was but too well attuned to the excitements of thatprofession, and it was believed that some moral calamity had swallowedhim up. 

"Ezza!" cried the poet, rising and shaking hands in a pleasantastonishment. "Well, I've seen you in many costumes in the green room;but I never expected to see you dressed up as an Englishman. "

"This, " answered Ezza gravely, "is not the costume of an Englishman, butof the Italian of the future. "

"In that case, " remarked Muscari, "I confess I prefer the Italian of thepast. "

"That is your old mistake, Muscari, " said the man in tweeds, shakinghis head; "and the mistake of Italy. In the sixteenth century we Tuscansmade the morning: we had the newest steel, the newest carving, thenewest chemistry. Why should we not now have the newest factories, thenewest motors, the newest finance--the newest clothes?"

"Because they are not worth having, " answered Muscari. "You cannot makeItalians really progressive; they are too intelligent. Men who see theshort cut to good living will never go by the new elaborate roads. "

"Well, to me Marconi, or D'Annunzio, is the star of Italy" said theother. "That is why I have become a Futurist--and a courier. "

"A courier!" cried Muscari, laughing. "Is that the last of your list oftrades? And whom are you conducting?"

"Oh, a man of the name of Harrogate, and his family, I believe. "

"Not the banker in this hotel?" inquired the poet, with some eagerness. 

"That's the man, " answered the courier. 

"Does it pay well?" asked the troubadour innocently. 

"It will pay me, " said Ezza, with a very enigmatic smile. "But I am arather curious sort of courier. " Then, as if changing the subject, hesaid abruptly: "He has a daughter--and a son. "

"The daughter is divine, " affirmed Muscari, "the father and son are, Isuppose, human. But granted his harmless qualities doesn't that bankerstrike you as a splendid instance of my argument? Harrogate has millionsin his safes, and I have--the hole in my pocket. But you daren'tsay--you can't say--that he's cleverer than I, or bolder than I, or evenmore energetic. He's not clever, he's got eyes like blue buttons; he'snot energetic, he moves from chair to chair like a paralytic. He's aconscientious, kindly old blockhead; but he's got money simply becausehe collects money, as a boy collects stamps. You're too strong-mindedfor business, Ezza. You won't get on. To be clever enough to get allthat money, one must be stupid enough to want it. "

"I'm stupid enough for that, " said Ezza gloomily. "But I should suggesta suspension of your critique of the banker, for here he comes. "

Mr Harrogate, the great financier, did indeed enter the room, but nobodylooked at him. He was a massive elderly man with a boiled blue eye andfaded grey-sandy moustaches; but for his heavy stoop he might have beena colonel. He carried several unopened letters in his hand. His sonFrank was a really fine lad, curly-haired, sun-burnt and strenuous; butnobody looked at him either. All eyes, as usual, were riveted, forthe moment at least, upon Ethel Harrogate, whose golden Greek head andcolour of the dawn seemed set purposely above that sapphire sea, likea goddess's. The poet Muscari drew a deep breath as if he were drinkingsomething, as indeed he was. He was drinking the Classic; which hisfathers made. Ezza studied her with a gaze equally intense and far morebaffling. 

Miss Harrogate was specially radiant and ready for conversation on thisoccasion; and her family had fallen into the easier Continental habit, allowing the stranger Muscari and even the courier Ezza to share theirtable and their talk. In Ethel Harrogate conventionality crowned itselfwith a perfection and splendour of its own. Proud of her father'sprosperity, fond of fashionable pleasures, a fond daughter but an arrantflirt, she was all these things with a sort of golden good-nature thatmade her very pride pleasing and her worldly respectability a fresh andhearty thing. 

They were in an eddy of excitement about some alleged peril in themountain path they were to attempt that week. The danger was not fromrock and avalanche, but from something yet more romantic. Ethel hadbeen earnestly assured that brigands, the true cut-throats of the modernlegend, still haunted that ridge and held that pass of the Apennines. 

"They say, " she cried, with the awful relish of a schoolgirl, "thatall that country isn't ruled by the King of Italy, but by the King ofThieves. Who is the King of Thieves?"

"A great man, " replied Muscari, "worthy to rank with your own RobinHood, signorina. Montano, the King of Thieves, was first heard of in themountains some ten years ago, when people said brigands were extinct. But his wild authority spread with the swiftness of a silent revolution. Men found his fierce proclamations nailed in every mountain village; hissentinels, gun in hand, in every mountain ravine. Six times the ItalianGovernment tried to dislodge him, and was defeated in six pitchedbattles as if by Napoleon. "

"Now that sort of thing, " observed the banker weightily, "would neverbe allowed in England; perhaps, after all, we had better choose anotherroute. But the courier thought it perfectly safe. "

"It is perfectly safe, " said the courier contemptuously. "I have beenover it twenty times. There may have been some old jailbird called aKing in the time of our grandmothers; but he belongs to history if notto fable. Brigandage is utterly stamped out. "

"It can never be utterly stamped out, " Muscari answered; "because armedrevolt is a recreation natural to southerners. Our peasants are liketheir mountains, rich in grace and green gaiety, but with the firesbeneath. There is a point of human despair where the northern poor taketo drink--and our own poor take to daggers. "

"A poet is privileged, " replied Ezza, with a sneer. "If Signor Muscariwere English he would still be looking for highwaymen in Wandsworth. Believe me, there is no more danger of being captured in Italy than ofbeing scalped in Boston. "

"Then you propose to attempt it?" asked Mr Harrogate, frowning. 

"Oh, it sounds rather dreadful, " cried the girl, turning her gloriouseyes on Muscari. "Do you really think the pass is dangerous?"

Muscari threw back his black mane. "I know it is dangerous:" he said. "Iam crossing it tomorrow. "

The young Harrogate was left behind for a moment emptying a glass ofwhite wine and lighting a cigarette, as the beauty retired with thebanker, the courier and the poet, distributing peals of silvery satire. At about the same instant the two priests in the corner rose; thetaller, a white-haired Italian, taking his leave. The shorter priestturned and walked towards the banker's son, and the latter wasastonished to realize that though a Roman priest the man was anEnglishman. He vaguely remembered meeting him at the social crushesof some of his Catholic friends. But the man spoke before his memoriescould collect themselves. 

"Mr Frank Harrogate, I think, " he said. "I have had an introduction, butI do not mean to presume on it. The odd thing I have to say will comefar better from a stranger. Mr Harrogate, I say one word and go: takecare of your sister in her great sorrow. "

Even for Frank's truly fraternal indifference the radiance and derisionof his sister still seemed to sparkle and ring; he could hear herlaughter still from the garden of the hotel, and he stared at his sombreadviser in puzzledom. 

"Do you mean the brigands?" he asked; and then, remembering a vague fearof his own, "or can you be thinking of Muscari?"

"One is never thinking of the real sorrow, " said the strange priest. "One can only be kind when it comes. "

And he passed promptly from the room, leaving the other almost with hismouth open. 

A day or two afterwards a coach containing the company was reallycrawling and staggering up the spurs of the menacing mountain range. Between Ezza's cheery denial of the danger and Muscari's boisterousdefiance of it, the financial family were firm in their originalpurpose; and Muscari made his mountain journey coincide with theirs. Amore surprising feature was the appearance at the coast-town station ofthe little priest of the restaurant; he alleged merely that businessled him also to cross the mountains of the midland. But young Harrogatecould not but connect his presence with the mystical fears and warningsof yesterday. 

The coach was a kind of commodious wagonette, invented by the modernisttalent of the courier, who dominated the expedition with his scientificactivity and breezy wit. The theory of danger from thieves was banishedfrom thought and speech; though so far conceded in formal act that someslight protection was employed. The courier and the young banker carriedloaded revolvers, and Muscari (with much boyish gratification) buckledon a kind of cutlass under his black cloak. 

He had planted his person at a flying leap next to the lovelyEnglishwoman; on the other side of her sat the priest, whose name wasBrown and who was fortunately a silent individual; the courier and thefather and son were on the banc behind. Muscari was in towering spirits, seriously believing in the peril, and his talk to Ethel might well havemade her think him a maniac. But there was something in the crazy andgorgeous ascent, amid crags like peaks loaded with woods like orchards, that dragged her spirit up alone with his into purple preposterousheavens with wheeling suns. The white road climbed like a white cat;it spanned sunless chasms like a tight-rope; it was flung round far-offheadlands like a lasso. 

And yet, however high they went, the desert still blossomed like therose. The fields were burnished in sun and wind with the colour ofkingfisher and parrot and humming-bird, the hues of a hundred floweringflowers. There are no lovelier meadows and woodlands than the English, no nobler crests or chasms than those of Snowdon and Glencoe. ButEthel Harrogate had never before seen the southern parks tilted on thesplintered northern peaks; the gorge of Glencoe laden with the fruitsof Kent. There was nothing here of that chill and desolation that inBritain one associates with high and wild scenery. It was rather like amosaic palace, rent with earthquakes; or like a Dutch tulip garden blownto the stars with dynamite. 

"It's like Kew Gardens on Beachy Head, " said Ethel. 

"It is our secret, " answered he, "the secret of the volcano; that isalso the secret of the revolution--that a thing can be violent and yetfruitful. "

"You are rather violent yourself, " and she smiled at him. 

"And yet rather fruitless, " he admitted; "if I die tonight I dieunmarried and a fool. "

"It is not my fault if you have come, " she said after a difficultsilence. 

"It is never your fault, " answered Muscari; "it was not your fault thatTroy fell. "

As they spoke they came under overwhelming cliffs that spread almostlike wings above a corner of peculiar peril. Shocked by the big shadowon the narrow ledge, the horses stirred doubtfully. The driver leapt tothe earth to hold their heads, and they became ungovernable. One horsereared up to his full height--the titanic and terrifying height ofa horse when he becomes a biped. It was just enough to alter theequilibrium; the whole coach heeled over like a ship and crashed throughthe fringe of bushes over the cliff. Muscari threw an arm round Ethel, who clung to him, and shouted aloud. It was for such moments that helived. 

At the moment when the gorgeous mountain walls went round the poet'shead like a purple windmill a thing happened which was superficiallyeven more startling. The elderly and lethargic banker sprang erect inthe coach and leapt over the precipice before the tilted vehicle couldtake him there. In the first flash it looked as wild as suicide; but inthe second it was as sensible as a safe investment. The Yorkshireman hadevidently more promptitude, as well as more sagacity, than Muscari hadgiven him credit for; for he landed in a lap of land which mighthave been specially padded with turf and clover to receive him. Asit happened, indeed, the whole company were equally lucky, if lessdignified in their form of ejection. Immediately under this abrupt turnof the road was a grassy and flowery hollow like a sunken meadow; asort of green velvet pocket in the long, green, trailing garments ofthe hills. Into this they were all tipped or tumbled with little damage, save that their smallest baggage and even the contents of their pocketswere scattered in the grass around them. The wrecked coach still hungabove, entangled in the tough hedge, and the horses plunged painfullydown the slope. The first to sit up was the little priest, who scratchedhis head with a face of foolish wonder. Frank Harrogate heard him say tohimself: "Now why on earth have we fallen just here?"

He blinked at the litter around him, and recovered his own very clumsyumbrella. Beyond it lay the broad sombrero fallen from the head ofMuscari, and beside it a sealed business letter which, after a glanceat the address, he returned to the elder Harrogate. On the other side ofhim the grass partly hid Miss Ethel's sunshade, and just beyond it lay acurious little glass bottle hardly two inches long. The priest picked itup; in a quick, unobtrusive manner he uncorked and sniffed it, and hisheavy face turned the colour of clay. 

"Heaven deliver us!" he muttered; "it can't be hers! Has her sorrow comeon her already?" He slipped it into his own waistcoat pocket. "I thinkI'm justified, " he said, "till I know a little more. "

He gazed painfully at the girl, at that moment being raised out of theflowers by Muscari, who was saying: "We have fallen into heaven; it isa sign. Mortals climb up and they fall down; but it is only gods andgoddesses who can fall upwards. "

And indeed she rose out of the sea of colours so beautiful and happya vision that the priest felt his suspicion shaken and shifted. "Afterall, " he thought, "perhaps the poison isn't hers; perhaps it's one ofMuscari's melodramatic tricks. "

Muscari set the lady lightly on her feet, made her an absurdlytheatrical bow, and then, drawing his cutlass, hacked hard at the tautreins of the horses, so that they scrambled to their feet and stoodin the grass trembling. When he had done so, a most remarkable thingoccurred. A very quiet man, very poorly dressed and extremely sunburnt, came out of the bushes and took hold of the horses' heads. He had aqueer-shaped knife, very broad and crooked, buckled on his belt; therewas nothing else remarkable about him, except his sudden and silentappearance. The poet asked him who he was, and he did not answer. 

Looking around him at the confused and startled group in the hollow, Muscari then perceived that another tanned and tattered man, with ashort gun under his arm, was looking at them from the ledge just below, leaning his elbows on the edge of the turf. Then he looked up at theroad from which they had fallen and saw, looking down on them, themuzzles of four other carbines and four other brown faces with brightbut quite motionless eyes. 

"The brigands!" cried Muscari, with a kind of monstrous gaiety. "Thiswas a trap. Ezza, if you will oblige me by shooting the coachman first, we can cut our way out yet. There are only six of them. "

"The coachman, " said Ezza, who was standing grimly with his hands in hispockets, "happens to be a servant of Mr Harrogate's. "

"Then shoot him all the more, " cried the poet impatiently; "he wasbribed to upset his master. Then put the lady in the middle, and we willbreak the line up there--with a rush. "

And, wading in wild grass and flowers, he advanced fearlessly on thefour carbines; but finding that no one followed except young Harrogate, he turned, brandishing his cutlass to wave the others on. He beheldthe courier still standing slightly astride in the centre of the grassyring, his hands in his pockets; and his lean, ironical Italian faceseemed to grow longer and longer in the evening light. 

"You thought, Muscari, I was the failure among our schoolfellows, " hesaid, "and you thought you were the success. But I have succeeded morethan you and fill a bigger place in history. I have been acting epicswhile you have been writing them. "

"Come on, I tell you!" thundered Muscari from above. "Will you standthere talking nonsense about yourself with a woman to save and threestrong men to help you? What do you call yourself?"

"I call myself Montano, " cried the strange courier in a voice equallyloud and full. "I am the King of Thieves, and I welcome you all to mysummer palace. "

And even as he spoke five more silent men with weapons ready came out ofthe bushes, and looked towards him for their orders. One of them held alarge paper in his hand. 

"This pretty little nest where we are all picnicking, " went on thecourier-brigand, with the same easy yet sinister smile, "is, togetherwith some caves underneath it, known by the name of the Paradise ofThieves. It is my principal stronghold on these hills; for (as you havedoubtless noticed) the eyrie is invisible both from the road above andfrom the valley below. It is something better than impregnable; it isunnoticeable. Here I mostly live, and here I shall certainly die, ifthe gendarmes ever track me here. I am not the kind of criminal that'reserves his defence, ' but the better kind that reserves his lastbullet. "

All were staring at him thunderstruck and still, except Father Brown, who heaved a huge sigh as of relief and fingered the little phial in hispocket. "Thank God!" he muttered; "that's much more probable. The poisonbelongs to this robber-chief, of course. He carries it so that he maynever be captured, like Cato. "

The King of Thieves was, however, continuing his address with the samekind of dangerous politeness. "It only remains for me, " he said, "to explain to my guests the social conditions upon which I have thepleasure of entertaining them. I need not expound the quaint old ritualof ransom, which it is incumbent upon me to keep up; and even this onlyapplies to a part of the company. The Reverend Father Brown and thecelebrated Signor Muscari I shall release tomorrow at dawn and escortto my outposts. Poets and priests, if you will pardon my simplicityof speech, never have any money. And so (since it is impossible toget anything out of them), let us, seize the opportunity to show ouradmiration for classic literature and our reverence for Holy Church. "

He paused with an unpleasing smile; and Father Brown blinked repeatedlyat him, and seemed suddenly to be listening with great attention. Thebrigand captain took the large paper from the attendant brigand and, glancing over it, continued: "My other intentions are clearly set forthin this public document, which I will hand round in a moment; and whichafter that will be posted on a tree by every village in the valley, andevery cross-road in the hills. I will not weary you with the verbalism, since you will be able to check it; the substance of my proclamation isthis: I announce first that I have captured the English millionaire, thecolossus of finance, Mr Samuel Harrogate. I next announce that I havefound on his person notes and bonds for two thousand pounds, which hehas given up to me. Now since it would be really immoral to announcesuch a thing to a credulous public if it had not occurred, I suggest itshould occur without further delay. I suggest that Mr Harrogate seniorshould now give me the two thousand pounds in his pocket. "

The banker looked at him under lowering brows, red-faced and sulky, butseemingly cowed. That leap from the failing carriage seemed to have usedup his last virility. He had held back in a hang-dog style when his sonand Muscari had made a bold movement to break out of the brigandtrap. And now his red and trembling hand went reluctantly to hisbreast-pocket, and passed a bundle of papers and envelopes to thebrigand. 

"Excellent!" cried that outlaw gaily; "so far we are all cosy. I resumethe points of my proclamation, so soon to be published to all Italy. The third item is that of ransom. I am asking from the friends of theHarrogate family a ransom of three thousand pounds, which I am sureis almost insulting to that family in its moderate estimate of theirimportance. Who would not pay triple this sum for another day'sassociation with such a domestic circle? I will not conceal from youthat the document ends with certain legal phrases about the unpleasantthings that may happen if the money is not paid; but meanwhile, ladiesand gentlemen, let me assure you that I am comfortably off herefor accommodation, wine and cigars, and bid you for the present asportsman-like welcome to the luxuries of the Paradise of Thieves. "

All the time that he had been speaking, the dubious-looking men withcarbines and dirty slouch hats had been gathering silently in suchpreponderating numbers that even Muscari was compelled to recognize hissally with the sword as hopeless. He glanced around him; but the girlhad already gone over to soothe and comfort her father, for her naturalaffection for his person was as strong or stronger than her somewhatsnobbish pride in his success. Muscari, with the illogicality of alover, admired this filial devotion, and yet was irritated by it. He slapped his sword back in the scabbard and went and flung himselfsomewhat sulkily on one of the green banks. The priest sat down withina yard or two, and Muscari turned his aquiline nose on him in aninstantaneous irritation. 

"Well, " said the poet tartly, "do people still think me too romantic?Are there, I wonder, any brigands left in the mountains?"

"There may be, " said Father Brown agnostically. 

"What do you mean?" asked the other sharply. 

"I mean I am puzzled, " replied the priest. "I am puzzled about Ezza orMontano, or whatever his name is. He seems to me much more inexplicableas a brigand even than he was as a courier. "

"But in what way?" persisted his companion. "Santa Maria! I should havethought the brigand was plain enough. "

"I find three curious difficulties, " said the priest in a quiet voice. "I should like to have your opinion on them. First of all I must tellyou I was lunching in that restaurant at the seaside. As four of youleft the room, you and Miss Harrogate went ahead, talking and laughing;the banker and the courier came behind, speaking sparely and rather low. But I could not help hearing Ezza say these words--'Well, let her havea little fun; you know the blow may smash her any minute. ' Mr Harrogateanswered nothing; so the words must have had some meaning. On theimpulse of the moment I warned her brother that she might be in peril;I said nothing of its nature, for I did not know. But if it meantthis capture in the hills, the thing is nonsense. Why should thebrigand-courier warn his patron, even by a hint, when it was his wholepurpose to lure him into the mountain-mousetrap? It could not havemeant that. But if not, what is this disaster, known both to courier andbanker, which hangs over Miss Harrogate's head?"

"Disaster to Miss Harrogate!" ejaculated the poet, sitting up with someferocity. "Explain yourself; go on. "

"All my riddles, however, revolve round our bandit chief, " resumed thepriest reflectively. "And here is the second of them. Why did he putso prominently in his demand for ransom the fact that he had taken twothousand pounds from his victim on the spot? It had no faintest tendencyto evoke the ransom. Quite the other way, in fact. Harrogate's friendswould be far likelier to fear for his fate if they thought the thieveswere poor and desperate. Yet the spoliation on the spot was emphasizedand even put first in the demand. Why should Ezza Montano want sospecially to tell all Europe that he had picked the pocket before helevied the blackmail?"

"I cannot imagine, " said Muscari, rubbing up his black hair for oncewith an unaffected gesture. "You may think you enlighten me, but you areleading me deeper in the dark. What may be the third objection to theKing of the Thieves?" "The third objection, " said Father Brown, stillin meditation, "is this bank we are sitting on. Why does ourbrigand-courier call this his chief fortress and the Paradise ofThieves? It is certainly a soft spot to fall on and a sweet spot to lookat. It is also quite true, as he says, that it is invisible from valleyand peak, and is therefore a hiding-place. But it is not a fortress. Itnever could be a fortress. I think it would be the worst fortress in theworld. For it is actually commanded from above by the common high-roadacross the mountains--the very place where the police would mostprobably pass. Why, five shabby short guns held us helpless here abouthalf an hour ago. The quarter of a company of any kind of soldiers couldhave blown us over the precipice. Whatever is the meaning of this oddlittle nook of grass and flowers, it is not an entrenched position. Itis something else; it has some other strange sort of importance; somevalue that I do not understand. It is more like an accidental theatre ora natural green-room; it is like the scene for some romantic comedy; itis like. .. . "

As the little priest's words lengthened and lost themselves in a dulland dreamy sincerity, Muscari, whose animal senses were alert andimpatient, heard a new noise in the mountains. Even for him the soundwas as yet very small and faint; but he could have sworn the eveningbreeze bore with it something like the pulsation of horses' hoofs and adistant hallooing. 

At the same moment, and long before the vibration had touched theless-experienced English ears, Montano the brigand ran up the bank abovethem and stood in the broken hedge, steadying himself against a tree andpeering down the road. He was a strange figure as he stood there, for hehad assumed a flapped fantastic hat and swinging baldric and cutlass inhis capacity of bandit king, but the bright prosaic tweed of the couriershowed through in patches all over him. 

The next moment he turned his olive, sneering face and made a movementwith his hand. The brigands scattered at the signal, not in confusion, but in what was evidently a kind of guerrilla discipline. Instead ofoccupying the road along the ridge, they sprinkled themselves along theside of it behind the trees and the hedge, as if watching unseen for anenemy. The noise beyond grew stronger, beginning to shake the mountainroad, and a voice could be clearly heard calling out orders. Thebrigands swayed and huddled, cursing and whispering, and the eveningair was full of little metallic noises as they cocked their pistols, orloosened their knives, or trailed their scabbards over the stones. Thenthe noises from both quarters seemed to meet on the road above; branchesbroke, horses neighed, men cried out. 

"A rescue!" cried Muscari, springing to his feet and waving his hat;"the gendarmes are on them! Now for freedom and a blow for it! Now tobe rebels against robbers! Come, don't let us leave everything tothe police; that is so dreadfully modern. Fall on the rear of theseruffians. The gendarmes are rescuing us; come, friends, let us rescuethe gendarmes!"

And throwing his hat over the trees, he drew his cutlass once more andbegan to escalade the slope up to the road. Frank Harrogate jumped upand ran across to help him, revolver in hand, but was astounded to hearhimself imperatively recalled by the raucous voice of his father, whoseemed to be in great agitation. 

"I won't have it, " said the banker in a choking voice; "I command younot to interfere. "

"But, father, " said Frank very warmly, "an Italian gentleman has led theway. You wouldn't have it said that the English hung back. "

"It is useless, " said the older man, who was trembling violently, "it isuseless. We must submit to our lot. "

Father Brown looked at the banker; then he put his hand instinctively asif on his heart, but really on the little bottle of poison; and a greatlight came into his face like the light of the revelation of death. 

Muscari meanwhile, without waiting for support, had crested the bankup to the road, and struck the brigand king heavily on the shoulder, causing him to stagger and swing round. Montano also had his cutlassunsheathed, and Muscari, without further speech, sent a slash at hishead which he was compelled to catch and parry. But even as the twoshort blades crossed and clashed the King of Thieves deliberatelydropped his point and laughed. 

"What's the good, old man?" he said in spirited Italian slang; "thisdamned farce will soon be over. "

"What do you mean, you shuffler?" panted the fire-eating poet. "Is yourcourage a sham as well as your honesty?"

"Everything about me is a sham, " responded the ex-courier in completegood humour. "I am an actor; and if I ever had a private character, Ihave forgotten it. I am no more a genuine brigand than I am a genuinecourier. I am only a bundle of masks, and you can't fight a duelwith that. " And he laughed with boyish pleasure and fell into his oldstraddling attitude, with his back to the skirmish up the road. 

Darkness was deepening under the mountain walls, and it was not easy todiscern much of the progress of the struggle, save that tall men werepushing their horses' muzzles through a clinging crowd of brigands, who seemed more inclined to harass and hustle the invaders than to killthem. It was more like a town crowd preventing the passage of the policethan anything the poet had ever pictured as the last stand of doomed andoutlawed men of blood. Just as he was rolling his eyes in bewildermenthe felt a touch on his elbow, and found the odd little priest standingthere like a small Noah with a large hat, and requesting the favour of aword or two. 

"Signor Muscari, " said the cleric, "in this queer crisis personalitiesmay be pardoned. I may tell you without offence of a way in which youwill do more good than by helping the gendarmes, who are bound to breakthrough in any case. You will permit me the impertinent intimacy, but doyou care about that girl? Care enough to marry her and make her a goodhusband, I mean?"

"Yes, " said the poet quite simply. 

"Does she care about you?"

"I think so, " was the equally grave reply. 

"Then go over there and offer yourself, " said the priest: "offer hereverything you can; offer her heaven and earth if you've got them. Thetime is short. "

"Why?" asked the astonished man of letters. 

"Because, " said Father Brown, "her Doom is coming up the road. "

"Nothing is coming up the road, " argued Muscari, "except the rescue. "

"Well, you go over there, " said his adviser, "and be ready to rescue herfrom the rescue. "

Almost as he spoke the hedges were broken all along the ridge by a rushof the escaping brigands. They dived into bushes and thick grasslike defeated men pursued; and the great cocked hats of the mountedgendarmerie were seen passing along above the broken hedge. Anotherorder was given; there was a noise of dismounting, and a tall officerwith cocked hat, a grey imperial, and a paper in his hand appearedin the gap that was the gate of the Paradise of Thieves. There was amomentary silence, broken in an extraordinary way by the banker, whocried out in a hoarse and strangled voice: "Robbed! I've been robbed!"

"Why, that was hours ago, " cried his son in astonishment: "when you wererobbed of two thousand pounds. "

"Not of two thousand pounds, " said the financier, with an abrupt andterrible composure, "only of a small bottle. "

The policeman with the grey imperial was striding across the greenhollow. Encountering the King of the Thieves in his path, he clapped himon the shoulder with something between a caress and a buffet and gavehim a push that sent him staggering away. "You'll get into trouble, too, " he said, "if you play these tricks. "

Again to Muscari's artistic eye it seemed scarcely like the capture ofa great outlaw at bay. Passing on, the policeman halted before theHarrogate group and said: "Samuel Harrogate, I arrest you in the nameof the law for embezzlement of the funds of the Hull and HuddersfieldBank. "

The great banker nodded with an odd air of business assent, seemed toreflect a moment, and before they could interpose took a half turn anda step that brought him to the edge of the outer mountain wall. Then, flinging up his hands, he leapt exactly as he leapt out of the coach. But this time he did not fall into a little meadow just beneath; he fella thousand feet below, to become a wreck of bones in the valley. 

The anger of the Italian policeman, which he expressed volubly to FatherBrown, was largely mixed with admiration. "It was like him to escape usat last, " he said. "He was a great brigand if you like. This lasttrick of his I believe to be absolutely unprecedented. He fled withthe company's money to Italy, and actually got himself captured by shambrigands in his own pay, so as to explain both the disappearance ofthe money and the disappearance of himself. That demand for ransom wasreally taken seriously by most of the police. But for years he's beendoing things as good as that, quite as good as that. He will be aserious loss to his family. "

Muscari was leading away the unhappy daughter, who held hard to him, asshe did for many a year after. But even in that tragic wreck he couldnot help having a smile and a hand of half-mocking friendship for theindefensible Ezza Montano. "And where are you going next?" he asked himover his shoulder. 

"Birmingham, " answered the actor, puffing a cigarette. "Didn't I tellyou I was a Futurist? I really do believe in those things if I believein anything. Change, bustle and new things every morning. I am going toManchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Hull, Huddersfield, Glasgow, Chicago--inshort, to enlightened, energetic, civilized society!"

"In short, " said Muscari, "to the real Paradise of Thieves. "

THREE -- The Duel of Dr Hirsch

M. MAURICE BRUN and M. Armand Armagnac were crossing the sunlit ChampsElysee with a kind of vivacious respectability. They were both short, brisk and bold. They both had black beards that did not seem to belongto their faces, after the strange French fashion which makes real hairlook like artificial. M. Brun had a dark wedge of beard apparentlyaffixed under his lower lip. M. Armagnac, by way of a change, had twobeards; one sticking out from each corner of his emphatic chin. Theywere both young. They were both atheists, with a depressing fixity ofoutlook but great mobility of exposition. They were both pupils of thegreat Dr Hirsch, scientist, publicist and moralist. 

M. Brun had become prominent by his proposal that the common expression"Adieu" should be obliterated from all the French classics, and a slightfine imposed for its use in private life. "Then, " he said, "the veryname of your imagined God will have echoed for the last time in the earof man. " M. Armagnac specialized rather in a resistance to militarism, and wished the chorus of the Marseillaise altered from "Aux armes, citoyens" to "Aux greves, citoyens". But his antimilitarism was of apeculiar and Gallic sort. An eminent and very wealthy English Quaker, who had come to see him to arrange for the disarmament of the wholeplanet, was rather distressed by Armagnac's proposal that (by way ofbeginning) the soldiers should shoot their officers. 

And indeed it was in this regard that the two men differed most fromtheir leader and father in philosophy. Dr Hirsch, though born in Franceand covered with the most triumphant favours of French education, wastemperamentally of another type--mild, dreamy, humane; and, despite hissceptical system, not devoid of transcendentalism. He was, in short, more like a German than a Frenchman; and much as they admired him, something in the subconsciousness of these Gauls was irritated at hispleading for peace in so peaceful a manner. To their party throughoutEurope, however, Paul Hirsch was a saint of science. His large anddaring cosmic theories advertised his austere life and innocent, ifsomewhat frigid, morality; he held something of the position of Darwindoubled with the position of Tolstoy. But he was neither an anarchistnor an antipatriot; his views on disarmament were moderate andevolutionary--the Republican Government put considerable confidence inhim as to various chemical improvements. He had lately even discovereda noiseless explosive, the secret of which the Government was carefullyguarding. 

His house stood in a handsome street near the Elysee--a street which inthat strong summer seemed almost as full of foliage as the park itself;a row of chestnuts shattered the sunshine, interrupted only in one placewhere a large cafe ran out into the street. Almost opposite to thiswere the white and green blinds of the great scientist's house, an ironbalcony, also painted green, running along in front of the first-floorwindows. Beneath this was the entrance into a kind of court, gay withshrubs and tiles, into which the two Frenchmen passed in animated talk. 

The door was opened to them by the doctor's old servant, Simon, whomight very well have passed for a doctor himself, having a strict suitof black, spectacles, grey hair, and a confidential manner. In fact, hewas a far more presentable man of science than his master, Dr Hirsch, who was a forked radish of a fellow, with just enough bulb of a head tomake his body insignificant. With all the gravity of a great physicianhandling a prescription, Simon handed a letter to M. Armagnac. Thatgentleman ripped it up with a racial impatience, and rapidly read thefollowing:

I cannot come down to speak to you. There is a man in this house whom Irefuse to meet. He is a Chauvinist officer, Dubosc. He is sitting on thestairs. He has been kicking the furniture about in all the other rooms;I have locked myself in my study, opposite that cafe. If you love me, go over to the cafe and wait at one of the tables outside. I will tryto send him over to you. I want you to answer him and deal with him. Icannot meet him myself. I cannot: I will not. 

There is going to be another Dreyfus case. 

P. HIRSCH

M. Armagnac looked at M. Brun. M. Brun borrowed the letter, read it, andlooked at M. Armagnac. Then both betook themselves briskly to one of thelittle tables under the chestnuts opposite, where they procured two tallglasses of horrible green absinthe, which they could drink apparently inany weather and at any time. Otherwise the cafe seemed empty, exceptfor one soldier drinking coffee at one table, and at another a large mandrinking a small syrup and a priest drinking nothing. 

Maurice Brun cleared his throat and said: "Of course we must help themaster in every way, but--"

There was an abrupt silence, and Armagnac said: "He may have excellentreasons for not meeting the man himself, but--"

Before either could complete a sentence, it was evident that the invaderhad been expelled from the house opposite. The shrubs under the archwayswayed and burst apart, as that unwelcome guest was shot out of themlike a cannon-ball. 

He was a sturdy figure in a small and tilted Tyrolean felt hat, afigure that had indeed something generally Tyrolean about it. The man'sshoulders were big and broad, but his legs were neat and active inknee-breeches and knitted stockings. His face was brown like a nut; hehad very bright and restless brown eyes; his dark hair was brushedback stiffly in front and cropped close behind, outlining a square andpowerful skull; and he had a huge black moustache like the horns of abison. Such a substantial head is generally based on a bull neck; butthis was hidden by a big coloured scarf, swathed round up the man's earsand falling in front inside his jacket like a sort of fancy waistcoat. It was a scarf of strong dead colours, dark red and old gold and purple, probably of Oriental fabrication. Altogether the man had something ashade barbaric about him; more like a Hungarian squire than an ordinaryFrench officer. His French, however, was obviously that of a native;and his French patriotism was so impulsive as to be slightly absurd. His first act when he burst out of the archway was to call in a clarionvoice down the street: "Are there any Frenchmen here?" as if he werecalling for Christians in Mecca. 

Armagnac and Brun instantly stood up; but they were too late. Menwere already running from the street corners; there was a small butever-clustering crowd. With the prompt French instinct for the politicsof the street, the man with the black moustache had already run acrossto a corner of the cafe, sprung on one of the tables, and seizing abranch of chestnut to steady himself, shouted as Camille Desmoulins onceshouted when he scattered the oak-leaves among the populace. 

"Frenchmen!" he volleyed; "I cannot speak! God help me, that is why Iam speaking! The fellows in their filthy parliaments who learn tospeak also learn to be silent--silent as that spy cowering in the houseopposite! Silent as he is when I beat on his bedroom door! Silent as heis now, though he hears my voice across this street and shakes where hesits! Oh, they can be silent eloquently--the politicians! But the timehas come when we that cannot speak must speak. You are betrayed to thePrussians. Betrayed at this moment. Betrayed by that man. I am JulesDubosc, Colonel of Artillery, Belfort. We caught a German spy in theVosges yesterday, and a paper was found on him--a paper I hold in myhand. Oh, they tried to hush it up; but I took it direct to the man whowrote it--the man in that house! It is in his hand. It is signed withhis initials. It is a direction for finding the secret of this newNoiseless Powder. Hirsch invented it; Hirsch wrote this note about it. This note is in German, and was found in a German's pocket. 'Tell theman the formula for powder is in grey envelope in first drawer to theleft of Secretary's desk, War Office, in red ink. He must be careful. P. H. '"

He rattled short sentences like a quick-firing gun, but he was plainlythe sort of man who is either mad or right. The mass of the crowdwas Nationalist, and already in threatening uproar; and a minority ofequally angry Intellectuals, led by Armagnac and Brun, only made themajority more militant. 

"If this is a military secret, " shouted Brun, "why do you yell about itin the street?"

"I will tell you why I do!" roared Dubosc above the roaring crowd. "Iwent to this man in straight and civil style. If he had any explanationit could have been given in complete confidence. He refuses to explain. He refers me to two strangers in a cafe as to two flunkeys. He hasthrown me out of the house, but I am going back into it, with the peopleof Paris behind me!"

A shout seemed to shake the very facade of mansions and two stones flew, one breaking a window above the balcony. The indignant Colonel plungedonce more under the archway and was heard crying and thundering inside. Every instant the human sea grew wider and wider; it surged up againstthe rails and steps of the traitor's house; it was already certain thatthe place would be burst into like the Bastille, when the broken frenchwindow opened and Dr Hirsch came out on the balcony. For an instantthe fury half turned to laughter; for he was an absurd figure in sucha scene. His long bare neck and sloping shoulders were the shape of achampagne bottle, but that was the only festive thing about him. Hiscoat hung on him as on a peg; he wore his carrot-coloured hair longand weedy; his cheeks and chin were fully fringed with one of thoseirritating beards that begin far from the mouth. He was very pale, andhe wore blue spectacles. 

Livid as he was, he spoke with a sort of prim decision, so that the mobfell silent in the middle of his third sentence. 

". .. Only two things to say to you now. The first is to my foes, thesecond to my friends. To my foes I say: It is true I will not meet M. Dubosc, though he is storming outside this very room. It is true I haveasked two other men to confront him for me. And I will tell you why!Because I will not and must not see him--because it would be against allrules of dignity and honour to see him. Before I am triumphantly clearedbefore a court, there is another arbitration this gentleman owes me as agentleman, and in referring him to my seconds I am strictly--"

Armagnac and Brun were waving their hats wildly, and even the Doctor'senemies roared applause at this unexpected defiance. Once more a fewsentences were inaudible, but they could hear him say: "To my friends--Imyself should always prefer weapons purely intellectual, and to thesean evolved humanity will certainly confine itself. But our own mostprecious truth is the fundamental force of matter and heredity. My booksare successful; my theories are unrefuted; but I suffer in politicsfrom a prejudice almost physical in the French. I cannot speak likeClemenceau and Deroulede, for their words are like echoes of theirpistols. The French ask for a duellist as the English ask for asportsman. Well, I give my proofs: I will pay this barbaric bribe, andthen go back to reason for the rest of my life. "

Two men were instantly found in the crowd itself to offer their servicesto Colonel Dubosc, who came out presently, satisfied. One was the commonsoldier with the coffee, who said simply: "I will act for you, sir. Iam the Duc de Valognes. " The other was the big man, whom his friend thepriest sought at first to dissuade; and then walked away alone. 

In the early evening a light dinner was spread at the back of the CafeCharlemagne. Though unroofed by any glass or gilt plaster, the guestswere nearly all under a delicate and irregular roof of leaves; for theornamental trees stood so thick around and among the tables as to givesomething of the dimness and the dazzle of a small orchard. At one ofthe central tables a very stumpy little priest sat in complete solitude, and applied himself to a pile of whitebait with the gravest sort ofenjoyment. His daily living being very plain, he had a peculiar tastefor sudden and isolated luxuries; he was an abstemious epicure. He didnot lift his eyes from his plate, round which red pepper, lemons, brownbread and butter, etc. , were rigidly ranked, until a tall shadow fellacross the table, and his friend Flambeau sat down opposite. Flambeauwas gloomy. 

"I'm afraid I must chuck this business, " said he heavily. "I'm all onthe side of the French soldiers like Dubosc, and I'm all against theFrench atheists like Hirsch; but it seems to me in this case we've madea mistake. The Duke and I thought it as well to investigate the charge, and I must say I'm glad we did. "

"Is the paper a forgery, then?" asked the priest

"That's just the odd thing, " replied Flambeau. "It's exactly likeHirsch's writing, and nobody can point out any mistake in it. But itwasn't written by Hirsch. If he's a French patriot he didn't write it, because it gives information to Germany. And if he's a German spy hedidn't write it, well--because it doesn't give information to Germany. "

"You mean the information is wrong?" asked Father Brown. 

"Wrong, " replied the other, "and wrong exactly where Dr Hirsch wouldhave been right--about the hiding-place of his own secret formula in hisown official department. By favour of Hirsch and the authorities, theDuke and I have actually been allowed to inspect the secret drawer atthe War Office where the Hirsch formula is kept. We are the only peoplewho have ever known it, except the inventor himself and the Minister forWar; but the Minister permitted it to save Hirsch from fighting. Afterthat we really can't support Dubosc if his revelation is a mare's nest. "

"And it is?" asked Father Brown. 

"It is, " said his friend gloomily. "It is a clumsy forgery by somebodywho knew nothing of the real hiding-place. It says the paper is in thecupboard on the right of the Secretary's desk. As a fact the cupboardwith the secret drawer is some way to the left of the desk. It saysthe grey envelope contains a long document written in red ink. It isn'twritten in red ink, but in ordinary black ink. It's manifestly absurd tosay that Hirsch can have made a mistake about a paper that nobody knewof but himself; or can have tried to help a foreign thief by telling himto fumble in the wrong drawer. I think we must chuck it up and apologizeto old Carrots. "

Father Brown seemed to cogitate; he lifted a little whitebait on hisfork. "You are sure the grey envelope was in the left cupboard?" heasked. 

"Positive, " replied Flambeau. "The grey envelope--it was a whiteenvelope really--was--"

Father Brown put down the small silver fish and the fork and staredacross at his companion. "What?" he asked, in an altered voice. 

"Well, what?" repeated Flambeau, eating heartily. 

"It was not grey, " said the priest. "Flambeau, you frighten me. "

"What the deuce are you frightened of?"

"I'm frightened of a white envelope, " said the other seriously, "If ithad only just been grey! Hang it all, it might as well have been grey. But if it was white, the whole business is black. The Doctor has beendabbling in some of the old brimstone after all. "

"But I tell you he couldn't have written such a note!" cried Flambeau. "The note is utterly wrong about the facts. And innocent or guilty, DrHirsch knew all about the facts. "

"The man who wrote that note knew all about the facts, " said hisclerical companion soberly. "He could never have got 'em so wrongwithout knowing about 'em. You have to know an awful lot to be wrong onevery subject--like the devil. "

"Do you mean--?"

"I mean a man telling lies on chance would have told some of the truth, "said his friend firmly. "Suppose someone sent you to find a house witha green door and a blue blind, with a front garden but no back garden, with a dog but no cat, and where they drank coffee but not tea. Youwould say if you found no such house that it was all made up. But I sayno. I say if you found a house where the door was blue and the blindgreen, where there was a back garden and no front garden, where catswere common and dogs instantly shot, where tea was drunk in quarts andcoffee forbidden--then you would know you had found the house. The manmust have known that particular house to be so accurately inaccurate. "

"But what could it mean?" demanded the diner opposite. 

"I can't conceive, " said Brown; "I don't understand this Hirsch affairat all. As long as it was only the left drawer instead of the right, andred ink instead of black, I thought it must be the chance blunders of aforger, as you say. But three is a mystical number; it finishes things. It finishes this. That the direction about the drawer, the colour ofink, the colour of envelope, should none of them be right by accident, that can't be a coincidence. It wasn't. "

"What was it, then? Treason?" asked Flambeau, resuming his dinner. 

"I don't know that either, " answered Brown, with a face of blankbewilderment. "The only thing I can think of. .. . Well, I neverunderstood that Dreyfus case. I can always grasp moral evidence easierthan the other sorts. I go by a man's eyes and voice, don't you know, and whether his family seems happy, and by what subjects he chooses--andavoids. Well, I was puzzled in the Dreyfus case. Not by the horriblethings imputed both ways; I know (though it's not modern to say so) thathuman nature in the highest places is still capable of being Cenci orBorgia. No--, what puzzled me was the sincerity of both parties. I don'tmean the political parties; the rank and file are always roughlyhonest, and often duped. I mean the persons of the play. I mean theconspirators, if they were conspirators. I mean the traitor, if he was atraitor. I mean the men who must have known the truth. Now Dreyfuswent on like a man who knew he was a wronged man. And yet the Frenchstatesmen and soldiers went on as if they knew he wasn't a wronged manbut simply a wrong 'un. I don't mean they behaved well; I mean theybehaved as if they were sure. I can't describe these things; I know whatI mean. "

"I wish I did, " said his friend. "And what has it to do with oldHirsch?"

"Suppose a person in a position of trust, " went on the priest, "began togive the enemy information because it was false information. Supposehe even thought he was saving his country by misleading the foreigner. Suppose this brought him into spy circles, and little loans were madeto him, and little ties tied on to him. Suppose he kept up hiscontradictory position in a confused way by never telling the foreignspies the truth, but letting it more and more be guessed. The betterpart of him (what was left of it) would still say: 'I have not helpedthe enemy; I said it was the left drawer. ' The meaner part of him wouldalready be saying: 'But they may have the sense to see that means theright. ' I think it is psychologically possible--in an enlightened age, you know. "

"It may be psychologically possible, " answered Flambeau, "and itcertainly would explain Dreyfus being certain he was wronged and hisjudges being sure he was guilty. But it won't wash historically, becauseDreyfus's document (if it was his document) was literally correct. "

"I wasn't thinking of Dreyfus, " said Father Brown. 

Silence had sunk around them with the emptying of the tables; it wasalready late, though the sunlight still clung to everything, as ifaccidentally entangled in the trees. In the stillness Flambeau shiftedhis seat sharply--making an isolated and echoing noise--and threw hiselbow over the angle of it. "Well, " he said, rather harshly, "if Hirschis not better than a timid treason-monger. .. "

"You mustn't be too hard on them, " said Father Brown gently. "It's notentirely their fault; but they have no instincts. I mean those thingsthat make a woman refuse to dance with a man or a man to touch aninvestment. They've been taught that it's all a matter of degree. "

"Anyhow, " cried Flambeau impatiently, "he's not a patch on my principal;and I shall go through with it. Old Dubosc may be a bit mad, but he's asort of patriot after all. "

Father Brown continued to consume whitebait. 

Something in the stolid way he did so caused Flambeau's fierce blackeyes to ramble over his companion afresh. "What's the matter with you?"Flambeau demanded. "Dubosc's all right in that way. You don't doubthim?"

"My friend, " said the small priest, laying down his knife and fork in akind of cold despair, "I doubt everything. Everything, I mean, that hashappened today. I doubt the whole story, though it has been acted beforemy face. I doubt every sight that my eyes have seen since morning. Thereis something in this business quite different from the ordinary policemystery where one man is more or less lying and the other man more orless telling the truth. Here both men. .. . Well! I've told you the onlytheory I can think of that could satisfy anybody. It doesn't satisfyme. "

"Nor me either, " replied Flambeau frowning, while the other went oneating fish with an air of entire resignation. "If all you can suggestis that notion of a message conveyed by contraries, I call it uncommonlyclever, but. .. Well, what would you call it?"

"I should call it thin, " said the priest promptly. "I should call ituncommonly thin. But that's the queer thing about the whole business. The lie is like a schoolboy's. There are only three versions, Dubosc'sand Hirsch's and that fancy of mine. Either that note was written bya French officer to ruin a French official; or it was written by theFrench official to help German officers; or it was written by the Frenchofficial to mislead German officers. Very well. You'd expect a secretpaper passing between such people, officials or officers, to lookquite different from that. You'd expect, probably a cipher, certainlyabbreviations; most certainly scientific and strictly professionalterms. But this thing's elaborately simple, like a penny dreadful: 'Inthe purple grotto you will find the golden casket. ' It looks as if. .. Asif it were meant to be seen through at once. "

Almost before they could take it in a short figure in French uniformhad walked up to their table like the wind, and sat down with a sort ofthump. 

"I have extraordinary news, " said the Duc de Valognes. "I have just comefrom this Colonel of ours. He is packing up to leave the country, and heasks us to make his excuses sur le terrain. "

"What?" cried Flambeau, with an incredulity quitefrightful--"apologize?"

"Yes, " said the Duke gruffly; "then and there--before everybody--whenthe swords are drawn. And you and I have to do it while he is leavingthe country. "

"But what can this mean?" cried Flambeau. "He can't be afraid of thatlittle Hirsch! Confound it!" he cried, in a kind of rational rage;"nobody could be afraid of Hirsch!"

"I believe it's some plot!" snapped Valognes--"some plot of the Jews andFreemasons. It's meant to work up glory for Hirsch. .. "

The face of Father Brown was commonplace, but curiously contented; itcould shine with ignorance as well as with knowledge. But there wasalways one flash when the foolish mask fell, and the wise mask fitteditself in its place; and Flambeau, who knew his friend, knew that hisfriend had suddenly understood. Brown said nothing, but finished hisplate of fish. 

"Where did you last see our precious Colonel?" asked Flambeau, irritably. 

"He's round at the Hotel Saint Louis by the Elysee, where we drove withhim. He's packing up, I tell you. "

"Will he be there still, do you think?" asked Flambeau, frowning at thetable. 

"I don't think he can get away yet, " replied the Duke; "he's packing togo a long journey. .. "

"No, " said Father Brown, quite simply, but suddenly standing up, "for avery short journey. For one of the shortest, in fact. But we may stillbe in time to catch him if we go there in a motor-cab. "

Nothing more could be got out of him until the cab swept round thecorner by the Hotel Saint Louis, where they got out, and he led theparty up a side lane already in deep shadow with the growing dusk. Once, when the Duke impatiently asked whether Hirsch was guilty of treason ornot, he answered rather absently: "No; only of ambition--like Caesar. "Then he somewhat inconsequently added: "He lives a very lonely life; hehas had to do everything for himself. "

"Well, if he's ambitious, he ought to be satisfied now, " said Flambeaurather bitterly. "All Paris will cheer him now our cursed Colonel hasturned tail. "

"Don't talk so loud, " said Father Brown, lowering his voice, "yourcursed Colonel is just in front. "

The other two started and shrank farther back into the shadow of thewall, for the sturdy figure of their runaway principal could indeed beseen shuffling along in the twilight in front, a bag in each hand. Helooked much the same as when they first saw him, except that he hadchanged his picturesque mountaineering knickers for a conventional pairof trousers. It was clear he was already escaping from the hotel. 

The lane down which they followed him was one of those that seem tobe at the back of things, and look like the wrong side of the stagescenery. A colourless, continuous wall ran down one flank of it, interrupted at intervals by dull-hued and dirt-stained doors, all shutfast and featureless save for the chalk scribbles of some passinggamin. The tops of trees, mostly rather depressing evergreens, showedat intervals over the top of the wall, and beyond them in the grey andpurple gloaming could be seen the back of some long terrace of tallParisian houses, really comparatively close, but somehow looking asinaccessible as a range of marble mountains. On the other side of thelane ran the high gilt railings of a gloomy park. 

Flambeau was looking round him in rather a weird way. "Do you know, " hesaid, "there is something about this place that--"

"Hullo!" called out the Duke sharply; "that fellow's disappeared. Vanished, like a blasted fairy!"

"He has a key, " explained their clerical friend. "He's only gone intoone of these garden doors, " and as he spoke they heard one of the dullwooden doors close again with a click in front of them. 

Flambeau strode up to the door thus shut almost in his face, and stoodin front of it for a moment, biting his black moustache in a fury ofcuriosity. Then he threw up his long arms and swung himself aloft likea monkey and stood on the top of the wall, his enormous figure darkagainst the purple sky, like the dark tree-tops. 

The Duke looked at the priest. "Dubosc's escape is more elaborate thanwe thought, " he said; "but I suppose he is escaping from France. "

"He is escaping from everywhere, " answered Father Brown. 

Valognes's eyes brightened, but his voice sank. "Do you mean suicide?"he asked. 

"You will not find his body, " replied the other. 

A kind of cry came from Flambeau on the wall above. "My God, " heexclaimed in French, "I know what this place is now! Why, it's the backof the street where old Hirsch lives. I thought I could recognize theback of a house as well as the back of a man. "

"And Dubosc's gone in there!" cried the Duke, smiting his hip. "Why, they'll meet after all!" And with sudden Gallic vivacity he hopped up onthe wall beside Flambeau and sat there positively kicking his legs withexcitement. The priest alone remained below, leaning against the wall, with his back to the whole theatre of events, and looking wistfullyacross to the park palings and the twinkling, twilit trees. 

The Duke, however stimulated, had the instincts of an aristocrat, anddesired rather to stare at the house than to spy on it; but Flambeau, who had the instincts of a burglar (and a detective), had already swunghimself from the wall into the fork of a straggling tree from which hecould crawl quite close to the only illuminated window in the back ofthe high dark house. A red blind had been pulled down over the light, but pulled crookedly, so that it gaped on one side, and by risking hisneck along a branch that looked as treacherous as a twig, Flambeaucould just see Colonel Dubosc walking about in a brilliantly-lighted andluxurious bedroom. But close as Flambeau was to the house, he heard thewords of his colleagues by the wall, and repeated them in a low voice. 

"Yes, they will meet now after all!"

"They will never meet, " said Father Brown. "Hirsch was right when hesaid that in such an affair the principals must not meet. Have youread a queer psychological story by Henry James, of two persons who soperpetually missed meeting each other by accident that they began tofeel quite frightened of each other, and to think it was fate? This issomething of the kind, but more curious. "

"There are people in Paris who will cure them of such morbid fancies, "said Valognes vindictively. "They will jolly well have to meet if wecapture them and force them to fight. "

"They will not meet on the Day of Judgement, " said the priest. "If GodAlmighty held the truncheon of the lists, if St Michael blew the trumpetfor the swords to cross--even then, if one of them stood ready, theother would not come. "

"Oh, what does all this mysticism mean?" cried the Duc de Valognes, impatiently; "why on earth shouldn't they meet like other people?"

"They are the opposite of each other, " said Father Brown, with a queerkind of smile. "They contradict each other. They cancel out, so tospeak. "

He continued to gaze at the darkening trees opposite, but Valognesturned his head sharply at a suppressed exclamation from Flambeau. Thatinvestigator, peering into the lighted room, had just seen the Colonel, after a pace or two, proceed to take his coat off. Flambeau's firstthought was that this really looked like a fight; but he soon droppedthe thought for another. The solidity and squareness of Dubosc's chestand shoulders was all a powerful piece of padding and came off with hiscoat. In his shirt and trousers he was a comparatively slim gentleman, who walked across the bedroom to the bathroom with no more pugnaciouspurpose than that of washing himself. He bent over a basin, dried hisdripping hands and face on a towel, and turned again so that the stronglight fell on his face. His brown complexion had gone, his big blackmoustache had gone; he--was clean-shaven and very pate. Nothing remainedof the Colonel but his bright, hawk-like, brown eyes. Under the wallFather Brown was going on in heavy meditation, as if to himself. 

"It is all just like what I was saying to Flambeau. These oppositeswon't do. They don't work. They don't fight. If it's white instead ofblack, and solid instead of liquid, and so on all along the line--thenthere's something wrong, Monsieur, there's something wrong. One of thesemen is fair and the other dark, one stout and the other slim, one strongand the other weak. One has a moustache and no beard, so you can't seehis mouth; the other has a beard and no moustache, so you can't see hischin. One has hair cropped to his skull, but a scarf to hide his neck;the other has low shirt-collars, but long hair to bide his skull. It'sall too neat and correct, Monsieur, and there's something wrong. Thingsmade so opposite are things that cannot quarrel. Wherever the onesticks out the other sinks in. Like a face and a mask, like a lock and akey. .. "

Flambeau was peering into the house with a visage as white as a sheet. The occupant of the room was standing with his back to him, but in frontof a looking-glass, and had already fitted round his face a sortof framework of rank red hair, hanging disordered from the head andclinging round the jaws and chin while leaving the mocking mouthuncovered. Seen thus in the glass the white face looked like the face ofJudas laughing horribly and surrounded by capering flames of hell. Fora spasm Flambeau saw the fierce, red-brown eyes dancing, then they werecovered with a pair of blue spectacles. Slipping on a loose black coat, the figure vanished towards the front of the house. A few moments latera roar of popular applause from the street beyond announced that DrHirsch had once more appeared upon the balcony. 

FOUR -- The Man in the Passage

TWO men appeared simultaneously at the two ends of a sort of passagerunning along the side of the Apollo Theatre in the Adelphi. The eveningdaylight in the streets was large and luminous, opalescent and empty. The passage was comparatively long and dark, so each man could see theother as a mere black silhouette at the other end. Nevertheless, eachman knew the other, even in that inky outline; for they were both men ofstriking appearance and they hated each other. 

The covered passage opened at one end on one of the steep streets of theAdelphi, and at the other on a terrace overlooking the sunset-colouredriver. One side of the passage was a blank wall, for the building itsupported was an old unsuccessful theatre restaurant, now shut up. Theother side of the passage contained two doors, one at each end. Neitherwas what was commonly called the stage door; they were a sort of specialand private stage doors used by very special performers, and in thiscase by the star actor and actress in the Shakespearean performance ofthe day. Persons of that eminence often like to have such private exitsand entrances, for meeting friends or avoiding them. 

The two men in question were certainly two such friends, men whoevidently knew the doors and counted on their opening, for eachapproached the door at the upper end with equal coolness and confidence. Not, however, with equal speed; but the man who walked fast was the manfrom the other end of the tunnel, so they both arrived before the secretstage door almost at the same instant. They saluted each other withcivility, and waited a moment before one of them, the sharper walker whoseemed to have the shorter patience, knocked at the door. 

In this and everything else each man was opposite and neither couldbe called inferior. As private persons both were handsome, capable andpopular. As public persons, both were in the first public rank. Buteverything about them, from their glory to their good looks, was of adiverse and incomparable kind. Sir Wilson Seymour was the kind of manwhose importance is known to everybody who knows. The more you mixedwith the innermost ring in every polity or profession, the more oftenyou met Sir Wilson Seymour. He was the one intelligent man on twentyunintelligent committees--on every sort of subject, from the reform ofthe Royal Academy to the project of bimetallism for Greater Britain. In the Arts especially he was omnipotent. He was so unique that nobodycould quite decide whether he was a great aristocrat who had taken upArt, or a great artist whom the aristocrats had taken up. But you couldnot meet him for five minutes without realizing that you had really beenruled by him all your life. 

His appearance was "distinguished" in exactly the same sense; it was atonce conventional and unique. Fashion could have found no fault with hishigh silk hat--, yet it was unlike anyone else's hat--a little higher, perhaps, and adding something to his natural height. His tall, slenderfigure had a slight stoop yet it looked the reverse of feeble. His hairwas silver-grey, but he did not look old; it was worn longer than thecommon yet he did not look effeminate; it was curly but it did notlook curled. His carefully pointed beard made him look more manly andmilitant than otherwise, as it does in those old admirals of Velazquezwith whose dark portraits his house was hung. His grey gloves were ashade bluer, his silver-knobbed cane a shade longer than scores ofsuch gloves and canes flapped and flourished about the theatres and therestaurants. 

The other man was not so tall, yet would have struck nobody as short, but merely as strong and handsome. His hair also was curly, but fair andcropped close to a strong, massive head--the sort of head you break adoor with, as Chaucer said of the Miller's. His military moustache andthe carriage of his shoulders showed him a soldier, but he had a pairof those peculiar frank and piercing blue eyes which are more common insailors. His face was somewhat square, his jaw was square, his shoulderswere square, even his jacket was square. Indeed, in the wild schoolof caricature then current, Mr Max Beerbohm had represented him as aproposition in the fourth book of Euclid. 

For he also was a public man, though with quite another sort of success. You did not have to be in the best society to have heard of CaptainCutler, of the siege of Hong-Kong, and the great march across China. Youcould not get away from hearing of him wherever you were; his portraitwas on every other postcard; his maps and battles in every otherillustrated paper; songs in his honour in every other music-hall turn oron every other barrel-organ. His fame, though probably more temporary, was ten times more wide, popular and spontaneous than the other man's. In thousands of English homes he appeared enormous above England, likeNelson. Yet he had infinitely less power in England than Sir WilsonSeymour. 

The door was opened to them by an aged servant or "dresser", whosebroken-down face and figure and black shabby coat and trouserscontrasted queerly with the glittering interior of the great actress'sdressing-room. It was fitted and filled with looking-glasses at everyangle of refraction, so that they looked like the hundred facets of onehuge diamond--if one could get inside a diamond. The other features ofluxury, a few flowers, a few coloured cushions, a few scraps of stagecostume, were multiplied by all the mirrors into the madness of theArabian Nights, and danced and changed places perpetually as theshuffling attendant shifted a mirror outwards or shot one back againstthe wall. 

They both spoke to the dingy dresser by name, calling him Parkinson, andasking for the lady as Miss Aurora Rome. Parkinson said she was in theother room, but he would go and tell her. A shade crossed the brow ofboth visitors; for the other room was the private room of the greatactor with whom Miss Aurora was performing, and she was of the kind thatdoes not inflame admiration without inflaming jealousy. In about halfa minute, however, the inner door opened, and she entered as she alwaysdid, even in private life, so that the very silence seemed to be a roarof applause, and one well-deserved. She was clad in a somewhat strangegarb of peacock green and peacock blue satins, that gleamed like blueand green metals, such as delight children and aesthetes, and her heavy, hot brown hair framed one of those magic faces which are dangerous toall men, but especially to boys and to men growing grey. In company withher male colleague, the great American actor, Isidore Bruno, she wasproducing a particularly poetical and fantastic interpretation ofMidsummer Night's Dream: in which the artistic prominence was givento Oberon and Titania, or in other words to Bruno and herself. Set indreamy and exquisite scenery, and moving in mystical dances, thegreen costume, like burnished beetle-wings, expressed all the elusiveindividuality of an elfin queen. But when personally confronted in whatwas still broad daylight, a man looked only at the woman's face. 

She greeted both men with the beaming and baffling smile which kept somany males at the same just dangerous distance from her. She acceptedsome flowers from Cutler, which were as tropical and expensive as hisvictories; and another sort of present from Sir Wilson Seymour, offeredlater on and more nonchalantly by that gentleman. For it was againsthis breeding to show eagerness, and against his conventionalunconventionality to give anything so obvious as flowers. He had pickedup a trifle, he said, which was rather a curiosity, it was an ancientGreek dagger of the Mycenaean Epoch, and might well have been worn inthe time of Theseus and Hippolyta. It was made of brass like all theHeroic weapons, but, oddly enough, sharp enough to prick anyone still. He had really been attracted to it by the leaf-like shape; it was asperfect as a Greek vase. If it was of any interest to Miss Rome or couldcome in anywhere in the play, he hoped she would--

The inner door burst open and a big figure appeared, who was more ofa contrast to the explanatory Seymour than even Captain Cutler. Nearlysix-foot-six, and of more than theatrical thews and muscles, IsidoreBruno, in the gorgeous leopard skin and golden-brown garments of Oberon, looked like a barbaric god. He leaned on a sort of hunting-spear, whichacross a theatre looked a slight, silvery wand, but which in the smalland comparatively crowded room looked as plain as a pike-staff--and asmenacing. His vivid black eyes rolled volcanically, his bronzedface, handsome as it was, showed at that moment a combination ofhigh cheekbones with set white teeth, which recalled certain Americanconjectures about his origin in the Southern plantations. 

"Aurora, " he began, in that deep voice like a drum of passion that hadmoved so many audiences, "will you--"

He stopped indecisively because a sixth figure had suddenly presenteditself just inside the doorway--a figure so incongruous in the scene asto be almost comic. It was a very short man in the black uniform ofthe Roman secular clergy, and looking (especially in such a presence asBruno's and Aurora's) rather like the wooden Noah out of an ark. Hedid not, however, seem conscious of any contrast, but said with dullcivility: "I believe Miss Rome sent for me. "

A shrewd observer might have remarked that the emotional temperaturerather rose at so unemotional an interruption. The detachment of aprofessional celibate seemed to reveal to the others that they stoodround the woman as a ring of amorous rivals; just as a stranger comingin with frost on his coat will reveal that a room is like a furnace. Thepresence of the one man who did not care about her increased Miss Rome'ssense that everybody else was in love with her, and each in a somewhatdangerous way: the actor with all the appetite of a savage and a spoiltchild; the soldier with all the simple selfishness of a man of willrather than mind; Sir Wilson with that daily hardening concentrationwith which old Hedonists take to a hobby; nay, even the abjectParkinson, who had known her before her triumphs, and who followed herabout the room with eyes or feet, with the dumb fascination of a dog. 

A shrewd person might also have noted a yet odder thing. The man like ablack wooden Noah (who was not wholly without shrewdness) noted it witha considerable but contained amusement. It was evident that the greatAurora, though by no means indifferent to the admiration of the othersex, wanted at this moment to get rid of all the men who admired her andbe left alone with the man who did not--did not admire her in thatsense at least; for the little priest did admire and even enjoy thefirm feminine diplomacy with which she set about her task. There was, perhaps, only one thing that Aurora Rome was clever about, and that wasone half of humanity--the other half. The little priest watched, like aNapoleonic campaign, the swift precision of her policy for expelling allwhile banishing none. Bruno, the big actor, was so babyish that itwas easy to send him off in brute sulks, banging the door. Cutler, theBritish officer, was pachydermatous to ideas, but punctilious aboutbehaviour. He would ignore all hints, but he would die rather thanignore a definite commission from a lady. As to old Seymour, he had tobe treated differently; he had to be left to the last. The only way tomove him was to appeal to him in confidence as an old friend, to let himinto the secret of the clearance. The priest did really admire Miss Romeas she achieved all these three objects in one selected action. 

She went across to Captain Cutler and said in her sweetest manner:"I shall value all these flowers, because they must be your favouriteflowers. But they won't be complete, you know, without my favouriteflower. Do go over to that shop round the corner and get me somelilies-of-the-valley, and then it will be quite lovely. "

The first object of her diplomacy, the exit of the enraged Bruno, was atonce achieved. He had already handed his spear in a lordly style, likea sceptre, to the piteous Parkinson, and was about to assume one ofthe cushioned seats like a throne. But at this open appeal to his rivalthere glowed in his opal eyeballs all the sensitive insolence of theslave; he knotted his enormous brown fists for an instant, and then, dashing open the door, disappeared into his own apartments beyond. Butmeanwhile Miss Rome's experiment in mobilizing the British Army had notsucceeded so simply as seemed probable. Cutler had indeed risen stifflyand suddenly, and walked towards the door, hatless, as if at a word ofcommand. But perhaps there was something ostentatiously elegant aboutthe languid figure of Seymour leaning against one of the looking-glassesthat brought him up short at the entrance, turning his head this way andthat like a bewildered bulldog. 

"I must show this stupid man where to go, " said Aurora in a whisper toSeymour, and ran out to the threshold to speed the parting guest. 

Seymour seemed to be listening, elegant and unconscious as was hisposture, and he seemed relieved when he heard the lady call out somelast instructions to the Captain, and then turn sharply and run laughingdown the passage towards the other end, the end on the terrace above theThames. Yet a second or two after Seymour's brow darkened again. A manin his position has so many rivals, and he remembered that at the otherend of the passage was the corresponding entrance to Bruno's privateroom. He did not lose his dignity; he said some civil words to FatherBrown about the revival of Byzantine architecture in the WestminsterCathedral, and then, quite naturally, strolled out himself into theupper end of the passage. Father Brown and Parkinson were leftalone, and they were neither of them men with a taste for superfluousconversation. The dresser went round the room, pulling outlooking-glasses and pushing them in again, his dingy dark coat andtrousers looking all the more dismal since he was still holding thefestive fairy spear of King Oberon. Every time he pulled out the frameof a new glass, a new black figure of Father Brown appeared; the absurdglass chamber was full of Father Browns, upside down in the air likeangels, turning somersaults like acrobats, turning their backs toeverybody like very rude persons. 

Father Brown seemed quite unconscious of this cloud of witnesses, butfollowed Parkinson with an idly attentive eye till he took himselfand his absurd spear into the farther room of Bruno. Then he abandonedhimself to such abstract meditations as always amused him--calculatingthe angles of the mirrors, the angles of each refraction, the angle atwhich each must fit into the wall. .. When he heard a strong but strangledcry. 

He sprang to his feet and stood rigidly listening. At the same instantSir Wilson Seymour burst back into the room, white as ivory. "Who's thatman in the passage?" he cried. "Where's that dagger of mine?"

Before Father Brown could turn in his heavy boots Seymour was plungingabout the room looking for the weapon. And before he could possiblyfind that weapon or any other, a brisk running of feet broke upon thepavement outside, and the square face of Cutler was thrust into thesame doorway. He was still grotesquely grasping a bunch oflilies-of-the-valley. "What's this?" he cried. "What's that creaturedown the passage? Is this some of your tricks?"

"My tricks!" hissed his pale rival, and made a stride towards him. 

In the instant of time in which all this happened Father Brown steppedout into the top of the passage, looked down it, and at once walkedbriskly towards what he saw. 

At this the other two men dropped their quarrel and darted after him, Cutler calling out: "What are you doing? Who are you?"

"My name is Brown, " said the priest sadly, as he bent over somethingand straightened himself again. "Miss Rome sent for me, and I came asquickly as I could. I have come too late. "

The three men looked down, and in one of them at least the life died inthat late light of afternoon. It ran along the passage like a path ofgold, and in the midst of it Aurora Rome lay lustrous in her robes ofgreen and gold, with her dead face turned upwards. Her dress was tornaway as in a struggle, leaving the right shoulder bare, but the woundfrom which the blood was welling was on the other side. The brass daggerlay flat and gleaming a yard or so away. 

There was a blank stillness for a measurable time, so that they couldhear far off a flower-girl's laugh outside Charing Cross, and someonewhistling furiously for a taxicab in one of the streets off the Strand. Then the Captain, with a movement so sudden that it might have beenpassion or play-acting, took Sir Wilson Seymour by the throat. 

Seymour looked at him steadily without either fight or fear. "You neednot kill me, " he said in a voice quite cold; "I shall do that on my ownaccount. "

The Captain's hand hesitated and dropped; and the other added with thesame icy candour: "If I find I haven't the nerve to do it with thatdagger I can do it in a month with drink. "

"Drink isn't good enough for me, " replied Cutler, "but I'll have bloodfor this before I die. Not yours--but I think I know whose. "

And before the others could appreciate his intention he snatched up thedagger, sprang at the other door at the lower end of the passage, burstit open, bolt and all, and confronted Bruno in his dressing-room. As hedid so, old Parkinson tottered in his wavering way out of the doorand caught sight of the corpse lying in the passage. He moved shakilytowards it; looked at it weakly with a working face; then moved shakilyback into the dressing-room again, and sat down suddenly on one ofthe richly cushioned chairs. Father Brown instantly ran across to him, taking no notice of Cutler and the colossal actor, though the roomalready rang with their blows and they began to struggle for the dagger. Seymour, who retained some practical sense, was whistling for the policeat the end of the passage. 

When the police arrived it was to tear the two men from an almostape-like grapple; and, after a few formal inquiries, to arrest IsidoreBruno upon a charge of murder, brought against him by his furiousopponent. The idea that the great national hero of the hour had arresteda wrongdoer with his own hand doubtless had its weight with the police, who are not without elements of the journalist. They treated Cutler witha certain solemn attention, and pointed out that he had got a slightslash on the hand. Even as Cutler bore him back across tilted chair andtable, Bruno had twisted the dagger out of his grasp and disabled himjust below the wrist. The injury was really slight, but till he wasremoved from the room the half-savage prisoner stared at the runningblood with a steady smile. 

"Looks a cannibal sort of chap, don't he?" said the constableconfidentially to Cutler. 

Cutler made no answer, but said sharply a moment after: "We must attendto the. .. The death. .. " and his voice escaped from articulation. 

"The two deaths, " came in the voice of the priest from the farther sideof the room. "This poor fellow was gone when I got across to him. " Andhe stood looking down at old Parkinson, who sat in a black huddle on thegorgeous chair. He also had paid his tribute, not without eloquence, tothe woman who had died. 

The silence was first broken by Cutler, who seemed not untouched by arough tenderness. "I wish I was him, " he said huskily. "I remember heused to watch her wherever she walked more than--anybody. She was hisair, and he's dried up. He's just dead. "

"We are all dead, " said Seymour in a strange voice, looking down theroad. 

They took leave of Father Brown at the corner of the road, with somerandom apologies for any rudeness they might have shown. Both theirfaces were tragic, but also cryptic. 

The mind of the little priest was always a rabbit-warren of wildthoughts that jumped too quickly for him to catch them. Like the whitetail of a rabbit he had the vanishing thought that he was certain oftheir grief, but not so certain of their innocence. 

"We had better all be going, " said Seymour heavily; "we have done all wecan to help. "

"Will you understand my motives, " asked Father Brown quietly, "if I sayyou have done all you can to hurt?"

They both started as if guiltily, and Cutler said sharply: "To hurtwhom?"

"To hurt yourselves, " answered the priest. "I would not add to yourtroubles if it weren't common justice to warn you. You've done nearlyeverything you could do to hang yourselves, if this actor should beacquitted. They'll be sure to subpoena me; I shall be bound to say thatafter the cry was heard each of you rushed into the room in a wild stateand began quarrelling about a dagger. As far as my words on oath can go, you might either of you have done it. You hurt yourselves with that; andthen Captain Cutler must have hurt himself with the dagger. "

"Hurt myself!" exclaimed the Captain, with contempt. "A silly littlescratch. "

"Which drew blood, " replied the priest, nodding. "We know there's bloodon the brass now. And so we shall never know whether there was blood onit before. "

There was a silence; and then Seymour said, with an emphasis quite aliento his daily accent: "But I saw a man in the passage. "

"I know you did, " answered the cleric Brown with a face of wood, "so didCaptain Cutler. That's what seems so improbable. "

Before either could make sufficient sense of it even to answer, FatherBrown had politely excused himself and gone stumping up the road withhis stumpy old umbrella. 

As modern newspapers are conducted, the most honest and most importantnews is the police news. If it be true that in the twentieth centurymore space is given to murder than to politics, it is for the excellentreason that murder is a more serious subject. But even this would hardlyexplain the enormous omnipresence and widely distributed detail of "TheBruno Case, " or "The Passage Mystery, " in the Press of London and theprovinces. So vast was the excitement that for some weeks thePress really told the truth; and the reports of examination andcross-examination, if interminable, even if intolerable are at leastreliable. The true reason, of course, was the coincidence of persons. The victim was a popular actress; the accused was a popular actor; andthe accused had been caught red-handed, as it were, by the most popularsoldier of the patriotic season. In those extraordinary circumstancesthe Press was paralysed into probity and accuracy; and the rest of thissomewhat singular business can practically be recorded from reports ofBruno's trial. 

The trial was presided over by Mr Justice Monkhouse, one of thosewho are jeered at as humorous judges, but who are generally much moreserious than the serious judges, for their levity comes from a livingimpatience of professional solemnity; while the serious judge is reallyfilled with frivolity, because he is filled with vanity. All the chiefactors being of a worldly importance, the barristers were well balanced;the prosecutor for the Crown was Sir Walter Cowdray, a heavy, butweighty advocate of the sort that knows how to seem English andtrustworthy, and how to be rhetorical with reluctance. The prisoner wasdefended by Mr Patrick Butler, K. C. , who was mistaken for a mere flaneurby those who misunderstood the Irish character--and those who had notbeen examined by him. The medical evidence involved no contradictions, the doctor, whom Seymour had summoned on the spot, agreeing with theeminent surgeon who had later examined the body. Aurora Rome had beenstabbed with some sharp instrument such as a knife or dagger; someinstrument, at least, of which the blade was short. The wound was justover the heart, and she had died instantly. When the doctor first sawher she could hardly have been dead for twenty minutes. Therefore whenFather Brown found her she could hardly have been dead for three. 

Some official detective evidence followed, chiefly concerned with thepresence or absence of any proof of a struggle; the only suggestion ofthis was the tearing of the dress at the shoulder, and this did not seemto fit in particularly well with the direction and finality of the blow. When these details had been supplied, though not explained, the first ofthe important witnesses was called. 

Sir Wilson Seymour gave evidence as he did everything else that he didat all--not only well, but perfectly. Though himself much more ofa public man than the judge, he conveyed exactly the fine shade ofself-effacement before the King's justice; and though everyone looked athim as they would at the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury, they could have said nothing of his part in it but that it was that of aprivate gentleman, with an accent on the noun. He was also refreshinglylucid, as he was on the committees. He had been calling on Miss Rome atthe theatre; he had met Captain Cutler there; they had been joined fora short time by the accused, who had then returned to his owndressing-room; they had then been joined by a Roman Catholic priest, whoasked for the deceased lady and said his name was Brown. Miss Rome hadthen gone just outside the theatre to the entrance of the passage, inorder to point out to Captain Cutler a flower-shop at which he was tobuy her some more flowers; and the witness had remained in the room, exchanging a few words with the priest. He had then distinctly heard thedeceased, having sent the Captain on his errand, turn round laughingand run down the passage towards its other end, where was the prisoner'sdressing-room. In idle curiosity as to the rapid movement of hisfriends, he had strolled out to the head of the passage himself andlooked down it towards the prisoner's door. Did he see anything in thepassage? Yes; he saw something in the passage. 

Sir Walter Cowdray allowed an impressive interval, during which thewitness looked down, and for all his usual composure seemed to have morethan his usual pallor. Then the barrister said in a lower voice, whichseemed at once sympathetic and creepy: "Did you see it distinctly?"

Sir Wilson Seymour, however moved, had his excellent brains in fullworking-order. "Very distinctly as regards its outline, but quiteindistinctly, indeed not at all, as regards the details inside theoutline. The passage is of such length that anyone in the middle of itappears quite black against the light at the other end. " The witnesslowered his steady eyes once more and added: "I had noticed the factbefore, when Captain Cutler first entered it. " There was anothersilence, and the judge leaned forward and made a note. 

"Well, " said Sir Walter patiently, "what was the outline like? Was it, for instance, like the figure of the murdered woman?"

"Not in the least, " answered Seymour quietly. 

"What did it look like to you?"

"It looked to me, " replied the witness, "like a tall man. "

Everyone in court kept his eyes riveted on his pen, or hisumbrella-handle, or his book, or his boots or whatever he happened to belooking at. They seemed to be holding their eyes away from the prisonerby main force; but they felt his figure in the dock, and they felt itas gigantic. Tall as Bruno was to the eye, he seemed to swell taller andtaller when an eyes had been torn away from him. 

Cowdray was resuming his seat with his solemn face, smoothing hisblack silk robes, and white silk whiskers. Sir Wilson was leaving thewitness-box, after a few final particulars to which there were manyother witnesses, when the counsel for the defence sprang up and stoppedhim. 

"I shall only detain you a moment, " said Mr Butler, who was arustic-looking person with red eyebrows and an expression of partialslumber. "Will you tell his lordship how you knew it was a man?"

A faint, refined smile seemed to pass over Seymour's features. "I'mafraid it is the vulgar test of trousers, " he said. "When I saw daylightbetween the long legs I was sure it was a man, after all. "

Butler's sleepy eyes opened as suddenly as some silent explosion. "Afterall!" he repeated slowly. "So you did think at first it was a woman?"

Seymour looked troubled for the first time. "It is hardly a point offact, " he said, "but if his lordship would like me to answer for myimpression, of course I shall do so. There was something about the thingthat was not exactly a woman and yet was not quite a man; somehow thecurves were different. And it had something that looked like long hair. "

"Thank you, " said Mr Butler, K. C. , and sat down suddenly, as if he hadgot what he wanted. 

Captain Cutler was a far less plausible and composed witness than SirWilson, but his account of the opening incidents was solidly the same. He described the return of Bruno to his dressing-room, the dispatchingof himself to buy a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley, his return to theupper end of the passage, the thing he saw in the passage, his suspicionof Seymour, and his struggle with Bruno. But he could give littleartistic assistance about the black figure that he and Seymour had seen. Asked about its outline, he said he was no art critic--with a somewhattoo obvious sneer at Seymour. Asked if it was a man or a woman, he saidit looked more like a beast--with a too obvious snarl at the prisoner. But the man was plainly shaken with sorrow and sincere anger, andCowdray quickly excused him from confirming facts that were alreadyfairly clear. 

The defending counsel also was again brief in his cross-examination;although (as was his custom) even in being brief, he seemed to take along time about it. "You used a rather remarkable expression, " he said, looking at Cutler sleepily. "What do you mean by saying that it lookedmore like a beast than a man or a woman?"

Cutler seemed seriously agitated. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have saidthat, " he said; "but when the brute has huge humped shoulders like achimpanzee, and bristles sticking out of its head like a pig--"

Mr Butler cut short his curious impatience in the middle. "Never mindwhether its hair was like a pig's, " he said, "was it like a woman's?"

"A woman's!" cried the soldier. "Great Scott, no!"

"The last witness said it was, " commented the counsel, with unscrupulousswiftness. "And did the figure have any of those serpentine andsemi-feminine curves to which eloquent allusion has been made? No? Nofeminine curves? The figure, if I understand you, was rather heavy andsquare than otherwise?"

"He may have been bending forward, " said Cutler, in a hoarse and ratherfaint voice. 

"Or again, he may not, " said Mr Butler, and sat down suddenly for thesecond time. 

The third, witness called by Sir Walter Cowdray was the little Catholicclergyman, so little, compared with the others, that his head seemedhardly to come above the box, so that it was like cross-examining achild. But unfortunately Sir Walter had somehow got it into his head(mostly by some ramifications of his family's religion) that FatherBrown was on the side of the prisoner, because the prisoner was wickedand foreign and even partly black. Therefore he took Father Brown upsharply whenever that proud pontiff tried to explain anything; and toldhim to answer yes or no, and tell the plain facts without any jesuitry. When Father Brown began, in his simplicity, to say who he thought theman in the passage was, the barrister told him that he did not want histheories. 

"A black shape was seen in the passage. And you say you saw the blackshape. Well, what shape was it?"

Father Brown blinked as under rebuke; but he had long known the literalnature of obedience. "The shape, " he said, "was short and thick, but hadtwo sharp, black projections curved upwards on each side of the head ortop, rather like horns, and--"

"Oh! the devil with horns, no doubt, " ejaculated Cowdray, sitting downin triumphant jocularity. "It was the devil come to eat Protestants. "

"No, " said the priest dispassionately; "I know who it was. "

Those in court had been wrought up to an irrational, but real sense ofsome monstrosity. They had forgotten the figure in the dock and thoughtonly of the figure in the passage. And the figure in the passage, described by three capable and respectable men who had all seen it, wasa shifting nightmare: one called it a woman, and the other a beast, andthe other a devil. .. . 

The judge was looking at Father Brown with level and piercing eyes. "You are a most extraordinary witness, " he said; "but there is somethingabout you that makes me think you are trying to tell the truth. Well, who was the man you saw in the passage?"

"He was myself, " said Father Brown. 

Butler, K. C. , sprang to his feet in an extraordinary stillness, and saidquite calmly: "Your lordship will allow me to cross-examine?" And then, without stopping, he shot at Brown the apparently disconnected question:"You have heard about this dagger; you know the experts say the crimewas committed with a short blade?"

"A short blade, " assented Brown, nodding solemnly like an owl, "but avery long hilt. "

Before the audience could quite dismiss the idea that the priest hadreally seen himself doing murder with a short dagger with a long hilt(which seemed somehow to make it more horrible), he had himself hurriedon to explain. 

"I mean daggers aren't the only things with short blades. Spearshave short blades. And spears catch at the end of the steel just likedaggers, if they're that sort of fancy spear they had in theatres; likethe spear poor old Parkinson killed his wife with, just when she'd sentfor me to settle their family troubles--and I came just too late, Godforgive me! But he died penitent--he just died of being penitent. Hecouldn't bear what he'd done. "

The general impression in court was that the little priest, who wasgobbling away, had literally gone mad in the box. But the judge stilllooked at him with bright and steady eyes of interest; and the counselfor the defence went on with his questions unperturbed. 

"If Parkinson did it with that pantomime spear, " said Butler, "hemust have thrust from four yards away. How do you account for signs ofstruggle, like the dress dragged off the shoulder?" He had slipped intotreating his mere witness as an expert; but no one noticed it now. 

"The poor lady's dress was torn, " said the witness, "because it wascaught in a panel that slid to just behind her. She struggled to freeherself, and as she did so Parkinson came out of the prisoner's room andlunged with the spear. "

"A panel?" repeated the barrister in a curious voice. 

"It was a looking-glass on the other side, " explained Father Brown. "When I was in the dressing-room I noticed that some of them couldprobably be slid out into the passage. "

There was another vast and unnatural silence, and this time it was thejudge who spoke. "So you really mean that when you looked down thatpassage, the man you saw was yourself--in a mirror?"

"Yes, my lord; that was what I was trying to say, " said Brown, "but theyasked me for the shape; and our hats have corners just like horns, andso I--"

The judge leaned forward, his old eyes yet more brilliant, and saidin specially distinct tones: "Do you really mean to say that when SirWilson Seymour saw that wild what-you-call-him with curves and a woman'shair and a man's trousers, what he saw was Sir Wilson Seymour?"

"Yes, my lord, " said Father Brown. 

"And you mean to say that when Captain Cutler saw that chimpanzee withhumped shoulders and hog's bristles, he simply saw himself?"

"Yes, my lord. "

The judge leaned back in his chair with a luxuriance in which it washard to separate the cynicism and the admiration. "And can you tell uswhy, " he asked, "you should know your own figure in a looking-glass, when two such distinguished men don't?"

Father Brown blinked even more painfully than before; then he stammered:"Really, my lord, I don't know unless it's because I don't look at it sooften. "

FIVE -- The Mistake of the Machine

FLAMBEAU and his friend the priest were sitting in the Temple Gardensabout sunset; and their neighbourhood or some such accidental influencehad turned their talk to matters of legal process. From the problemof the licence in cross-examination, their talk strayed to Roman andmediaeval torture, to the examining magistrate in France and the ThirdDegree in America. 

"I've been reading, " said Flambeau, "of this new psychometric methodthey talk about so much, especially in America. You know what I mean;they put a pulsometer on a man's wrist and judge by how his heart goesat the pronunciation of certain words. What do you think of it?"

"I think it very interesting, " replied Father Brown; "it reminds meof that interesting idea in the Dark Ages that blood would flow from acorpse if the murderer touched it. "

"Do you really mean, " demanded his friend, "that you think the twomethods equally valuable?"

"I think them equally valueless, " replied Brown. "Blood flows, fast orslow, in dead folk or living, for so many more million reasons than wecan ever know. Blood will have to flow very funnily; blood will haveto flow up the Matterhorn, before I will take it as a sign that I am toshed it. "

"The method, " remarked the other, "has been guaranteed by some of thegreatest American men of science. "

"What sentimentalists men of science are!" exclaimed Father Brown, "andhow much more sentimental must American men of science be! Who but aYankee would think of proving anything from heart-throbs? Why, they mustbe as sentimental as a man who thinks a woman is in love with him if sheblushes. That's a test from the circulation of the blood, discovered bythe immortal Harvey; and a jolly rotten test, too. "

"But surely, " insisted Flambeau, "it might point pretty straight atsomething or other. "

"There's a disadvantage in a stick pointing straight, " answered theother. "What is it? Why, the other end of the stick always points theopposite way. It depends whether you get hold of the stick by the rightend. I saw the thing done once and I've never believed in it since. " Andhe proceeded to tell the story of his disillusionment. 

It happened nearly twenty years before, when he was chaplain to hisco-religionists in a prison in Chicago--where the Irish populationdisplayed a capacity both for crime and penitence which kept himtolerably busy. The official second-in-command under the Governor was anex-detective named Greywood Usher, a cadaverous, careful-spoken Yankeephilosopher, occasionally varying a very rigid visage with an oddapologetic grimace. He liked Father Brown in a slightly patronizing way;and Father Brown liked him, though he heartily disliked his theories. His theories were extremely complicated and were held with extremesimplicity. 

One evening he had sent for the priest, who, according to his custom, took a seat in silence at a table piled and littered with papers, andwaited. The official selected from the papers a scrap of newspapercutting, which he handed across to the cleric, who read it gravely. Itappeared to be an extract from one of the pinkest of American Societypapers, and ran as follows:

"Society's brightest widower is once more on the Freak Dinner stunt. Allour exclusive citizens will recall the Perambulator Parade Dinner, inwhich Last-Trick Todd, at his palatial home at Pilgrim's Pond, caused somany of our prominent debutantes to look even younger than their years. Equally elegant and more miscellaneous and large-hearted in socialoutlook was Last-Trick's show the year previous, the popular CannibalCrush Lunch, at which the confections handed round were sarcasticallymoulded in the forms of human arms and legs, and during which more thanone of our gayest mental gymnasts was heard offering to eat his partner. The witticism which will inspire this evening is as yet in Mr Todd'spretty reticent intellect, or locked in the jewelled bosoms of ourcity's gayest leaders; but there is talk of a pretty parody of thesimple manners and customs at the other end of Society's scale. Thiswould be all the more telling, as hospitable Todd is entertaining inLord Falconroy, the famous traveller, a true-blooded aristocrat freshfrom England's oak-groves. Lord Falconroy's travels began before hisancient feudal title was resurrected, he was in the Republic in hisyouth, and fashion murmurs a sly reason for his return. Miss Etta Toddis one of our deep-souled New Yorkers, and comes into an income ofnearly twelve hundred million dollars. "

"Well, " asked Usher, "does that interest you?"

"Why, words rather fail me, " answered Father Brown. "I cannot think atthis moment of anything in this world that would interest me less. And, unless the just anger of the Republic is at last going to electrocutejournalists for writing like that, I don't quite see why it shouldinterest you either. "

"Ah!" said Mr Usher dryly, and handing across another scrap ofnewspaper. "Well, does that interest you?"

The paragraph was headed "Savage Murder of a Warder. Convict Escapes, "and ran: "Just before dawn this morning a shout for help was heardin the Convict Settlement at Sequah in this State. The authorities, hurrying in the direction of the cry, found the corpse of the warder whopatrols the top of the north wall of the prison, the steepest and mostdifficult exit, for which one man has always been found sufficient. Theunfortunate officer had, however, been hurled from the high wall, hisbrains beaten out as with a club, and his gun was missing. Furtherinquiries showed that one of the cells was empty; it had been occupiedby a rather sullen ruffian giving his name as Oscar Rian. He was onlytemporarily detained for some comparatively trivial assault; but hegave everyone the impression of a man with a black past and a dangerousfuture. Finally, when daylight had fully revealed the scene ofmurder, it was found that he had written on the wall above the body afragmentary sentence, apparently with a finger dipped in blood: 'Thiswas self-defence and he had the gun. I meant no harm to him or any manbut one. I am keeping the bullet for Pilgrim's Pond--O. R. ' A man musthave used most fiendish treachery or most savage and amazing bodilydaring to have stormed such a wall in spite of an armed man. "

"Well, the literary style is somewhat improved, " admitted the priestcheerfully, "but still I don't see what I can do for you. I should cuta poor figure, with my short legs, running about this State after anathletic assassin of that sort. I doubt whether anybody could find him. The convict settlement at Sequah is thirty miles from here; the countrybetween is wild and tangled enough, and the country beyond, where hewill surely have the sense to go, is a perfect no-man's land tumblingaway to the prairies. He may be in any hole or up any tree. "

"He isn't in any hole, " said the governor; "he isn't up any tree. "

"Why, how do you know?" asked Father Brown, blinking. 

"Would you like to speak to him?" inquired Usher. 

Father Brown opened his innocent eyes wide. "He is here?" he exclaimed. "Why, how did your men get hold of him?"

"I got hold of him myself, " drawled the American, rising and lazilystretching his lanky legs before the fire. "I got hold of him with thecrooked end of a walking-stick. Don't look so surprised. I really did. You know I sometimes take a turn in the country lanes outside thisdismal place; well, I was walking early this evening up a steep lanewith dark hedges and grey-looking ploughed fields on both sides; and ayoung moon was up and silvering the road. By the light of it I saw a manrunning across the field towards the road; running with his body bentand at a good mile-race trot. He appeared to be much exhausted; but whenhe came to the thick black hedge he went through it as if it were madeof spiders' webs;--or rather (for I heard the strong branches breakingand snapping like bayonets) as if he himself were made of stone. In theinstant in which he appeared up against the moon, crossing the road, Islung my hooked cane at his legs, tripping him and bringing him down. Then I blew my whistle long and loud, and our fellows came running up tosecure him. "

"It would have been rather awkward, " remarked Brown, "if you had foundhe was a popular athlete practising a mile race. "

"He was not, " said Usher grimly. "We soon found out who he was; but Ihad guessed it with the first glint of the moon on him. "

"You thought it was the runaway convict, " observed the priest simply, "because you had read in the newspaper cutting that morning that aconvict had run away. "

"I had somewhat better grounds, " replied the governor coolly. "I passover the first as too simple to be emphasized--I mean that fashionableathletes do not run across ploughed fields or scratch their eyes outin bramble hedges. Nor do they run all doubled up like a crouching dog. There were more decisive details to a fairly well-trained eye. The manwas clad in coarse and ragged clothes, but they were something morethan merely coarse and ragged. They were so ill-fitting as to be quitegrotesque; even as he appeared in black outline against the moonrise, the coat-collar in which his head was buried made him look like ahunchback, and the long loose sleeves looked as if he had no hands. Itat once occurred to me that he had somehow managed to change his convictclothes for some confederate's clothes which did not fit him. Second, there was a pretty stiff wind against which he was running; so that Imust have seen the streaky look of blowing hair, if the hair had notbeen very short. Then I remembered that beyond these ploughed fieldshe was crossing lay Pilgrim's Pond, for which (you will remember) theconvict was keeping his bullet; and I sent my walking-stick flying. "

"A brilliant piece of rapid deduction, " said Father Brown; "but had hegot a gun?"

As Usher stopped abruptly in his walk the priest added apologetically:"I've been told a bullet is not half so useful without it. "

"He had no gun, " said the other gravely; "but that was doubtless due tosome very natural mischance or change of plans. Probably the same policythat made him change the clothes made him drop the gun; he began torepent the coat he had left behind him in the blood of his victim. "

"Well, that is possible enough, " answered the priest. 

"And it's hardly worth speculating on, " said Usher, turning to someother papers, "for we know it's the man by this time. "

His clerical friend asked faintly: "But how?" And Greywood Usher threwdown the newspapers and took up the two press-cuttings again. 

"Well, since you are so obstinate, " he said, "let's begin at thebeginning. You will notice that these two cuttings have only one thingin common, which is the mention of Pilgrim's Pond, the estate, asyou know, of the millionaire Ireton Todd. You also know that he is aremarkable character; one of those that rose on stepping-stones--"

"Of our dead selves to higher things, " assented his companion. "Yes; Iknow that. Petroleum, I think. "

"Anyhow, " said Usher, "Last-Trick Todd counts for a great deal in thisrum affair. "

He stretched himself once more before the fire and continued talking inhis expansive, radiantly explanatory style. 

"To begin with, on the face of it, there is no mystery here at all. Itis not mysterious, it is not even odd, that a jailbird should take hisgun to Pilgrim's Pond. Our people aren't like the English, who willforgive a man for being rich if he throws away money on hospitals orhorses. Last-Trick Todd has made himself big by his own considerableabilities; and there's no doubt that many of those on whom he has shownhis abilities would like to show theirs on him with a shot-gun. Toddmight easily get dropped by some man he'd never even heard of; somelabourer he'd locked out, or some clerk in a business he'd busted. Last-Trick is a man of mental endowments and a high public character;but in this country the relations of employers and employed areconsiderably strained. 

"That's how the whole thing looks supposing this Rian made for Pilgrim'sPond to kill Todd. So it looked to me, till another little discoverywoke up what I have of the detective in me. When I had my prisoner safe, I picked up my cane again and strolled down the two or three turns ofcountry road that brought me to one of the side entrances of Todd'sgrounds, the one nearest to the pool or lake after which the placeis named. It was some two hours ago, about seven by this time; themoonlight was more luminous, and I could see the long white streaksof it lying on the mysterious mere with its grey, greasy, half-liquidshores in which they say our fathers used to make witches walk untilthey sank. I'd forgotten the exact tale; but you know the place I mean;it lies north of Todd's house towards the wilderness, and has two queerwrinkled trees, so dismal that they look more like huge fungoids thandecent foliage. As I stood peering at this misty pool, I fancied I sawthe faint figure of a man moving from the house towards it, but it wasall too dim and distant for one to be certain of the fact, and stillless of the details. Besides, my attention was very sharply arrested bysomething much closer. I crouched behind the fence which ran not morethan two hundred yards from one wing of the great mansion, and which wasfortunately split in places, as if specially for the application of acautious eye. A door had opened in the dark bulk of the left wing, and afigure appeared black against the illuminated interior--a muffled figurebending forward, evidently peering out into the night. It closed thedoor behind it, and I saw it was carrying a lantern, which threw a patchof imperfect light on the dress and figure of the wearer. It seemed tobe the figure of a woman, wrapped up in a ragged cloak and evidentlydisguised to avoid notice; there was something very strange both aboutthe rags and the furtiveness in a person coming out of those rooms linedwith gold. She took cautiously the curved garden path which brought herwithin half a hundred yards of me--, then she stood up for an instant onthe terrace of turf that looks towards the slimy lake, and holding herflaming lantern above her head she deliberately swung it three times toand fro as for a signal. As she swung it the second time a flicker ofits light fell for a moment on her own face, a face that I knew. Shewas unnaturally pale, and her head was bundled in her borrowed plebeianshawl; but I am certain it was Etta Todd, the millionaire's daughter. 

"She retraced her steps in equal secrecy and the door closed behind heragain. I was about to climb the fence and follow, when I realized thatthe detective fever that had lured me into the adventure was ratherundignified; and that in a more authoritative capacity I already heldall the cards in my hand. I was just turning away when a new noise brokeon the night. A window was thrown up in one of the upper floors, butjust round the corner of the house so that I could not see it; and avoice of terrible distinctness was heard shouting across the dark gardento know where Lord Falconroy was, for he was missing from every room inthe house. There was no mistaking that voice. I have heard it on many apolitical platform or meeting of directors; it was Ireton Todd himself. Some of the others seemed to have gone to the lower windows or on to thesteps, and were calling up to him that Falconroy had gone for a strolldown to the Pilgrim's Pond an hour before, and could not be tracedsince. Then Todd cried 'Mighty Murder!' and shut down the windowviolently; and I could hear him plunging down the stairs inside. Repossessing myself of my former and wiser purpose, I whipped out of theway of the general search that must follow; and returned here not laterthan eight o'clock. 

"I now ask you to recall that little Society paragraph which seemed toyou so painfully lacking in interest. If the convict was not keepingthe shot for Todd, as he evidently wasn't, it is most likely that he waskeeping it for Lord Falconroy; and it looks as if he had delivered thegoods. No more handy place to shoot a man than in the curious geologicalsurroundings of that pool, where a body thrown down would sink throughthick slime to a depth practically unknown. Let us suppose, then, thatour friend with the cropped hair came to kill Falconroy and not Todd. But, as I have pointed out, there are many reasons why people in Americamight want to kill Todd. There is no reason why anybody in Americashould want to kill an English lord newly landed, except for theone reason mentioned in the pink paper--that the lord is paying hisattentions to the millionaire's daughter. Our crop-haired friend, despite his ill-fitting clothes, must be an aspiring lover. 

"I know the notion will seem to you jarring and even comic; but that'sbecause you are English. It sounds to you like saying the Archbishop ofCanterbury's daughter will be married in St George's, Hanover Square, to a crossing-sweeper on ticket-of-leave. You don't do justice to theclimbing and aspiring power of our more remarkable citizens. You see agood-looking grey-haired man in evening-dress with a sort of authorityabout him, you know he is a pillar of the State, and you fancy he hada father. You are in error. You do not realize that a comparatively fewyears ago he may have been in a tenement or (quite likely) in a jail. You don't allow for our national buoyancy and uplift. Many of ourmost influential citizens have not only risen recently, but risencomparatively late in life. Todd's daughter was fully eighteen when herfather first made his pile; so there isn't really anything impossible inher having a hanger-on in low life; or even in her hanging on to him, asI think she must be doing, to judge by the lantern business. If so, thehand that held the lantern may not be unconnected with the hand thatheld the gun. This case, sir, will make a noise. "

"Well, " said the priest patiently, "and what did you do next?"

"I reckon you'll be shocked, " replied Greywood Usher, "as I know youdon't cotton to the march of science in these matters. I am given a gooddeal of discretion here, and perhaps take a little more than I'm given;and I thought it was an excellent opportunity to test that PsychometricMachine I told you about. Now, in my opinion, that machine can't lie. "

"No machine can lie, " said Father Brown; "nor can it tell the truth. "

"It did in this case, as I'll show you, " went on Usher positively. "I sat the man in the ill-fitting clothes in a comfortable chair, andsimply wrote words on a blackboard; and the machine simply recorded thevariations of his pulse; and I simply observed his manner. The trick isto introduce some word connected with the supposed crime in a list ofwords connected with something quite different, yet a list in which itoccurs quite naturally. Thus I wrote 'heron' and 'eagle' and 'owl', andwhen I wrote 'falcon' he was tremendously agitated; and when I began tomake an 'r' at the end of the word, that machine just bounded. Who elsein this republic has any reason to jump at the name of a newly-arrivedEnglishman like Falconroy except the man who's shot him? Isn't thatbetter evidence than a lot of gabble from witnesses--if the evidence ofa reliable machine?"

"You always forget, " observed his companion, "that the reliable machinealways has to be worked by an unreliable machine. "

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the detective. 

"I mean Man, " said Father Brown, "the most unreliable machine I know of. I don't want to be rude; and I don't think you will consider Man to bean offensive or inaccurate description of yourself. You say you observedhis manner; but how do you know you observed it right? You say thewords have to come in a natural way; but how do you know that you did itnaturally? How do you know, if you come to that, that he did not observeyour manner? Who is to prove that you were not tremendously agitated?There was no machine tied on to your pulse. "

"I tell you, " cried the American in the utmost excitement, "I was ascool as a cucumber. "

"Criminals also can be as cool as cucumbers, " said Brown with a smile. "And almost as cool as you. "

"Well, this one wasn't, " said Usher, throwing the papers about. "Oh, youmake me tired!"

"I'm sorry, " said the other. "I only point out what seems a reasonablepossibility. If you could tell by his manner when the word that mighthang him had come, why shouldn't he tell from your manner that the wordthat might hang him was coming? I should ask for more than words myselfbefore I hanged anybody. "

Usher smote the table and rose in a sort of angry triumph. 

"And that, " he cried, "is just what I'm going to give you. I tried themachine first just in order to test the thing in other ways afterwardsand the machine, sir, is right. "

He paused a moment and resumed with less excitement. "I rather wantto insist, if it comes to that, that so far I had very little to go onexcept the scientific experiment. There was really nothing against theman at all. His clothes were ill-fitting, as I've said, but they wererather better, if anything, than those of the submerged class to whichhe evidently belonged. Moreover, under all the stains of his plungingthrough ploughed fields or bursting through dusty hedges, the man wascomparatively clean. This might mean, of course, that he had only justbroken prison; but it reminded me more of the desperate decency ofthe comparatively respectable poor. His demeanour was, I am bound toconfess, quite in accordance with theirs. He was silent and dignified asthey are; he seemed to have a big, but buried, grievance, as they do. He professed total ignorance of the crime and the whole question; andshowed nothing but a sullen impatience for something sensible that mightcome to take him out of his meaningless scrape. He asked me more thanonce if he could telephone for a lawyer who had helped him a long timeago in a trade dispute, and in every sense acted as you would expect aninnocent man to act. There was nothing against him in the world exceptthat little finger on the dial that pointed to the change of his pulse. 

"Then, sir, the machine was on its trial; and the machine was right. By the time I came with him out of the private room into the vestibulewhere all sorts of other people were awaiting examination, I thinkhe had already more or less made up his mind to clear things up bysomething like a confession. He turned to me and began to say in a lowvoice: 'Oh, I can't stick this any more. If you must know all aboutme--'

"At the same instant one of the poor women sitting on the long benchstood up, screaming aloud and pointing at him with her finger. I havenever in my life heard anything more demoniacally distinct. Her leanfinger seemed to pick him out as if it were a pea-shooter. Though theword was a mere howl, every syllable was as clear as a separate strokeon the clock. 

"'Drugger Davis!' she shouted. 'They've got Drugger Davis!'

"Among the wretched women, mostly thieves and streetwalkers, twentyfaces were turned, gaping with glee and hate. If I had never heard thewords, I should have known by the very shock upon his features thatthe so-called Oscar Rian had heard his real name. But I'm not quite soignorant, you may be surprised to hear. Drugger Davis was one of themost terrible and depraved criminals that ever baffled our police. It iscertain he had done murder more than once long before his last exploitwith the warder. But he was never entirely fixed for it, curiouslyenough because he did it in the same manner as those milder--ormeaner--crimes for which he was fixed pretty often. He was a handsome, well-bred-looking brute, as he still is, to some extent; and he usedmostly to go about with barmaids or shop-girls and do them out of theirmoney. Very often, though, he went a good deal farther; and they werefound drugged with cigarettes or chocolates and their whole propertymissing. Then came one case where the girl was found dead; butdeliberation could not quite be proved, and, what was more practicalstill, the criminal could not be found. I heard a rumour of his havingreappeared somewhere in the opposite character this time, lending moneyinstead of borrowing it; but still to such poor widows as he mightpersonally fascinate, but still with the same bad result for them. Well, there is your innocent man, and there is his innocent record. Even, since then, four criminals and three warders have identified him andconfirmed the story. Now what have you got to say to my poor littlemachine after that? Hasn't the machine done for him? Or do you prefer tosay that the woman and I have done for him?"

"As to what you've done for him, " replied Father Brown, rising andshaking himself in a floppy way, "you've saved him from the electricalchair. I don't think they can kill Drugger Davis on that old vague storyof the poison; and as for the convict who killed the warder, I supposeit's obvious that you haven't got him. Mr Davis is innocent of thatcrime, at any rate. "

"What do you mean?" demanded the other. "Why should he be innocent ofthat crime?"

"Why, bless us all!" cried the small man in one of his rare moments ofanimation, "why, because he's guilty of the other crimes! I don't knowwhat you people are made of. You seem to think that all sins are kepttogether in a bag. You talk as if a miser on Monday were always aspendthrift on Tuesday. You tell me this man you have here spent weeksand months wheedling needy women out of small sums of money; that heused a drug at the best, and a poison at the worst; that he turned upafterwards as the lowest kind of moneylender, and cheated most poorpeople in the same patient and pacific style. Let it be granted--let usadmit, for the sake of argument, that he did all this. If that is so, Iwill tell you what he didn't do. He didn't storm a spiked wall against aman with a loaded gun. He didn't write on the wall with his own hand, tosay he had done it. He didn't stop to state that his justification wasself-defence. He didn't explain that he had no quarrel with the poorwarder. He didn't name the house of the rich man to which he was goingwith the gun. He didn't write his own, initials in a man's blood. Saintsalive! Can't you see the whole character is different, in good and evil?Why, you don't seem to be like I am a bit. One would think you'd neverhad any vices of your own. "

The amazed American had already parted his lips in protest when thedoor of his private and official room was hammered and rattled in anunceremonious way to which he was totally unaccustomed. 

The door flew open. The moment before Greywood Usher had been coming tothe conclusion that Father Brown might possibly be mad. The moment afterhe began to think he was mad himself. There burst and fell into hisprivate room a man in the filthiest rags, with a greasy squash hat stillaskew on his head, and a shabby green shade shoved up from one of hiseyes, both of which were glaring like a tiger's. The rest of his facewas almost undiscoverable, being masked with a matted beard and whiskersthrough which the nose could barely thrust itself, and further buried ina squalid red scarf or handkerchief. Mr Usher prided himself on havingseen most of the roughest specimens in the State, but he thought he hadnever seen such a baboon dressed as a scarecrow as this. But, above all, he had never in all his placid scientific existence heard a man likethat speak to him first. 

"See here, old man Usher, " shouted the being in the red handkerchief, "I'm getting tired. Don't you try any of your hide-and-seek on me; Idon't get fooled any. Leave go of my guests, and I'll let up on thefancy clockwork. Keep him here for a split instant and you'll feelpretty mean. I reckon I'm not a man with no pull. "

The eminent Usher was regarding the bellowing monster with an amazementwhich had dried up all other sentiments. The mere shock to his eyes hadrendered his ears, almost useless. At last he rang a bell with a handof violence. While the bell was still strong and pealing, the voice ofFather Brown fell soft but distinct. 

"I have a suggestion to make, " he said, "but it seems a littleconfusing. I don't know this gentleman--but--but I think I knowhim. Now, you know him--you know him quite well--but you don't knowhim--naturally. Sounds paradoxical, I know. "

"I reckon the Cosmos is cracked, " said Usher, and fell asprawl in hisround office chair. 

"Now, see here, " vociferated the stranger, striking the table, butspeaking in a voice that was all the more mysterious because it wascomparatively mild and rational though still resounding. "I won't letyou in. I want--"

"Who in hell are you?" yelled Usher, suddenly sitting up straight. 

"I think the gentleman's name is Todd, " said the priest. 

Then he picked up the pink slip of newspaper. 

"I fear you don't read the Society papers properly, " he said, and beganto read out in a monotonous voice, "'Or locked in the jewelled bosoms ofour city's gayest leaders; but there is talk of a pretty parody of themanners and customs of the other end of Society's scale. ' There's beena big Slum Dinner up at Pilgrim's Pond tonight; and a man, one of theguests, disappeared. Mr Ireton Todd is a good host, and has tracked himhere, without even waiting to take off his fancy-dress. "

"What man do you mean?"

"I mean the man with comically ill-fitting clothes you saw runningacross the ploughed field. Hadn't you better go and investigate him? Hewill be rather impatient to get back to his champagne, from which he ranaway in such a hurry, when the convict with the gun hove in sight. "

"Do you seriously mean--" began the official. 

"Why, look here, Mr Usher, " said Father Brown quietly, "you said themachine couldn't make a mistake; and in one sense it didn't. But theother machine did; the machine that worked it. You assumed that theman in rags jumped at the name of Lord Falconroy, because he was LordFalconroy's murderer. He jumped at the name of Lord Falconroy because heis Lord Falconroy. "

"Then why the blazes didn't he say so?" demanded the staring Usher. 

"He felt his plight and recent panic were hardly patrician, " repliedthe priest, "so he tried to keep the name back at first. But he wasjust going to tell it you, when"--and Father Brown looked down at hisboots--"when a woman found another name for him. "

"But you can't be so mad as to say, " said Greywood Usher, very white, "that Lord Falconroy was Drugger Davis. "

The priest looked at him very earnestly, but with a baffling andundecipherable face. 

"I am not saying anything about it, " he said. "I leave all the rest toyou. Your pink paper says that the title was recently revived for him;but those papers are very unreliable. It says he was in the States inyouth; but the whole story seems very strange. Davis and Falconroy areboth pretty considerable cowards, but so are lots of other men. I wouldnot hang a dog on my own opinion about this. But I think, " he went onsoftly and reflectively, "I think you Americans are too modest. I thinkyou idealize the English aristocracy--even in assuming it to be soaristocratic. You see a good-looking Englishman in evening-dress; youknow he's in the House of Lords; and you fancy he has a father. Youdon't allow for our national buoyancy and uplift. Many of our mostinfluential noblemen have not only risen recently, but--"

"Oh, stop it!" cried Greywood Usher, wringing one lean hand inimpatience against a shade of irony in the other's face. 

"Don't stay talking to this lunatic!" cried Todd brutally. "Take me tomy friend. "

Next morning Father Brown appeared with the same demure expression, carrying yet another piece of pink newspaper. 

"I'm afraid you neglect the fashionable press rather, " he said, "butthis cutting may interest you. "

Usher read the headlines, "Last-Trick's Strayed Revellers: MirthfulIncident near Pilgrim's Pond. " The paragraph went on: "A laughableoccurrence took place outside Wilkinson's Motor Garage last night. A policeman on duty had his attention drawn by larrikins to a manin prison dress who was stepping with considerable coolness into thesteering-seat of a pretty high-toned Panhard; he was accompanied by agirl wrapped in a ragged shawl. On the police interfering, the youngwoman threw back the shawl, and all recognized Millionaire Todd'sdaughter, who had just come from the Slum Freak Dinner at the Pond, where all the choicest guests were in a similar deshabille. She and thegentleman who had donned prison uniform were going for the customaryjoy-ride. "

Under the pink slip Mr Usher found a strip of a later paper, headed, "Astounding Escape of Millionaire's Daughter with Convict. She hadArranged Freak Dinner. Now Safe in--"

Mr Greenwood Usher lifted his eyes, but Father Brown was gone. 

SIX -- The Head of Caesar

THERE is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue oftall houses, rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs. The very steps up to the dark front doors seem as steep as the side ofpyramids; one would hesitate to knock at the door, lest it should beopened by a mummy. But a yet more depressing feature in the grey facadeis its telescopic length and changeless continuity. The pilgrim walkingdown it begins to think he will never come to a break or a corner; butthere is one exception--a very small one, but hailed by the pilgrimalmost with a shout. There is a sort of mews between two of the tallmansions, a mere slit like the crack of a door by comparison withthe street, but just large enough to permit a pigmy ale-house oreating-house, still allowed by the rich to their stable-servants, tostand in the angle. There is something cheery in its very dinginess, and something free and elfin in its very insignificance. At the feet ofthose grey stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs. 

Anyone passing the place during a certain autumn evening, itself almostfairylike, might have seen a hand pull aside the red half-blind which(along with some large white lettering) half hid the interior from thestreet, and a face peer out not unlike a rather innocent goblin's. Itwas, in fact, the face of one with the harmless human name of Brown, formerly priest of Cobhole in Essex, and now working in London. Hisfriend, Flambeau, a semi-official investigator, was sitting oppositehim, making his last notes of a case he had cleared up in theneighbourhood. They were sitting at a small table, close up to thewindow, when the priest pulled the curtain back and looked out. Hewaited till a stranger in the street had passed the window, to let thecurtain fall into its place again. Then his round eyes rolled to thelarge white lettering on the window above his head, and then strayed tothe next table, at which sat only a navvy with beer and cheese, and ayoung girl with red hair and a glass of milk. Then (seeing his friendput away the pocket-book), he said softly:

"If you've got ten minutes, I wish you'd follow that man with the falsenose. "

Flambeau looked up in surprise; but the girl with the red hair alsolooked up, and with something that was stronger than astonishment. Shewas simply and even loosely dressed in light brown sacking stuff;but she was a lady, and even, on a second glance, a rather needlesslyhaughty one. "The man with the false nose!" repeated Flambeau. "Who'she?"

"I haven't a notion, " answered Father Brown. "I want you to find out;I ask it as a favour. He went down there"--and he jerked his thumb overhis shoulder in one of his undistinguished gestures--"and can't havepassed three lamp-posts yet. I only want to know the direction. "

Flambeau gazed at his friend for some time, with an expression betweenperplexity and amusement; and then, rising from the table; squeezed hishuge form out of the little door of the dwarf tavern, and melted intothe twilight. 

Father Brown took a small book out of his pocket and began to readsteadily; he betrayed no consciousness of the fact that the red-hairedlady had left her own table and sat down opposite him. At last sheleaned over and said in a low, strong voice: "Why do you say that? Howdo you know it's false?"

He lifted his rather heavy eyelids, which fluttered in considerableembarrassment. Then his dubious eye roamed again to the white letteringon the glass front of the public-house. The young woman's eyes followedhis, and rested there also, but in pure puzzledom. 

"No, " said Father Brown, answering her thoughts. "It doesn't say 'Sela', like the thing in the Psalms; I read it like that myself when I waswool-gathering just now; it says 'Ales. '"

"Well?" inquired the staring young lady. "What does it matter what itsays?"

His ruminating eye roved to the girl's light canvas sleeve, round thewrist of which ran a very slight thread of artistic pattern, just enoughto distinguish it from a working-dress of a common woman and make itmore like the working-dress of a lady art-student. He seemed to findmuch food for thought in this; but his reply was very slow and hesitant. "You see, madam, " he said, "from outside the place looks--well, it is aperfectly decent place--but ladies like you don't--don't generally thinkso. They never go into such places from choice, except--"

"Well?" she repeated. 

"Except an unfortunate few who don't go in to drink milk. "

"You are a most singular person, " said the young lady. "What is yourobject in all this?"

"Not to trouble you about it, " he replied, very gently. "Only to armmyself with knowledge enough to help you, if ever you freely ask myhelp. "

"But why should I need help?"

He continued his dreamy monologue. "You couldn't have come in to seeprotegees, humble friends, that sort of thing, or you'd have gonethrough into the parlour. .. And you couldn't have come in becauseyou were ill, or you'd have spoken to the woman of the place, who'sobviously respectable. .. Besides, you don't look ill in that way, butonly unhappy. .. . This street is the only original long lane that hasno turning; and the houses on both sides are shut up. .. . I could onlysuppose that you'd seen somebody coming whom you didn't want to meet;and found the public-house was the only shelter in this wildernessof stone. .. . I don't think I went beyond the licence of a strangerin glancing at the only man who passed immediately after. .. . And as Ithought he looked like the wrong sort. .. And you looked like the rightsort. .. . I held myself ready to help if he annoyed you; that is all. As for my friend, he'll be back soon; and he certainly can't find outanything by stumping down a road like this. .. . I didn't think he could. "

"Then why did you send him out?" she cried, leaning forward with yetwarmer curiosity. She had the proud, impetuous face that goes withreddish colouring, and a Roman nose, as it did in Marie Antoinette. 

He looked at her steadily for the first time, and said: "Because I hopedyou would speak to me. "

She looked back at him for some time with a heated face, in which therehung a red shadow of anger; then, despite her anxieties, humour brokeout of her eyes and the corners of her mouth, and she answered almostgrimly: "Well, if you're so keen on my conversation, perhaps you'llanswer my question. " After a pause she added: "I had the honour to askyou why you thought the man's nose was false. "

"The wax always spots like that just a little in this weather, " answeredFather Brown with entire simplicity. 

"But it's such a crooked nose, " remonstrated the red-haired girl. 

The priest smiled in his turn. "I don't say it's the sort of nose onewould wear out of mere foppery, " he admitted. "This man, I think, wearsit because his real nose is so much nicer. "

"But why?" she insisted. 

"What is the nursery-rhyme?" observed Brown absent-mindedly. "There wasa crooked man and he went a crooked mile. .. . That man, I fancy, has gonea very crooked road--by following his nose. "

"Why, what's he done?" she demanded, rather shakily. 

"I don't want to force your confidence by a hair, " said Father Brown, very quietly. "But I think you could tell me more about that than I cantell you. "

The girl sprang to her feet and stood quite quietly, but with clenchedhands, like one about to stride away; then her hands loosened slowly, and she sat down again. "You are more of a mystery than all the others, "she said desperately, "but I feel there might be a heart in yourmystery. "

"What we all dread most, " said the priest in a low voice, "is a mazewith no centre. That is why atheism is only a nightmare. " "I will tellyou everything, " said the red-haired girl doggedly, "except why I amtelling you; and that I don't know. "

She picked at the darned table-cloth and went on: "You look as if youknew what isn't snobbery as well as what is; and when I say that oursis a good old family, you'll understand it is a necessary part of thestory; indeed, my chief danger is in my brother's high-and-dry notions, noblesse oblige and all that. Well, my name is Christabel Carstairs; andmy father was that Colonel Carstairs you've probably heard of, who madethe famous Carstairs Collection of Roman coins. I could never describemy father to you; the nearest I can say is that he was very like a Romancoin himself. He was as handsome and as genuine and as valuable and asmetallic and as out-of-date. He was prouder of his Collection than ofhis coat-of-arms--nobody could say more than that. His extraordinarycharacter came out most in his will. He had two sons and one daughter. He quarrelled with one son, my brother Giles, and sent him to Australiaon a small allowance. He then made a will leaving the CarstairsCollection, actually with a yet smaller allowance, to my brother Arthur. He meant it as a reward, as the highest honour he could offer, inacknowledgement of Arthur's loyalty and rectitude and the distinctionshe had already gained in mathematics and economics at Cambridge. He leftme practically all his pretty large fortune; and I am sure he meant itin contempt. 

"Arthur, you may say, might well complain of this; but Arthur is myfather over again. Though he had some differences with my father inearly youth, no sooner had he taken over the Collection than he becamelike a pagan priest dedicated to a temple. He mixed up these Romanhalfpence with the honour of the Carstairs family in the same stiff, idolatrous way as his father before him. He acted as if Roman moneymust be guarded by all the Roman virtues. He took no pleasures; he spentnothing on himself; he lived for the Collection. Often he would nottrouble to dress for his simple meals; but pattered about among thecorded brown-paper parcels (which no one else was allowed to touch) inan old brown dressing-gown. With its rope and tassel and his pale, thin, refined face, it made him look like an old ascetic monk. Every nowand then, though, he would appear dressed like a decidedly fashionablegentleman; but that was only when he went up to the London sales orshops to make an addition to the Carstairs Collection. 

"Now, if you've known any young people, you won't be shocked if I saythat I got into rather a low frame of mind with all this; the frame ofmind in which one begins to say that the Ancient Romans were all verywell in their way. I'm not like my brother Arthur; I can't help enjoyingenjoyment. I got a lot of romance and rubbish where I got my red hair, from the other side of the family. Poor Giles was the same; and I thinkthe atmosphere of coins might count in excuse for him; though he reallydid wrong and nearly went to prison. But he didn't behave any worse thanI did; as you shall hear. 

"I come now to the silly part of the story. I think a man as clever asyou can guess the sort of thing that would begin to relieve the monotonyfor an unruly girl of seventeen placed in such a position. But I am sorattled with more dreadful things that I can hardly read my own feeling;and don't know whether I despise it now as a flirtation or bear it as abroken heart. We lived then at a little seaside watering-place in SouthWales, and a retired sea-captain living a few doors off had a son aboutfive years older than myself, who had been a friend of Giles before hewent to the Colonies. His name does not affect my tale; but I tell youit was Philip Hawker, because I am telling you everything. We used togo shrimping together, and said and thought we were in love with eachother; at least he certainly said he was, and I certainly thought I was. If I tell you he had bronzed curly hair and a falconish sort of face, bronzed by the sea also, it's not for his sake, I assure you, but forthe story; for it was the cause of a very curious coincidence. 

"One summer afternoon, when I had promised to go shrimping alongthe sands with Philip, I was waiting rather impatiently in the frontdrawing-room, watching Arthur handle some packets of coins he had justpurchased and slowly shunt them, one or two at a time, into his own darkstudy and museum which was at the back of the house. As soon as I heardthe heavy door close on him finally, I made a bolt for my shrimping-netand tam-o'-shanter and was just going to slip out, when I saw that mybrother had left behind him one coin that lay gleaming on the long benchby the window. It was a bronze coin, and the colour, combined with theexact curve of the Roman nose and something in the very lift of thelong, wiry neck, made the head of Caesar on it the almost preciseportrait of Philip Hawker. Then I suddenly remembered Giles tellingPhilip of a coin that was like him, and Philip wishing he had it. Perhaps you can fancy the wild, foolish thoughts with which my head wentround; I felt as if I had had a gift from the fairies. It seemed to methat if I could only run away with this, and give it to Philip like awild sort of wedding-ring, it would be a bond between us for ever; Ifelt a thousand such things at once. Then there yawned under me, likethe pit, the enormous, awful notion of what I was doing; above all, theunbearable thought, which was like touching hot iron, of what Arthurwould think of it. A Carstairs a thief; and a thief of the Carstairstreasure! I believe my brother could see me burned like a witch for sucha thing, But then, the very thought of such fanatical cruelty heightenedmy old hatred of his dingy old antiquarian fussiness and my longing forthe youth and liberty that called to me from the sea. Outside was strongsunlight with a wind; and a yellow head of some broom or gorse in thegarden rapped against the glass of the window. I thought of that livingand growing gold calling to me from all the heaths of the world--andthen of that dead, dull gold and bronze and brass of my brother'sgrowing dustier and dustier as life went by. Nature and the CarstairsCollection had come to grips at last. 

"Nature is older than the Carstairs Collection. As I ran down thestreets to the sea, the coin clenched tight in my fist, I felt all theRoman Empire on my back as well as the Carstairs pedigree. It was notonly the old lion argent that was roaring in my ear, but all the eaglesof the Caesars seemed flapping and screaming in pursuit of me. And yetmy heart rose higher and higher like a child's kite, until I came overthe loose, dry sand-hills and to the flat, wet sands, where Philip stoodalready up to his ankles in the shallow shining water, some hundredyards out to sea. There was a great red sunset; and the long stretch oflow water, hardly rising over the ankle for half a mile, was like a lakeof ruby flame. It was not till I had torn off my shoes and stockings andwaded to where he stood, which was well away from the dry land, that Iturned and looked round. We were quite alone in a circle of sea-waterand wet sand, and I gave him the head of Caesar. 

"At the very instant I had a shock of fancy: that a man far away onthe sand-hills was looking at me intently. I must have felt immediatelyafter that it was a mere leap of unreasonable nerves; for the man wasonly a dark dot in the distance, and I could only just see that he wasstanding quite still and gazing, with his head a little on one side. There was no earthly logical evidence that he was looking at me; hemight have been looking at a ship, or the sunset, or the sea-gulls, or at any of the people who still strayed here and there on the shorebetween us. Nevertheless, whatever my start sprang from was prophetic;for, as I gazed, he started walking briskly in a bee-line towards usacross the wide wet sands. As he drew nearer and nearer I saw thathe was dark and bearded, and that his eyes were marked with darkspectacles. He was dressed poorly but respectably in black, from the oldblack top hat on his head to the solid black boots on his feet. In spiteof these he walked straight into the sea without a flash of hesitation, and came on at me with the steadiness of a travelling bullet. 

"I can't tell you the sense of monstrosity and miracle I had when hethus silently burst the barrier between land and water. It was as if hehad walked straight off a cliff and still marched steadily in mid-air. It was as if a house had flown up into the sky or a man's head hadfallen off. He was only wetting his boots; but he seemed to be a demondisregarding a law of Nature. If he had hesitated an instant at thewater's edge it would have been nothing. As it was, he seemed to look somuch at me alone as not to notice the ocean. Philip was some yards awaywith his back to me, bending over his net. The stranger came on tillhe stood within two yards of me, the water washing half-way up tohis knees. Then he said, with a clearly modulated and rather mincingarticulation: 'Would it discommode you to contribute elsewhere a coinwith a somewhat different superscription?'

"With one exception there was nothing definably abnormal about him. Histinted glasses were not really opaque, but of a blue kind common enough, nor were the eyes behind them shifty, but regarded me steadily. His darkbeard was not really long or wild--, but he looked rather hairy, becausethe beard began very high up in his face, just under the cheek-bones. His complexion was neither sallow nor livid, but on the contrary ratherclear and youthful; yet this gave a pink-and-white wax look whichsomehow (I don't know why) rather increased the horror. The only oddityone could fix was that his nose, which was otherwise of a good shape, was just slightly turned sideways at the tip; as if, when it was soft, it had been tapped on one side with a toy hammer. The thing was hardlya deformity; yet I cannot tell you what a living nightmare it was tome. As he stood there in the sunset-stained water he affected me as somehellish sea-monster just risen roaring out of a sea like blood. I don'tknow why a touch on the nose should affect my imagination so much. Ithink it seemed as if he could move his nose like a finger. And as if hehad just that moment moved it. 

"'Any little assistance, ' he continued with the same queer, priggishaccent, 'that may obviate the necessity of my communicating with thefamily. '

"Then it rushed over me that I was being blackmailed for the theft ofthe bronze piece; and all my merely superstitious fears and doubts wereswallowed up in one overpowering, practical question. How could hehave found out? I had stolen the thing suddenly and on impulse; I wascertainly alone; for I always made sure of being unobserved when Islipped out to see Philip in this way. I had not, to all appearance, been followed in the street; and if I had, they could not 'X-ray' thecoin in my closed hand. The man standing on the sand-hills could no morehave seen what I gave Philip than shoot a fly in one eye, like the manin the fairy-tale. 

"'Philip, ' I cried helplessly, 'ask this man what he wants. '

"When Philip lifted his head at last from mending his net he lookedrather red, as if sulky or ashamed; but it may have been only theexertion of stooping and the red evening light; I may have only hadanother of the morbid fancies that seemed to be dancing about me. Hemerely said gruffly to the man: 'You clear out of this. ' And, motioningme to follow, set off wading shoreward without paying further attentionto him. He stepped on to a stone breakwater that ran out from among theroots of the sand-hills, and so struck homeward, perhaps thinking ourincubus would find it less easy to walk on such rough stones, green andslippery with seaweed, than we, who were young and used to it. But mypersecutor walked as daintily as he talked; and he still followedme, picking his way and picking his phrases. I heard his delicate, detestable voice appealing to me over my shoulder, until at last, whenwe had crested the sand-hills, Philip's patience (which was by no meansso conspicuous on most occasions) seemed to snap. He turned suddenly, saying, 'Go back. I can't talk to you now. ' And as the man hovered andopened his mouth, Philip struck him a buffet on it that sent him flyingfrom the top of the tallest sand-hill to the bottom. I saw him crawlingout below, covered with sand. 

"This stroke comforted me somehow, though it might well increase myperil; but Philip showed none of his usual elation at his own prowess. Though as affectionate as ever, he still seemed cast down; and beforeI could ask him anything fully, he parted with me at his own gate, with two remarks that struck me as strange. He said that, all thingsconsidered, I ought to put the coin back in the Collection; but thathe himself would keep it 'for the present'. And then he added quitesuddenly and irrelevantly: 'You know Giles is back from Australia?'"

The door of the tavern opened and the gigantic shadow of theinvestigator Flambeau fell across the table. Father Brown presented himto the lady in his own slight, persuasive style of speech, mentioninghis knowledge and sympathy in such cases; and almost without knowing, the girl was soon reiterating her story to two listeners. But Flambeau, as he bowed and sat down, handed the priest a small slip of paper. Brownaccepted it with some surprise and read on it: "Cab to Wagga Wagga, 379, Mafeking Avenue, Putney. " The girl was going on with her story. 

"I went up the steep street to my own house with my head in a whirl; ithad not begun to clear when I came to the doorstep, on which I found amilk-can--and the man with the twisted nose. The milk-can told me theservants were all out; for, of course, Arthur, browsing about in hisbrown dressing-gown in a brown study, would not hear or answer a bell. Thus there was no one to help me in the house, except my brother, whosehelp must be my ruin. In desperation I thrust two shillings into thehorrid thing's hand, and told him to call again in a few days, when Ihad thought it out. He went off sulking, but more sheepishly than I hadexpected--perhaps he had been shaken by his fall--and I watched thestar of sand splashed on his back receding down the road with a horridvindictive pleasure. He turned a corner some six houses down. 

"Then I let myself in, made myself some tea, and tried to think it out. I sat at the drawing-room window looking on to the garden, which stillglowed with the last full evening light. But I was too distracted anddreamy to look at the lawns and flower-pots and flower-beds with anyconcentration. So I took the shock the more sharply because I'd seen itso slowly. 

"The man or monster I'd sent away was standing quite still in the middleof the garden. Oh, we've all read a lot about pale-faced phantoms in thedark; but this was more dreadful than anything of that kind could everbe. Because, though he cast a long evening shadow, he still stood inwarm sunlight. And because his face was not pale, but had that waxenbloom still upon it that belongs to a barber's dummy. He stood quitestill, with his face towards me; and I can't tell you how horridhe looked among the tulips and all those tall, gaudy, almosthothouse-looking flowers. It looked as if we'd stuck up a waxworkinstead of a statue in the centre of our garden. 

"Yet almost the instant he saw me move in the window he turned and ranout of the garden by the back gate, which stood open and by which he hadundoubtedly entered. This renewed timidity on his part was so differentfrom the impudence with which he had walked into the sea, that I feltvaguely comforted. I fancied, perhaps, that he feared confronting Arthurmore than I knew. Anyhow, I settled down at last, and had a quietdinner alone (for it was against the rules to disturb Arthur when he wasrearranging the museum), and, my thoughts, a little released, fled toPhilip and lost themselves, I suppose. Anyhow, I was looking blankly, but rather pleasantly than otherwise, at another window, uncurtained, but by this time black as a slate with the final night-fall. It seemedto me that something like a snail was on the outside of the window-pane. But when I stared harder, it was more like a man's thumb pressed on thepane; it had that curled look that a thumb has. With my fear and couragere-awakened together, I rushed at the window and then recoiled with astrangled scream that any man but Arthur must have heard. 

"For it was not a thumb, any more than it was a snail. It was the tipof a crooked nose, crushed against the glass; it looked white withthe pressure; and the staring face and eyes behind it were at firstinvisible and afterwards grey like a ghost. I slammed the shutterstogether somehow, rushed up to my room and locked myself in. But, evenas I passed, I could swear I saw a second black window with something onit that was like a snail. 

"It might be best to go to Arthur after all. If the thing was crawlingclose all around the house like a cat, it might have purposes worse eventhan blackmail. My brother might cast me out and curse me for ever, buthe was a gentleman, and would defend me on the spot. After ten minutes'curious thinking, I went down, knocked on the door and then went in: tosee the last and worst sight. 

"My brother's chair was empty, and he was obviously out. But the manwith the crooked nose was sitting waiting for his return, with his hatstill insolently on his head, and actually reading one of my brother'sbooks under my brother's lamp. His face was composed and occupied, buthis nose-tip still had the air of being the most mobile part of hisface, as if it had just turned from left to right like an elephant'sproboscis. I had thought him poisonous enough while he was pursuing andwatching me; but I think his unconsciousness of my presence was morefrightful still. 

"I think I screamed loud and long; but that doesn't matter. What I didnext does matter: I gave him all the money I had, including a good dealin paper which, though it was mine, I dare say I had no right to touch. He went off at last, with hateful, tactful regrets all in long words;and I sat down, feeling ruined in every sense. And yet I was saved thatvery night by a pure accident. Arthur had gone off suddenly to London, as he so often did, for bargains; and returned, late but radiant, havingnearly secured a treasure that was an added splendour even to thefamily Collection. He was so resplendent that I was almost emboldened toconfess the abstraction of the lesser gem--, but he bore down all othertopics with his over-powering projects. Because the bargain might stillmisfire any moment, he insisted on my packing at once and going upwith him to lodgings he had already taken in Fulham, to be near thecurio-shop in question. Thus in spite of myself, I fled from my foealmost in the dead of night--but from Philip also. .. . My brother wasoften at the South Kensington Museum, and, in order to make some sort ofsecondary life for myself, I paid for a few lessons at the Art Schools. I was coming back from them this evening, when I saw the abomination ofdesolation walking alive down the long straight street and the rest isas this gentleman has said. 

"I've got only one thing to say. I don't deserve to be helped; and Idon't question or complain of my punishment; it is just, it ought tohave happened. But I still question, with bursting brains, how it canhave happened. Am I punished by miracle? or how can anyone but Philipand myself know I gave him a tiny coin in the middle of the sea?"

"It is an extraordinary problem, " admitted Flambeau. 

"Not so extraordinary as the answer, " remarked Father Brown rathergloomily. "Miss Carstairs, will you be at home if we call at your Fulhamplace in an hour and a half hence?"

The girl looked at him, and then rose and put her gloves on. "Yes, " shesaid, "I'll be there"; and almost instantly left the place. 

That night the detective and the priest were still talking of the matteras they drew near the Fulham house, a tenement strangely mean even for atemporary residence of the Carstairs family. 

"Of course the superficial, on reflection, " said Flambeau, "would thinkfirst of this Australian brother who's been in trouble before, who's come back so suddenly and who's just the man to have shabbyconfederates. But I can't see how he can come into the thing by anyprocess of thought, unless. .. "

"Well?" asked his companion patiently. 

Flambeau lowered his voice. "Unless the girl's lover comes in, too, and he would be the blacker villain. The Australian chap did know thatHawker wanted the coin. But I can't see how on earth he could know thatHawker had got it, unless Hawker signalled to him or his representativeacross the shore. "

"That is true, " assented the priest, with respect. 

"Have you noted another thing?" went on Flambeau eagerly, "this Hawkerhears his love insulted, but doesn't strike till he's got to the softsand-hills, where he can be victor in a mere sham-fight. If he'd struckamid rocks and sea, he might have hurt his ally. "

"That is true again, " said Father Brown, nodding. 

"And now, take it from the start. It lies between few people, but atleast three. You want one person for suicide; two people for murder; butat least three people for blackmail"

"Why?" asked the priest softly. 

"Well, obviously, " cried his friend, "there must be one to be exposed;one to threaten exposure; and one at least whom exposure would horrify. "

After a long ruminant pause, the priest said: "You miss a logical step. Three persons are needed as ideas. Only two are needed as agents. "

"What can you mean?" asked the other. 

"Why shouldn't a blackmailer, " asked Brown, in a low voice, "threatenhis victim with himself? Suppose a wife became a rigid teetotaller inorder to frighten her husband into concealing his pub-frequenting, andthen wrote him blackmailing letters in another hand, threatening totell his wife! Why shouldn't it work? Suppose a father forbade a son togamble and then, following him in a good disguise, threatened the boywith his own sham paternal strictness! Suppose--but, here we are, myfriend. "

"My God!" cried Flambeau; "you don't mean--"

An active figure ran down the steps of the house and showed under thegolden lamplight the unmistakable head that resembled the Roman coin. "Miss Carstairs, " said Hawker without ceremony, "wouldn't go in till youcame. "

"Well, " observed Brown confidently, "don't you think it's the bestthing she can do to stop outside--with you to look after her? You see, Irather guess you have guessed it all yourself. "

"Yes, " said the young man, in an undertone, "I guessed on the sands andnow I know; that was why I let him fall soft. "

Taking a latchkey from the girl and the coin from Hawker, Flambeau lethimself and his friend into the empty house and passed into the outerparlour. It was empty of all occupants but one. The man whom FatherBrown had seen pass the tavern was standing against the wall as ifat bay; unchanged, save that he had taken off his black coat and waswearing a brown dressing-gown. 

"We have come, " said Father Brown politely, "to give back this coin toits owner. " And he handed it to the man with the nose. 

Flambeau's eyes rolled. "Is this man a coin-collector?" he asked. 

"This man is Mr Arthur Carstairs, " said the priest positively, "and heis a coin-collector of a somewhat singular kind. "

The man changed colour so horribly that the crooked nose stood out onhis face like a separate and comic thing. He spoke, nevertheless, with asort of despairing dignity. "You shall see, then, " he said, "that I havenot lost all the family qualities. " And he turned suddenly and strodeinto an inner room, slamming the door. 

"Stop him!" shouted Father Brown, bounding and half falling over achair; and, after a wrench or two, Flambeau had the door open. But itwas too late. In dead silence Flambeau strode across and telephoned fordoctor and police. 

An empty medicine bottle lay on the floor. Across the table the bodyof the man in the brown dressing-gown lay amid his burst and gapingbrown-paper parcels; out of which poured and rolled, not Roman, but verymodern English coins. 

The priest held up the bronze head of Caesar. "This, " he said, "was allthat was left of the Carstairs Collection. "

After a silence he went on, with more than common gentleness: "It wasa cruel will his wicked father made, and you see he did resent it alittle. He hated the Roman money he had, and grew fonder of the realmoney denied him. He not only sold the Collection bit by bit, but sankbit by bit to the basest ways of making money--even to blackmailing hisown family in a disguise. He blackmailed his brother from Australia forhis little forgotten crime (that is why he took the cab to Wagga Waggain Putney), he blackmailed his sister for the theft he alone could havenoticed. And that, by the way, is why she had that supernatural guesswhen he was away on the sand-dunes. Mere figure and gait, howeverdistant, are more likely to remind us of somebody than a well-made-upface quite close. "

There was another silence. "Well, " growled the detective, "and so thisgreat numismatist and coin-collector was nothing but a vulgar miser. "

"Is there so great a difference?" asked Father Brown, in the samestrange, indulgent tone. "What is there wrong about a miser that is notoften as wrong about a collector? What is wrong, except. .. Thou shaltnot make to thyself any graven image; thou shalt not bow down to themnor serve them, for I. .. But we must go and see how the poor young peopleare getting on. "

"I think, " said Flambeau, "that in spite of everything, they areprobably getting on very well. "

SEVEN -- The Purple Wig

MR EDWARD NUTT, the industrious editor of the Daily Reformer, sat athis desk, opening letters and marking proofs to the merry tune of atypewriter, worked by a vigorous young lady. 

He was a stoutish, fair man, in his shirt-sleeves; his movements wereresolute, his mouth firm and his tones final; but his round, ratherbabyish blue eyes had a bewildered and even wistful look that rathercontradicted all this. Nor indeed was the expression altogethermisleading. It might truly be said of him, as for many journalists inauthority, that his most familiar emotion was one of continuous fear;fear of libel actions, fear of lost advertisements, fear of misprints, fear of the sack. 

His life was a series of distracted compromises between the proprietorof the paper (and of him), who was a senile soap-boiler with threeineradicable mistakes in his mind, and the very able staff he hadcollected to run the paper; some of whom were brilliant and experiencedmen and (what was even worse) sincere enthusiasts for the politicalpolicy of the paper. 

A letter from one of these lay immediately before him, and rapid andresolute as he was, he seemed almost to hesitate before opening it. Hetook up a strip of proof instead, ran down it with a blue eye, and ablue pencil, altered the word "adultery" to the word "impropriety, "and the word "Jew" to the word "Alien, " rang a bell and sent it flyingupstairs. 

Then, with a more thoughtful eye, he ripped open the letter from hismore distinguished contributor, which bore a postmark of Devonshire, andread as follows:

DEAR NUTT, --As I see you're working Spooks and Dooks at the same time, what about an article on that rum business of the Eyres of Exmoor; oras the old women call it down here, the Devil's Ear of Eyre? The head ofthe family, you know, is the Duke of Exmoor; he is one of the few reallystiff old Tory aristocrats left, a sound old crusted tyrant it is quitein our line to make trouble about. And I think I'm on the track of astory that will make trouble. 

Of course I don't believe in the old legend about James I; and as foryou, you don't believe in anything, not even in journalism. The legend, you'll probably remember, was about the blackest business in Englishhistory--the poisoning of Overbury by that witch's cat Frances Howard, and the quite mysterious terror which forced the King to pardon themurderers. There was a lot of alleged witchcraft mixed up with it; andthe story goes that a man-servant listening at the keyhole heard thetruth in a talk between the King and Carr; and the bodily ear with whichhe heard grew large and monstrous as by magic, so awful was the secret. And though he had to be loaded with lands and gold and made an ancestorof dukes, the elf-shaped ear is still recurrent in the family. Well, youdon't believe in black magic; and if you did, you couldn't use it forcopy. If a miracle happened in your office, you'd have to hush it up, now so many bishops are agnostics. But that is not the point The pointis that there really is something queer about Exmoor and his family;something quite natural, I dare say, but quite abnormal. And the Earis in it somehow, I fancy; either a symbol or a delusion or diseaseor something. Another tradition says that Cavaliers just after James Ibegan to wear their hair long only to cover the ear of the first LordExmoor. This also is no doubt fanciful. 

The reason I point it out to you is this: It seems to me that we makea mistake in attacking aristocracy entirely for its champagne anddiamonds. Most men rather admire the nobs for having a good time, but Ithink we surrender too much when we admit that aristocracy has made eventhe aristocrats happy. I suggest a series of articles pointing out howdreary, how inhuman, how downright diabolist, is the very smell andatmosphere of some of these great houses. There are plenty of instances;but you couldn't begin with a better one than the Ear of the Eyres. Bythe end of the week I think I can get you the truth about it. --Yoursever, FRANCIS FINN. 

Mr Nutt reflected a moment, staring at his left boot; then he called outin a strong, loud and entirely lifeless voice, in which every syllablesounded alike: "Miss Barlow, take down a letter to Mr Finn, please. "

DEAR FINN, --I think it would do; copy should reach us second postSaturday. --Yours, E. NUTT. 

This elaborate epistle he articulated as if it were all one word; andMiss Barlow rattled it down as if it were all one word. Then he tookup another strip of proof and a blue pencil, and altered the word"supernatural" to the word "marvellous", and the expression "shoot down"to the expression "repress". 

In such happy, healthful activities did Mr Nutt disport himself, untilthe ensuing Saturday found him at the same desk, dictating to the sametypist, and using the same blue pencil on the first instalment of MrFinn's revelations. The opening was a sound piece of slashing invectiveabout the evil secrets of princes, and despair in the high places of theearth. Though written violently, it was in excellent English; but theeditor, as usual, had given to somebody else the task of breaking itup into sub-headings, which were of a spicier sort, as "Peeress andPoisons", and "The Eerie Ear", "The Eyres in their Eyrie", and so onthrough a hundred happy changes. Then followed the legend of the Ear, amplified from Finn's first letter, and then the substance of his laterdiscoveries, as follows:

I know it is the practice of journalists to put the end of the storyat the beginning and call it a headline. I know that journalism largelyconsists in saying "Lord Jones Dead" to people who never knew that LordJones was alive. Your present correspondent thinks that this, likemany other journalistic customs, is bad journalism; and that the DailyReformer has to set a better example in such things. He proposes to tellhis story as it occurred, step by step. He will use the real names ofthe parties, who in most cases are ready to confirm his testimony. Asfor the headlines, the sensational proclamations--they will come at theend. 

I was walking along a public path that threads through a privateDevonshire orchard and seems to point towards Devonshire cider, whenI came suddenly upon just such a place as the path suggested. It was along, low inn, consisting really of a cottage and two barns; thatchedall over with the thatch that looks like brown and grey hair grownbefore history. But outside the door was a sign which called it the BlueDragon; and under the sign was one of those long rustic tables that usedto stand outside most of the free English inns, before teetotallersand brewers between them destroyed freedom. And at this table sat threegentlemen, who might have lived a hundred years ago. 

Now that I know them all better, there is no difficulty aboutdisentangling the impressions; but just then they looked like three verysolid ghosts. The dominant figure, both because he was bigger in allthree dimensions, and because he sat centrally in the length of thetable, facing me, was a tall, fat man dressed completely in black, with a rubicund, even apoplectic visage, but a rather bald and ratherbothered brow. Looking at him again, more strictly, I could not exactlysay what it was that gave me the sense of antiquity, except the antiquecut of his white clerical necktie and the barred wrinkles across hisbrow. 

It was even less easy to fix the impression in the case of the man atthe right end of the table, who, to say truth, was as commonplace aperson as could be seen anywhere, with a round, brown-haired head and around snub nose, but also clad in clerical black, of a stricter cut. Itwas only when I saw his broad curved hat lying on the table beside himthat I realized why I connected him with anything ancient. He was aRoman Catholic priest. 

Perhaps the third man, at the other end of the table, had really moreto do with it than the rest, though he was both slighter in physicalpresence and more inconsiderate in his dress. His lank limbs were clad, I might also say clutched, in very tight grey sleeves and pantaloons;he had a long, sallow, aquiline face which seemed somehow all the moresaturnine because his lantern jaws were imprisoned in his collar andneck-cloth more in the style of the old stock; and his hair (which oughtto have been dark brown) was of an odd dim, russet colour which, inconjunction with his yellow face, looked rather purple than red. Theunobtrusive yet unusual colour was all the more notable because his hairwas almost unnaturally healthy and curling, and he wore it full. But, after all analysis, I incline to think that what gave me my firstold-fashioned impression was simply a set of tall, old-fashionedwine-glasses, one or two lemons and two churchwarden pipes. And also, perhaps, the old-world errand on which I had come. 

Being a hardened reporter, and it being apparently a public inn, I didnot need to summon much of my impudence to sit down at the longtable and order some cider. The big man in black seemed very learned, especially about local antiquities; the small man in black, though hetalked much less, surprised me with a yet wider culture. So we got onvery well together; but the third man, the old gentleman in the tightpantaloons, seemed rather distant and haughty, until I slid into thesubject of the Duke of Exmoor and his ancestry. 

I thought the subject seemed to embarrass the other two a little; but itbroke the spell of the third man's silence most successfully. Speakingwith restraint and with the accent of a highly educated gentleman, andpuffing at intervals at his long churchwarden pipe, he proceeded to tellme some of the most horrible stories I have ever heard in my life:how one of the Eyres in the former ages had hanged his own father; andanother had his wife scourged at the cart tail through the village; andanother had set fire to a church full of children, and so on. 

Some of the tales, indeed, are not fit for public print--, such as thestory of the Scarlet Nuns, the abominable story of the Spotted Dog, or the thing that was done in the quarry. And all this red roll ofimpieties came from his thin, genteel lips rather primly than otherwise, as he sat sipping the wine out of his tall, thin glass. 

I could see that the big man opposite me was trying, if anything, to stop him; but he evidently held the old gentleman in considerablerespect, and could not venture to do so at all abruptly. And the littlepriest at the other end of the-table, though free from any such air ofembarrassment, looked steadily at the table, and seemed to listen to therecital with great pain--as well as he might. 

"You don't seem, " I said to the narrator, "to be very fond of the Exmoorpedigree. "

He looked at me a moment, his lips still prim, but whitening andtightening; then he deliberately broke his long pipe and glass on thetable and stood up, the very picture of a perfect gentleman with theframing temper of a fiend. 

"These gentlemen, " he said, "will tell you whether I have cause to likeit. The curse of the Eyres of old has lain heavy on this country, andmany have suffered from it. They know there are none who have sufferedfrom it as I have. " And with that he crushed a piece of the fallenglass under his heel, and strode away among the green twilight of thetwinkling apple-trees. 

"That is an extraordinary old gentleman, " I said to the other two; "doyou happen to know what the Exmoor family has done to him? Who is he?"

The big man in black was staring at me with the wild air of a baffledbull; he did not at first seem to take it in. Then he said at last, "Don't you know who he is?"

I reaffirmed my ignorance, and there was another silence; then thelittle priest said, still looking at the table, "That is the Duke ofExmoor. "

Then, before I could collect my scattered senses, he added equallyquietly, but with an air of regularizing things: "My friend here isDoctor Mull, the Duke's librarian. My name is Brown. "

"But, " I stammered, "if that is the Duke, why does he damn all the olddukes like that?"

"He seems really to believe, " answered the priest called Brown, "thatthey have left a curse on him. " Then he added, with some irrelevance, "That's why he wears a wig. "

It was a few moments before his meaning dawned on me. "You don't meanthat fable about the fantastic ear?" I demanded. "I've heard of it, ofcourse, but surely it must be a superstitious yarn spun out of somethingmuch simpler. I've sometimes thought it was a wild version of one ofthose mutilation stories. They used to crop criminals' ears in thesixteenth century. "

"I hardly think it was that, " answered the little man thoughtfully, "butit is not outside ordinary science or natural law for a family to havesome deformity frequently reappearing--such as one ear bigger than theother. "

The big librarian had buried his big bald brow in his big red hands, like a man trying to think out his duty. "No, " he groaned. "You do theman a wrong after all. Understand, I've no reason to defend him, or evenkeep faith with him. He has been a tyrant to me as to everybody else. Don't fancy because you see him sitting here that he isn't a great lordin the worst sense of the word. He would fetch a man a mile to ring abell a yard off--if it would summon another man three miles to fetcha matchbox three yards off. He must have a footman to carry hiswalking-stick; a body servant to hold up his opera-glasses--"

"But not a valet to brush his clothes, " cut in the priest, with acurious dryness, "for the valet would want to brush his wig, too. "

The librarian turned to him and seemed to forget my presence; he wasstrongly moved and, I think, a little heated with wine. "I don't knowhow you know it, Father Brown, " he said, "but you are right. He lets thewhole world do everything for him--except dress him. And that he insistson doing in a literal solitude like a desert. Anybody is kicked outof the house without a character who is so much as found near hisdressing-room door. 

"He seems a pleasant old party, " I remarked. 

"No, " replied Dr Mull quite simply; "and yet that is just what I mean bysaying you are unjust to him after all. Gentlemen, the Duke does reallyfeel the bitterness about the curse that he uttered just now. He does, with sincere shame and terror, hide under that purple wig something hethinks it would blast the sons of man to see. I know it is so; and Iknow it is not a mere natural disfigurement, like a criminal mutilation, or a hereditary disproportion in the features. I know it is worse thanthat; because a man told me who was present at a scene that no man couldinvent, where a stronger man than any of us tried to defy the secret, and was scared away from it. "

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mull went on in oblivion of me, speakingout of the cavern of his hands. "I don't mind telling you, Father, because it's really more defending the poor Duke than giving him away. Didn't you ever hear of the time when he very nearly lost all theestates?"

The priest shook his head; and the librarian proceeded to tell the taleas he had heard it from his predecessor in the same post, who had beenhis patron and instructor, and whom he seemed to trust implicitly. Upto a certain point it was a common enough tale of the decline of a greatfamily's fortunes--the tale of a family lawyer. His lawyer, however, hadthe sense to cheat honestly, if the expression explains itself. Insteadof using funds he held in trust, he took advantage of the Duke'scarelessness to put the family in a financial hole, in which it might benecessary for the Duke to let him hold them in reality. 

The lawyer's name was Isaac Green, but the Duke always called himElisha; presumably in reference to the fact that he was quite bald, though certainly not more than thirty. He had risen very rapidly, butfrom very dirty beginnings; being first a "nark" or informer, and then amoney-lender: but as solicitor to the Eyres he had the sense, as I say, to keep technically straight until he was ready to deal the final blow. The blow fell at dinner; and the old librarian said he should neverforget the very look of the lampshades and the decanters, as the littlelawyer, with a steady smile, proposed to the great landlord that theyshould halve the estates between them. The sequel certainly could notbe overlooked; for the Duke, in dead silence, smashed a decanter on theman's bald head as suddenly as I had seen him smash the glass that dayin the orchard. It left a red triangular scar on the scalp, and thelawyer's eyes altered, but not his smile. 

He rose tottering to his feet, and struck back as such men do strike. "Iam glad of that, " he said, "for now I can take the whole estate. The lawwill give it to me. "

Exmoor, it seems, was white as ashes, but his eyes still blazed. "Thelaw will give it you, " he said; "but you will not take it. .. . Why not?Why? because it would mean the crack of doom for me, and if you take itI shall take off my wig. .. . Why, you pitiful plucked fowl, anyone cansee your bare head. But no man shall see mine and live. "

Well, you may say what you like and make it mean what you like. But Mullswears it is the solemn fact that the lawyer, after shaking his knottedfists in the air for an instant, simply ran from the room and neverreappeared in the countryside; and since then Exmoor has been fearedmore for a warlock than even for a landlord and a magistrate. 

Now Dr Mull told his story with rather wild theatrical gestures, andwith a passion I think at least partisan. I was quite conscious of thepossibility that the whole was the extravagance of an old braggart andgossip. But before I end this half of my discoveries, I think it due toDr Mull to record that my two first inquiries have confirmed his story. I learned from an old apothecary in the village that there was a baldman in evening dress, giving the name of Green, who came to him onenight to have a three-cornered cut on his forehead plastered. AndI learnt from the legal records and old newspapers that there was alawsuit threatened, and at least begun, by one Green against the Duke ofExmoor. 

Mr Nutt, of the Daily Reformer, wrote some highly incongruous wordsacross the top of the copy, made some highly mysterious marks downthe side of it, and called to Miss Barlow in the same loud, monotonousvoice: "Take down a letter to Mr Finn. "

DEAR FINN, --Your copy will do, but I have had to headline it a bit; andour public would never stand a Romanist priest in the story--youmust keep your eye on the suburbs. I've altered him to Mr Brown, aSpiritualist. 

Yours, E. NUTT. 

A day or two afterward found the active and judicious editor examining, with blue eyes that seemed to grow rounder and rounder, the secondinstalment of Mr Finn's tale of mysteries in high life. It began withthe words:

I have made an astounding discovery. I freely confess it is quitedifferent from anything I expected to discover, and will give a muchmore practical shock to the public. I venture to say, without anyvanity, that the words I now write will be read all over Europe, andcertainly all over America and the Colonies. And yet I heard all I haveto tell before I left this same little wooden table in this same littlewood of apple-trees. 

I owe it all to the small priest Brown; he is an extraordinary man. Thebig librarian had left the table, perhaps ashamed of his long tongue, perhaps anxious about the storm in which his mysterious master hadvanished: anyway, he betook himself heavily in the Duke's tracks throughthe trees. Father Brown had picked up one of the lemons and was eyeingit with an odd pleasure. 

"What a lovely colour a lemon is!" he said. "There's one thing I don'tlike about the Duke's wig--the colour. "

"I don't think I understand, " I answered. 

"I dare say he's got good reason to cover his ears, like King Midas, "went on the priest, with a cheerful simplicity which somehow seemedrather flippant under the circumstances. "I can quite understand thatit's nicer to cover them with hair than with brass plates or leatherflaps. But if he wants to use hair, why doesn't he make it look likehair? There never was hair of that colour in this world. It looks morelike a sunset-cloud coming through the wood. Why doesn't he conceal thefamily curse better, if he's really so ashamed of it? Shall I tell you?It's because he isn't ashamed of it. He's proud of it"

"It's an ugly wig to be proud of--and an ugly story, " I said. 

"Consider, " replied this curious little man, "how you yourself reallyfeel about such things. I don't suggest you're either more snobbish ormore morbid than the rest of us: but don't you feel in a vague way thata genuine old family curse is rather a fine thing to have? Would yoube ashamed, wouldn't you be a little proud, if the heir of the Glamishorror called you his friend? or if Byron's family had confided, toyou only, the evil adventures of their race? Don't be too hard on thearistocrats themselves if their heads are as weak as ours would be, andthey are snobs about their own sorrows. "

"By Jove!" I cried; "and that's true enough. My own mother's family hada banshee; and, now I come to think of it, it has comforted me in many acold hour. "

"And think, " he went on, "of that stream of blood and poison thatspurted from his thin lips the instant you so much as mentioned hisancestors. Why should he show every stranger over such a Chamber ofHorrors unless he is proud of it? He doesn't conceal his wig, he doesn'tconceal his blood, he doesn't conceal his family curse, he doesn'tconceal the family crimes--but--"

The little man's voice changed so suddenly, he shut his hand so sharply, and his eyes so rapidly grew rounder and brighter like a waking owl's, that it had all the abruptness of a small explosion on the table. 

"But, " he ended, "he does really conceal his toilet. "

It somehow completed the thrill of my fanciful nerves that at thatinstant the Duke appeared again silently among the glimmering trees, with his soft foot and sunset-hued hair, coming round the corner ofthe house in company with his librarian. Before he came within earshot, Father Brown had added quite composedly, "Why does he really hide thesecret of what he does with the purple wig? Because it isn't the sort ofsecret we suppose. "

The Duke came round the corner and resumed his seat at the head of thetable with all his native dignity. The embarrassment of the librarianleft him hovering on his hind legs, like a huge bear. The Duke addressedthe priest with great seriousness. "Father Brown, " he said, "DoctorMull informs me that you have come here to make a request. I no longerprofess an observance of the religion of my fathers; but for theirsakes, and for the sake of the days when we met before, I am verywilling to hear you. But I presume you would rather be heard inprivate. "

Whatever I retain of the gentleman made me stand up. Whatever I haveattained of the journalist made me stand still. Before this paralysiscould pass, the priest had made a momentarily detaining motion. "If, "he said, "your Grace will permit me my real petition, or if I retain anyright to advise you, I would urge that as many people as possible shouldbe present. All over this country I have found hundreds, even of my ownfaith and flock, whose imaginations are poisoned by the spell which Iimplore you to break. I wish we could have all Devonshire here to seeyou do it. "

"To see me do what?" asked the Duke, arching his eyebrows. 

"To see you take off your wig, " said Father Brown. 

The Duke's face did not move; but he looked at his petitioner with aglassy stare which was the most awful expression I have ever seen on ahuman face. I could see the librarian's great legs wavering under himlike the shadows of stems in a pool; and I could not banish from my ownbrain the fancy that the trees all around us were filling softly in thesilence with devils instead of birds. 

"I spare you, " said the Duke in a voice of inhuman pity. "I refuse. IfI gave you the faintest hint of the load of horror I have to bear alone, you would lie shrieking at these feet of mine and begging to know nomore. I will spare you the hint. You shall not spell the first letter ofwhat is written on the altar of the Unknown God. "

"I know the Unknown God, " said the little priest, with an unconsciousgrandeur of certitude that stood up like a granite tower. "I know hisname; it is Satan. The true God was made flesh and dwelt among us. AndI say to you, wherever you find men ruled merely by mystery, it is themystery of iniquity. If the devil tells you something is too fearful tolook at, look at it. If he says something is too terrible to hear, hearit. If you think some truth unbearable, bear it. I entreat your Grace toend this nightmare now and here at this table. "

"If I did, " said the Duke in a low voice, "you and all you believe, andall by which alone you live, would be the first to shrivel and perish. You would have an instant to know the great Nothing before you died. "

"The Cross of Christ be between me and harm, " said Father Brown. "Takeoff your wig. "

I was leaning over the table in ungovernable excitement; in listeningto this extraordinary duel half a thought had come into my head. "YourGrace, " I cried, "I call your bluff. Take off that wig or I will knockit off. "

I suppose I can be prosecuted for assault, but I am very glad I did it. When he said, in the same voice of stone, "I refuse, " I simply sprangon him. For three long instants he strained against me as if he had allhell to help him; but I forced his head until the hairy cap fell off it. I admit that, whilst wrestling, I shut my eyes as it fell. 

I was awakened by a cry from Mull, who was also by this time at theDuke's side. His head and mine were both bending over the bald headof the wigless Duke. Then the silence was snapped by the librarianexclaiming: "What can it mean? Why, the man had nothing to hide. Hisears are just like everybody else's. "

"Yes, " said Father Brown, "that is what he had to hide. "

The priest walked straight up to him, but strangely enough did not evenglance at his ears. He stared with an almost comical seriousness at hisbald forehead, and pointed to a three-cornered cicatrice, long healed, but still discernible. "Mr Green, I think. " he said politely, "and hedid get the whole estate after all. "

And now let me tell the readers of the Daily Reformer what I think themost remarkable thing in the whole affair. This transformation scene, which will seem to you as wild and purple as a Persian fairy-tale, hasbeen (except for my technical assault) strictly legal and constitutionalfrom its first beginnings. This man with the odd scar and the ordinaryears is not an impostor. Though (in one sense) he wears another man'swig and claims another man's ear, he has not stolen another man'scoronet. He really is the one and only Duke of Exmoor. What happened wasthis. The old Duke really had a slight malformation of the ear, whichreally was more or less hereditary. He really was morbid about it; andit is likely enough that he did invoke it as a kind of curse in theviolent scene (which undoubtedly happened) in which he struck Green withthe decanter. But the contest ended very differently. Green pressed hisclaim and got the estates; the dispossessed nobleman shot himselfand died without issue. After a decent interval the beautiful EnglishGovernment revived the "extinct" peerage of Exmoor, and bestowed it, as is usual, on the most important person, the person who had got theproperty. 

This man used the old feudal fables--properly, in his snobbish soul, really envied and admired them. So that thousands of poor English peopletrembled before a mysterious chieftain with an ancient destiny anda diadem of evil stars--when they are really trembling before aguttersnipe who was a pettifogger and a pawnbroker not twelve years ago. I think it very typical of the real case against our aristocracy as itis, and as it will be till God sends us braver men. 

Mr Nutt put down the manuscript and called out with unusual sharpness:"Miss Barlow, please take down a letter to Mr Finn. "

DEAR FINN, --You must be mad; we can't touch this. I wanted vampires andthe bad old days and aristocracy hand-in-hand with superstition. Theylike that But you must know the Exmoors would never forgive this. Andwhat would our people say then, I should like to know! Why, Sir Simonis one of Exmoor's greatest pals; and it would ruin that cousin of theEyres that's standing for us at Bradford. Besides, old Soap-Suds wassick enough at not getting his peerage last year; he'd sack me by wireif I lost him it with such lunacy as this. And what about Duffey? He'sdoing us some rattling articles on "The Heel of the Norman. " And howcan he write about Normans if the man's only a solicitor? Do bereasonable. --Yours, E. NUTT. 

As Miss Barlow rattled away cheerfully, he crumpled up the copyand tossed it into the waste-paper basket; but not before he had, automatically and by force of habit, altered the word "God" to the word"circumstances. "

EIGHT -- The Perishing of the Pendragons

FATHER BROWN was in no mood for adventures. He had lately fallen illwith over-work, and when he began to recover, his friend Flambeau hadtaken him on a cruise in a small yacht with Sir Cecil Fanshaw, a youngCornish squire and an enthusiast for Cornish coast scenery. But Brownwas still rather weak; he was no very happy sailor; and though he wasnever of the sort that either grumbles or breaks down, his spirits didnot rise above patience and civility. When the other two men praised theragged violet sunset or the ragged volcanic crags, he agreed with them. When Flambeau pointed out a rock shaped like a dragon, he looked at itand thought it very like a dragon. When Fanshaw more excitedly indicateda rock that was like Merlin, he looked at it, and signified assent. WhenFlambeau asked whether this rocky gate of the twisted river was not thegate of Fairyland, he said "Yes. " He heard the most important things andthe most trivial with the same tasteless absorption. He heard that thecoast was death to all but careful seamen; he also heard that the ship'scat was asleep. He heard that Fanshaw couldn't find his cigar-holderanywhere; he also heard the pilot deliver the oracle "Both eyes bright, she's all right; one eye winks, down she sinks. " He heard Flambeau sayto Fanshaw that no doubt this meant the pilot must keep both eyes openand be spry. And he heard Fanshaw say to Flambeau that, oddly enough, itdidn't mean this: it meant that while they saw two of the coast lights, one near and the other distant, exactly side by side, they were in theright river-channel; but that if one light was hidden behind the other, they were going on the rocks. He heard Fanshaw add that his country wasfull of such quaint fables and idioms; it was the very home of romance;he even pitted this part of Cornwall against Devonshire, as a claimantto the laurels of Elizabethan seamanship. According to him there hadbeen captains among these coves and islets compared with whom Drake waspractically a landsman. He heard Flambeau laugh, and ask if, perhaps, the adventurous title of "Westward Ho!" only meant that all Devonshiremen wished they were living in Cornwall. He heard Fanshaw say there wasno need to be silly; that not only had Cornish captains been heroes, butthat they were heroes still: that near that very spot there was anold admiral, now retired, who was scarred by thrilling voyages fullof adventures; and who had in his youth found the last group of eightPacific Islands that was added to the chart of the world. This CecilFanshaw was, in person, of the kind that commonly urges such crude butpleasing enthusiasms; a very young man, light-haired, high-coloured, with an eager profile; with a boyish bravado of spirits, but an almostgirlish delicacy of tint and type. The big shoulders, black brows andblack mousquetaire swagger of Flambeau were a great contrast. 

All these trivialities Brown heard and saw; but heard them as a tiredman hears a tune in the railway wheels, or saw them as a sick man seesthe pattern of his wall-paper. No one can calculate the turns of mood inconvalescence: but Father Brown's depression must have had a great dealto do with his mere unfamiliarity with the sea. For as the river mouthnarrowed like the neck of a bottle, and the water grew calmer and theair warmer and more earthly, he seemed to wake up and take notice likea baby. They had reached that phase just after sunset when air and waterboth look bright, but earth and all its growing things look almostblack by comparison. About this particular evening, however, there wassomething exceptional. It was one of those rare atmospheres in whicha smoked-glass slide seems to have been slid away from between us andNature; so that even dark colours on that day look more gorgeous thanbright colours on cloudier days. The trampled earth of the river-banksand the peaty stain in the pools did not look drab but glowing umber, and the dark woods astir in the breeze did not look, as usual, dim bluewith mere depth of distance, but more like wind-tumbled masses of somevivid violet blossom. This magic clearness and intensity in the colourswas further forced on Brown's slowly reviving senses by somethingromantic and even secret in the very form of the landscape. 

The river was still well wide and deep enough for a pleasure boat sosmall as theirs; but the curves of the country-side suggested that itwas closing in on either hand; the woods seemed to be making broken andflying attempts at bridge-building--as if the boat were passing fromthe romance of a valley to the romance of a hollow and so to the supremeromance of a tunnel. Beyond this mere look of things there was littlefor Brown's freshening fancy to feed on; he saw no human beings, exceptsome gipsies trailing along the river bank, with faggots and osierscut in the forest; and one sight no longer unconventional, but insuch remote parts still uncommon: a dark-haired lady, bare-headed, andpaddling her own canoe. If Father Brown ever attached any importance toeither of these, he certainly forgot them at the next turn of the riverwhich brought in sight a singular object. 

The water seemed to widen and split, being cloven by the dark wedge ofa fish-shaped and wooded islet. With the rate at which they went, theislet seemed to swim towards them like a ship; a ship with a very highprow--or, to speak more strictly, a very high funnel. For at the extremepoint nearest them stood up an odd-looking building, unlike anythingthey could remember or connect with any purpose. It was not speciallyhigh, but it was too high for its breadth to be called anything but atower. Yet it appeared to be built entirely of wood, and that in a mostunequal and eccentric way. Some of the planks and beams were of good, seasoned oak; some of such wood cut raw and recent; some again of whitepinewood, and a great deal more of the same sort of wood painted blackwith tar. These black beams were set crooked or crisscross at all kindsof angles, giving the whole a most patchy and puzzling appearance. Therewere one or two windows, which appeared to be coloured and leaded in anold-fashioned but more elaborate style. The travellers looked at it withthat paradoxical feeling we have when something reminds us of something, and yet we are certain it is something very different. 

Father Brown, even when he was mystified, was clever in analysing hisown mystification. And he found himself reflecting that the oddityseemed to consist in a particular shape cut out in an incongruousmaterial; as if one saw a top-hat made of tin, or a frock-coat cut outof tartan. He was sure he had seen timbers of different tints arrangedlike that somewhere, but never in such architectural proportions. Thenext moment a glimpse through the dark trees told him all he wanted toknow and he laughed. Through a gap in the foliage there appeared for amoment one of those old wooden houses, faced with black beams, which arestill to be found here and there in England, but which most of us seeimitated in some show called "Old London" or "Shakespeare's England'. It was in view only long enough for the priest to see that, howeverold-fashioned, it was a comfortable and well-kept country-house, withflower-beds in front of it. It had none of the piebald and crazy look ofthe tower that seemed made out of its refuse. 

"What on earth's this?" said Flambeau, who was still staring at thetower. 

Fanshaw's eyes were shining, and he spoke triumphantly. "Aha! you've notseen a place quite like this before, I fancy; that's why I've broughtyou here, my friend. Now you shall see whether I exaggerate about themariners of Cornwall. This place belongs to Old Pendragon, whom we callthe Admiral; though he retired before getting the rank. The spirit ofRaleigh and Hawkins is a memory with the Devon folk; it's a modern factwith the Pendragons. If Queen Elizabeth were to rise from the graveand come up this river in a gilded barge, she would be received bythe Admiral in a house exactly such as she was accustomed to, in everycorner and casement, in every panel on the wall or plate on the table. And she would find an English Captain still talking fiercely of freshlands to be found in little ships, as much as if she had dined withDrake. "

"She'd find a rum sort of thing in the garden, " said Father Brown, "which would not please her Renaissance eye. That Elizabethan domesticarchitecture is charming in its way; but it's against the very nature ofit to break out into turrets. "

"And yet, " answered Fanshaw, "that's the most romantic and Elizabethanpart of the business. It was built by the Pendragons in the very daysof the Spanish wars; and though it's needed patching and even rebuildingfor another reason, it's always been rebuilt in the old way. The storygoes that the lady of Sir Peter Pendragon built it in this place andto this height, because from the top you can just see the corner wherevessels turn into the river mouth; and she wished to be the first to seeher husband's ship, as he sailed home from the Spanish Main. "

"For what other reason, " asked Father Brown, "do you mean that it hasbeen rebuilt?"

"Oh, there's a strange story about that, too, " said the young squirewith relish. "You are really in a land of strange stories. King Arthurwas here and Merlin and the fairies before him. The story goes that SirPeter Pendragon, who (I fear) had some of the faults of the piratesas well as the virtues of the sailor, was bringing home three Spanishgentlemen in honourable captivity, intending to escort them toElizabeth's court. But he was a man of flaming and tigerish temper, andcoming to high words with one of them, he caught him by the throat andflung him by accident or design, into the sea. A second Spaniard, whowas the brother of the first, instantly drew his sword and flew atPendragon, and after a short but furious combat in which both got threewounds in as many minutes, Pendragon drove his blade through the other'sbody and the second Spaniard was accounted for. As it happened the shiphad already turned into the river mouth and was close to comparativelyshallow water. The third Spaniard sprang over the side of the ship, struck out for the shore, and was soon near enough to it to stand up tohis waist in water. And turning again to face the ship, and holdingup both arms to Heaven--like a prophet calling plagues upon a wickedcity--he called out to Pendragon in a piercing and terrible voice, thathe at least was yet living, that he would go on living, that he wouldlive for ever; and that generation after generation the house ofPendragon should never see him or his, but should know by very certainsigns that he and his vengeance were alive. With that he dived under thewave, and was either drowned or swam so long under water that no hair ofhis head was seen afterwards. "

"There's that girl in the canoe again, " said Flambeau irrelevantly, for good-looking young women would call him off any topic. "She seemsbothered by the queer tower just as we were. "

Indeed, the black-haired young lady was letting her canoe float slowlyand silently past the strange islet; and was looking intently up at thestrange tower, with a strong glow of curiosity on her oval and oliveface. 

"Never mind girls, " said Fanshaw impatiently, "there are plenty of themin the world, but not many things like the Pendragon Tower. As you mayeasily suppose, plenty of superstitions and scandals have followed inthe track of the Spaniard's curse; and no doubt, as you would put it, any accident happening to this Cornish family would be connected withit by rural credulity. But it is perfectly true that this tower has beenburnt down two or three times; and the family can't be called lucky, for more than two, I think, of the Admiral's near kin have perished byshipwreck; and one at least, to my own knowledge, on practically thesame spot where Sir Peter threw the Spaniard overboard. "

"What a pity!" exclaimed Flambeau. "She's going. "

"When did your friend the Admiral tell you this family history?" askedFather Brown, as the girl in the canoe paddled off, without showing theleast intention of extending her interest from the tower to the yacht, which Fanshaw had already caused to lie alongside the island. 

"Many years ago, " replied Fanshaw; "he hasn't been to sea for some timenow, though he is as keen on it as ever. I believe there's a familycompact or something. Well, here's the landing stage; let's come ashoreand see the old boy. "

They followed him on to the island, just under the tower, and FatherBrown, whether from the mere touch of dry land, or the interest ofsomething on the other bank of the river (which he stared at very hardfor some seconds), seemed singularly improved in briskness. They entereda wooded avenue between two fences of thin greyish wood, such as oftenenclose parks or gardens, and over the top of which the dark treestossed to and fro like black and purple plumes upon the hearse of agiant. The tower, as they left it behind, looked all the quainter, because such entrances are usually flanked by two towers; and this onelooked lopsided. But for this, the avenue had the usual appearance ofthe entrance to a gentleman's grounds; and, being so curved that thehouse was now out of sight, somehow looked a much larger park than anyplantation on such an island could really be. Father Brown was, perhaps, a little fanciful in his fatigue, but he almost thought the whole placemust be growing larger, as things do in a nightmare. Anyhow, a mysticalmonotony was the only character of their march, until Fanshaw suddenlystopped, and pointed to something sticking out through the greyfence--something that looked at first rather like the imprisoned hornof some beast. Closer observation showed that it was a slightly curvedblade of metal that shone faintly in the fading light. 

Flambeau, who like all Frenchmen had been a soldier, bent over it andsaid in a startled voice: "Why, it's a sabre! I believe I know the sort, heavy and curved, but shorter than the cavalry; they used to have themin artillery and the--"

As he spoke the blade plucked itself out of the crack it had made andcame down again with a more ponderous slash, splitting the fissiparousfence to the bottom with a rending noise. Then it was pulled out again, flashed above the fence some feet further along, and again split ithalfway down with the first stroke; and after waggling a little toextricate itself (accompanied with curses in the darkness) split it downto the ground with a second. Then a kick of devilish energy sent thewhole loosened square of thin wood flying into the pathway, and a greatgap of dark coppice gaped in the paling. 

Fanshaw peered into the dark opening and uttered an exclamation ofastonishment. "My dear Admiral!" he exclaimed, "do you--er--do yougenerally cut out a new front door whenever you want to go for a walk?"

The voice in the gloom swore again, and then broke into a jolly laugh. "No, " it said; "I've really got to cut down this fence somehow; it'sspoiling all the plants, and no one else here can do it. But I'll onlycarve another bit off the front door, and then come out and welcomeyou. "

And sure enough, he heaved up his weapon once more, and, hacking twice, brought down another and similar strip of fence, making the openingabout fourteen feet wide in all. Then through this larger forest gatewayhe came out into the evening light, with a chip of grey wood sticking tohis sword-blade. 

He momentarily fulfilled all Fanshaw's fable of an old piraticalAdmiral; though the details seemed afterwards to decompose intoaccidents. For instance, he wore a broad-brimmed hat as protectionagainst the sun; but the front flap of it was turned up straight to thesky, and the two corners pulled down lower than the ears, so that itstood across his forehead in a crescent like the old cocked hat worn byNelson. He wore an ordinary dark-blue jacket, with nothing special aboutthe buttons, but the combination of it with white linen trousers somehowhad a sailorish look. He was tall and loose, and walked with a sort ofswagger, which was not a sailor's roll, and yet somehow suggested it;and he held in his hand a short sabre which was like a navy cutlass, butabout twice as big. Under the bridge of the hat his eagle face lookedeager, all the more because it was not only clean-shaven, but withouteyebrows. It seemed almost as if all the hair had come off his face fromhis thrusting it through a throng of elements. His eyes were prominentand piercing. His colour was curiously attractive, while partlytropical; it reminded one vaguely of a blood-orange. That is, that whileit was ruddy and sanguine, there was a yellow in it that was in noway sickly, but seemed rather to glow like gold apples of theHesperides--Father Brown thought he had never seen a figure soexpressive of all the romances about the countries of the Sun. 

When Fanshaw had presented his two friends to their host he fell againinto a tone of rallying the latter about his wreckage of the fence andhis apparent rage of profanity. The Admiral pooh-poohed it at first asa piece of necessary but annoying garden work; but at length the ring ofreal energy came back into his laughter, and he cried with a mixture ofimpatience and good humour:

"Well, perhaps I do go at it a bit rabidly, and feel a kind of pleasurein smashing anything. So would you if your only pleasure was in cruisingabout to find some new Cannibal Islands, and you had to stick on thismuddy little rockery in a sort of rustic pond. When I remember how I'vecut down a mile and a half of green poisonous jungle with an old cutlasshalf as sharp as this; and then remember I must stop here and chop thismatchwood, because of some confounded old bargain scribbled in a familyBible, why, I--"

He swung up the heavy steel again; and this time sundered the wall ofwood from top to bottom at one stroke. 

"I feel like that, " he said laughing, but furiously flinging the swordsome yards down the path, "and now let's go up to the house; you musthave some dinner. "

The semicircle of lawn in front of the house was varied by threecircular garden beds, one of red tulips, a second of yellow tulips, andthe third of some white, waxen-looking blossoms that the visitorsdid not know and presumed to be exotic. A heavy, hairy and rathersullen-looking gardener was hanging up a heavy coil of garden hose. Thecorners of the expiring sunset which seemed to cling about the cornersof the house gave glimpses here and there of the colours of remoterflowerbeds; and in a treeless space on one side of the house openingupon the river stood a tall brass tripod on which was tilted a big brasstelescope. Just outside the steps of the porch stood a little paintedgreen garden table, as if someone had just had tea there. The entrancewas flanked with two of those half-featured lumps of stone with holesfor eyes that are said to be South Sea idols; and on the brown oak beamacross the doorway were some confused carvings that looked almost asbarbaric. 

As they passed indoors, the little cleric hopped suddenly on to thetable, and standing on it peered unaffectedly through his spectacles atthe mouldings in the oak. Admiral Pendragon looked very much astonished, though not particularly annoyed; while Fanshaw was so amused with whatlooked like a performing pigmy on his little stand, that he could notcontrol his laughter. But Father Brown was not likely to notice eitherthe laughter or the astonishment. 

He was gazing at three carved symbols, which, though very worn andobscure, seemed still to convey some sense to him. The first seemed tobe the outline of some tower or other building, crowned with what lookedlike curly-pointed ribbons. The second was clearer: an old Elizabethangalley with decorative waves beneath it, but interrupted in the middleby a curious jagged rock, which was either a fault in the wood orsome conventional representation of the water coming in. The thirdrepresented the upper half of a human figure, ending in an escallopedline like the waves; the face was rubbed and featureless, and both armswere held very stiffly up in the air. 

"Well, " muttered Father Brown, blinking, "here is the legend of theSpaniard plain enough. Here he is holding up his arms and cursing in thesea; and here are the two curses: the wrecked ship and the burning ofPendragon Tower. "

Pendragon shook his head with a kind of venerable amusement. "And howmany other things might it not be?" he said. "Don't you know that thatsort of half-man, like a half-lion or half-stag, is quite commonin heraldry? Might not that line through the ship be one of thoseparti-per-pale lines, indented, I think they call it? And though thethird thing isn't so very heraldic, it would be more heraldic to supposeit a tower crowned with laurel than with fire; and it looks just as likeit. "

"But it seems rather odd, " said Flambeau, "that it should exactlyconfirm the old legend. "

"Ah, " replied the sceptical traveller, "but you don't know how much ofthe old legend may have been made up from the old figures. Besides, itisn't the only old legend. Fanshaw, here, who is fond of such things, will tell you there are other versions of the tale, and much morehorrible ones. One story credits my unfortunate ancestor with havinghad the Spaniard cut in two; and that will fit the pretty picture also. Another obligingly credits our family with the possession of a towerfull of snakes and explains those little, wriggly things in thatway. And a third theory supposes the crooked line on the ship to be aconventionalized thunderbolt; but that alone, if seriously examined, would show what a very little way these unhappy coincidences really go. "

"Why, how do you mean?" asked Fanshaw. 

"It so happens, " replied his host coolly, "that there was no thunderand lightning at all in the two or three shipwrecks I know of in ourfamily. "

"Oh!" said Father Brown, and jumped down from the little table. 

There was another silence in which they heard the continuous murmur ofthe river; then Fanshaw said, in a doubtful and perhaps disappointedtone: "Then you don't think there is anything in the tales of the towerin flames?"

"There are the tales, of course, " said the Admiral, shrugging hisshoulders; "and some of them, I don't deny, on evidence as decent asone ever gets for such things. Someone saw a blaze hereabout, don't youknow, as he walked home through a wood; someone keeping sheep on theuplands inland thought he saw a flame hovering over Pendragon Tower. Well, a damp dab of mud like this confounded island seems the last placewhere one would think of fires. "

"What is that fire over there?" asked Father Brown with a gentlesuddenness, pointing to the woods on the left river-bank. They were allthrown a little off their balance, and the more fanciful Fanshaw hadeven some difficulty in recovering his, as they saw a long, thin streamof blue smoke ascending silently into the end of the evening light. 

Then Pendragon broke into a scornful laugh again. "Gipsies!" he said;"they've been camping about here for about a week. Gentlemen, you wantyour dinner, " and he turned as if to enter the house. 

But the antiquarian superstition in Fanshaw was still quivering, and hesaid hastily: "But, Admiral, what's that hissing noise quite near theisland? It's very like fire. "

"It's more like what it is, " said the Admiral, laughing as he led theway; "it's only some canoe going by. "

Almost as he spoke, the butler, a lean man in black, with very blackhair and a very long, yellow face, appeared in the doorway and told himthat dinner was served. 

The dining-room was as nautical as the cabin of a ship; but its notewas rather that of the modern than the Elizabethan captain. There were, indeed, three antiquated cutlasses in a trophy over the fireplace, andone brown sixteenth-century map with Tritons and little ships dottedabout a curly sea. But such things were less prominent on the whitepanelling than some cases of quaint-coloured South American birds, veryscientifically stuffed, fantastic shells from the Pacific, and severalinstruments so rude and queer in shape that savages might have usedthem either to kill their enemies or to cook them. But the alien colourculminated in the fact that, besides the butler, the Admiral's onlyservants were two negroes, somewhat quaintly clad in tight uniforms ofyellow. The priest's instinctive trick of analysing his own impressionstold him that the colour and the little neat coat-tails of these bipedshad suggested the word "Canary, " and so by a mere pun connected themwith southward travel. Towards the end of the dinner they took theiryellow clothes and black faces out of the room, leaving only the blackclothes and yellow face of the butler. 

"I'm rather sorry you take this so lightly, " said Fanshaw to the host;"for the truth is, I've brought these friends of mine with the idea oftheir helping you, as they know a good deal of these things. Don't youreally believe in the family story at all?"

"I don't believe in anything, " answered Pendragon very briskly, with abright eye cocked at a red tropical bird. "I'm a man of science. "

Rather to Flambeau's surprise, his clerical friend, who seemed to haveentirely woken up, took up the digression and talked natural historywith his host with a flow of words and much unexpected information, until the dessert and decanters were set down and the last of theservants vanished. Then he said, without altering his tone. 

"Please don't think me impertinent, Admiral Pendragon. I don't ask forcuriosity, but really for my guidance and your convenience. Have I madea bad shot if I guess you don't want these old things talked of beforeyour butler?"

The Admiral lifted the hairless arches over his eyes and exclaimed:"Well, I don't know where you got it, but the truth is I can't stand thefellow, though I've no excuse for discharging a family servant. Fanshaw, with his fairy tales, would say my blood moved against men with thatblack, Spanish-looking hair. "

Flambeau struck the table with his heavy fist. "By Jove!" he cried; "andso had that girl!"

"I hope it'll all end tonight, " continued the Admiral, "when mynephew comes back safe from his ship. You looked surprised. You won'tunderstand, I suppose, unless I tell you the story. You see, my fatherhad two sons; I remained a bachelor, but my elder brother married, andhad a son who became a sailor like all the rest of us, and will inheritthe proper estate. Well, my father was a strange man; he somehowcombined Fanshaw's superstition with a good deal of my scepticism--theywere always fighting in him; and after my first voyages, he developed anotion which he thought somehow would settle finally whether the cursewas truth or trash. If all the Pendragons sailed about anyhow, hethought there would be too much chance of natural catastrophes toprove anything. But if we went to sea one at a time in strict orderof succession to the property, he thought it might show whether anyconnected fate followed the family as a family. It was a silly notion, I think, and I quarrelled with my father pretty heartily; for I was anambitious man and was left to the last, coming, by succession, after myown nephew. "

"And your father and brother, " said the priest, very gently, "died atsea, I fear. "

"Yes, " groaned the Admiral; "by one of those brutal accidents onwhich are built all the lying mythologies of mankind, they were bothshipwrecked. My father, coming up this coast out of the Atlantic, waswashed up on these Cornish rocks. My brother's ship was sunk, no oneknows where, on the voyage home from Tasmania. His body was never found. I tell you it was from perfectly natural mishap; lots of other peoplebesides Pendragons were drowned; and both disasters are discussed ina normal way by navigators. But, of course, it set this forest ofsuperstition on fire; and men saw the flaming tower everywhere. That'swhy I say it will be all right when Walter returns. The girl he'sengaged to was coming today; but I was so afraid of some chance delayfrightening her that I wired her not to come till she heard from me. Buthe's practically sure to be here some time tonight, and then it'll allend in smoke--tobacco smoke. We'll crack that old lie when we crack abottle of this wine. "

"Very good wine, " said Father Brown, gravely lifting his glass, "but, asyou see, a very bad wine-bibber. I most sincerely beg your pardon": forhe had spilt a small spot of wine on the table-cloth. He drank and putdown the glass with a composed face; but his hand had started at theexact moment when he became conscious of a face looking in through thegarden window just behind the Admiral--the face of a woman, swarthy, with southern hair and eyes, and young, but like a mask of tragedy. 

After a pause the priest spoke again in his mild manner. "Admiral, " hesaid, "will you do me a favour? Let me, and my friends if they like, stop in that tower of yours just for tonight? Do you know that in mybusiness you're an exorcist almost before anything else?"

Pendragon sprang to his feet and paced swiftly to and fro across thewindow, from which the face had instantly vanished. "I tell you there isnothing in it, " he cried, with ringing violence. "There is one thing Iknow about this matter. You may call me an atheist. I am an atheist. "Here he swung round and fixed Father Brown with a face of frightfulconcentration. "This business is perfectly natural. There is no curse init at all. "

Father Brown smiled. "In that case, " he said, "there can't be anyobjection to my sleeping in your delightful summer-house. "

"The idea is utterly ridiculous, " replied the Admiral, beating a tattooon the back of his chair. 

"Please forgive me for everything, " said Brown in his most sympathetictone, "including spilling the wine. But it seems to me you are not quiteso easy about the flaming tower as you try to be. "

Admiral Pendragon sat down again as abruptly as he had risen; but he satquite still, and when he spoke again it was in a lower voice. "You doit at your own peril, " he said; "but wouldn't you be an atheist to keepsane in all this devilry?"

Some three hours afterwards Fanshaw, Flambeau and the priest were stilldawdling about the garden in the dark; and it began to dawn on the othertwo that Father Brown had no intention of going to bed either in thetower or the house. 

"I think the lawn wants weeding, " said he dreamily. "If I could find aspud or something I'd do it myself. "

They followed him, laughing and half remonstrating; but he replied withthe utmost solemnity, explaining to them, in a maddening little sermon, that one can always find some small occupation that is helpful toothers. He did not find a spud; but he found an old broom made of twigs, with which he began energetically to brush the fallen leaves off thegrass. 

"Always some little thing to be done, " he said with idioticcheerfulness; "as George Herbert says: 'Who sweeps an Admiral's gardenin Cornwall as for Thy laws makes that and the action fine. ' And now, "he added, suddenly slinging the broom away, "Let's go and water theflowers. "

With the same mixed emotions they watched him uncoil some considerablelengths of the large garden hose, saying with an air of wistfuldiscrimination: "The red tulips before the yellow, I think. Look a bitdry, don't you think?"

He turned the little tap on the instrument, and the water shot outstraight and solid as a long rod of steel. 

"Look out, Samson, " cried Flambeau; "why, you've cut off the tulip'shead. "

Father Brown stood ruefully contemplating the decapitated plant. 

"Mine does seem to be a rather kill or cure sort of watering, " headmitted, scratching his head. "I suppose it's a pity I didn't find thespud. You should have seen me with the spud! Talking of tools, you'vegot that swordstick, Flambeau, you always carry? That's right; and SirCecil could have that sword the Admiral threw away by the fence here. How grey everything looks!"

"The mist's rising from the river, " said the staring Flambeau. 

Almost as he spoke the huge figure of the hairy gardener appeared ona higher ridge of the trenched and terraced lawn, hailing them with abrandished rake and a horribly bellowing voice. "Put down that hose, " heshouted; "put down that hose and go to your--"

"I am fearfully clumsy, " replied the reverend gentleman weakly; "doyou know, I upset some wine at dinner. " He made a wavering half-turn ofapology towards the gardener, with the hose still spouting in his hand. The gardener caught the cold crash of the water full in his face likethe crash of a cannon-ball; staggered, slipped and went sprawling withhis boots in the air. 

"How very dreadful!" said Father Brown, looking round in a sort ofwonder. "Why, I've hit a man!"

He stood with his head forward for a moment as if looking or listening;and then set off at a trot towards the tower, still trailing the hosebehind him. The tower was quite close, but its outline was curiouslydim. 

"Your river mist, " he said, "has a rum smell. "

"By the Lord it has, " cried Fanshaw, who was very white. "But you can'tmean--"

"I mean, " said Father Brown, "that one of the Admiral's scientificpredictions is coming true tonight. This story is going to end insmoke. "

As he spoke a most beautiful rose-red light seemed to burst into blossomlike a gigantic rose; but accompanied with a crackling and rattlingnoise that was like the laughter of devils. 

"My God! what is this?" cried Sir Cecil Fanshaw. 

"The sign of the flaming tower, " said Father Brown, and sent the drivingwater from his hose into the heart of the red patch. 

"Lucky we hadn't gone to bed!" ejaculated Fanshaw. "I suppose it can'tspread to the house. "

"You may remember, " said the priest quietly, "that the wooden fence thatmight have carried it was cut away. "

Flambeau turned electrified eyes upon his friend, but Fanshaw only saidrather absently: "Well, nobody can be killed, anyhow. "

"This is rather a curious kind of tower, " observed Father Brown, "whenit takes to killing people, it always kills people who are somewhereelse. "

At the same instant the monstrous figure of the gardener with thestreaming beard stood again on the green ridge against the sky, wavingothers to come on; but now waving not a rake but a cutlass. Behind himcame the two negroes, also with the old crooked cutlasses out of thetrophy. But in the blood-red glare, with their black faces and yellowfigures, they looked like devils carrying instruments of torture. Inthe dim garden behind them a distant voice was heard calling out briefdirections. When the priest heard the voice, a terrible change came overhis countenance. 

But he remained composed; and never took his eye off the patch of flamewhich had begun by spreading, but now seemed to shrink a little as ithissed under the torch of the long silver spear of water. He kept hisfinger along the nozzle of the pipe to ensure the aim, and attended tono other business, knowing only by the noise and that semi-consciouscorner of the eye, the exciting incidents that began to tumblethemselves about the island garden. He gave two brief directions to hisfriends. One was: "Knock these fellows down somehow and tie them up, whoever they are; there's rope down by those faggots. They want to takeaway my nice hose. " The other was: "As soon as you get a chance, callout to that canoeing girl; she's over on the bank with the gipsies. Askher if they could get some buckets across and fill them from the river. "Then he closed his mouth and continued to water the new red flower asruthlessly as he had watered the red tulip. 

He never turned his head to look at the strange fight that followedbetween the foes and friends of the mysterious fire. He almost felt theisland shake when Flambeau collided with the huge gardener; he merelyimagined how it would whirl round them as they wrestled. He heard thecrashing fall; and his friend's gasp of triumph as he dashed on to thefirst negro; and the cries of both the blacks as Flambeau and Fanshawbound them. Flambeau's enormous strength more than redressed the oddsin the fight, especially as the fourth man still hovered near the house, only a shadow and a voice. He heard also the water broken by the paddlesof a canoe; the girl's voice giving orders, the voices of gipsiesanswering and coming nearer, the plumping and sucking noise of emptybuckets plunged into a full stream; and finally the sound of many feetaround the fire. But all this was less to him than the fact that thered rent, which had lately once more increased, had once more slightlydiminished. 

Then came a cry that very nearly made him turn his head. Flambeau andFanshaw, now reinforced by some of the gipsies, had rushed after themysterious man by the house; and he heard from the other end of thegarden the Frenchman's cry of horror and astonishment. It was echoed bya howl not to be called human, as the being broke from their hold andran along the garden. Three times at least it raced round the wholeisland, in a way that was as horrible as the chase of a lunatic, both inthe cries of the pursued and the ropes carried by the pursuers; but wasmore horrible still, because it somehow suggested one of the chasinggames of children in a garden. Then, finding them closing in onevery side, the figure sprang upon one of the higher river banks anddisappeared with a splash into the dark and driving river. 

"You can do no more, I fear, " said Brown in a voice cold with pain. "He has been washed down to the rocks by now, where he has sent so manyothers. He knew the use of a family legend. "

"Oh, don't talk in these parables, " cried Flambeau impatiently. "Can'tyou put it simply in words of one syllable?"

"Yes, " answered Brown, with his eye on the hose. "'Both eyes bright, she's all right; one eye blinks, down she sinks. '"

The fire hissed and shrieked more and more, like a strangled thing, asit grew narrower and narrower under the flood from the pipe and buckets, but Father Brown still kept his eye on it as he went on speaking:

"I thought of asking this young lady, if it were morning yet, to lookthrough that telescope at the river mouth and the river. She mighthave seen something to interest her: the sign of the ship, or Mr WalterPendragon coming home, and perhaps even the sign of the half-man, forthough he is certainly safe by now, he may very well have waded ashore. He has been within a shave of another shipwreck; and would neverhave escaped it, if the lady hadn't had the sense to suspect the oldAdmiral's telegram and come down to watch him. Don't let's talk aboutthe old Admiral. Don't let's talk about anything. It's enough to saythat whenever this tower, with its pitch and resin-wood, really caughtfire, the spark on the horizon always looked like the twin light to thecoast light-house. "

"And that, " said Flambeau, "is how the father and brother died. Thewicked uncle of the legends very nearly got his estate after all. "

Father Brown did not answer; indeed, he did not speak again, save forcivilities, till they were all safe round a cigar-box in the cabin ofthe yacht. He saw that the frustrated fire was extinguished; and thenrefused to linger, though he actually heard young Pendragon, escorted byan enthusiastic crowd, come tramping up the river bank; and might (hadhe been moved by romantic curiosities) have received the combined thanksof the man from the ship and the girl from the canoe. But his fatiguehad fallen on him once more, and he only started once, when Flambeauabruptly told him he had dropped cigar-ash on his trousers. 

"That's no cigar-ash, " he said rather wearily. "That's from the fire, but you don't think so because you're all smoking cigars. That's justthe way I got my first faint suspicion about the chart. "

"Do you mean Pendragon's chart of his Pacific Islands?" asked Fanshaw. 

"You thought it was a chart of the Pacific Islands, " answered Brown. "Put a feather with a fossil and a bit of coral and everyone will thinkit's a specimen. Put the same feather with a ribbon and an artificialflower and everyone will think it's for a lady's hat. Put the samefeather with an ink-bottle, a book and a stack of writing-paper, andmost men will swear they've seen a quill pen. So you saw that map amongtropic birds and shells and thought it was a map of Pacific Islands. Itwas the map of this river. "

"But how do you know?" asked Fanshaw. 

"I saw the rock you thought was like a dragon, and the one like Merlin, and--"

"You seem to have noticed a lot as we came in, " cried Fanshaw. "Wethought you were rather abstracted. "

"I was sea-sick, " said Father Brown simply. "I felt simply horrible. But feeling horrible has nothing to do with not seeing things. " And heclosed his eyes. 

"Do you think most men would have seen that?" asked Flambeau. Hereceived no answer: Father Brown was asleep. 

NINE -- The God of the Gongs

IT was one of those chilly and empty afternoons in early winter, whenthe daylight is silver rather than gold and pewter rather than silver. If it was dreary in a hundred bleak offices and yawning drawing-rooms, it was drearier still along the edges of the flat Essex coast, where themonotony was the more inhuman for being broken at very long intervalsby a lamp-post that looked less civilized than a tree, or a tree thatlooked more ugly than a lamp-post. A light fall of snow had half-meltedinto a few strips, also looking leaden rather than silver, when it hadbeen fixed again by the seal of frost; no fresh snow had fallen, but aribbon of the old snow ran along the very margin of the coast, so as toparallel the pale ribbon of the foam. 

The line of the sea looked frozen in the very vividness of itsviolet-blue, like the vein of a frozen finger. For miles and miles, forward and back, there was no breathing soul, save two pedestrians, walking at a brisk pace, though one had much longer legs and took muchlonger strides than the other. 

It did not seem a very appropriate place or time for a holiday, butFather Brown had few holidays, and had to take them when he could, andhe always preferred, if possible, to take them in company with his oldfriend Flambeau, ex-criminal and ex-detective. The priest had hada fancy for visiting his old parish at Cobhole, and was goingnorth-eastward along the coast. 

After walking a mile or two farther, they found that the shore wasbeginning to be formally embanked, so as to form something like aparade; the ugly lamp-posts became less few and far between and moreornamental, though quite equally ugly. Half a mile farther on FatherBrown was puzzled first by little labyrinths of flowerless flower-pots, covered with the low, flat, quiet-coloured plants that look less likea garden than a tessellated pavement, between weak curly paths studdedwith seats with curly backs. He faintly sniffed the atmosphere of acertain sort of seaside town that he did not specially care about, and, looking ahead along the parade by the sea, he saw something that putthe matter beyond a doubt. In the grey distance the big bandstand of awatering-place stood up like a giant mushroom with six legs. 

"I suppose, " said Father Brown, turning up his coat-collar and drawinga woollen scarf rather closer round his neck, "that we are approaching apleasure resort. "

"I fear, " answered Flambeau, "a pleasure resort to which few people justnow have the pleasure of resorting. They try to revive these places inthe winter, but it never succeeds except with Brighton and the old ones. This must be Seawood, I think--Lord Pooley's experiment; he had theSicilian Singers down at Christmas, and there's talk about holding oneof the great glove-fights here. But they'll have to chuck the rottenplace into the sea; it's as dreary as a lost railway-carriage. "

They had come under the big bandstand, and the priest was looking up atit with a curiosity that had something rather odd about it, his heada little on one side, like a bird's. It was the conventional, rathertawdry kind of erection for its purpose: a flattened dome or canopy, gilt here and there, and lifted on six slender pillars of painted wood, the whole being raised about five feet above the parade on a roundwooden platform like a drum. But there was something fantastic aboutthe snow combined with something artificial about the gold that hauntedFlambeau as well as his friend with some association he could notcapture, but which he knew was at once artistic and alien. 

"I've got it, " he said at last. "It's Japanese. It's like those fancifulJapanese prints, where the snow on the mountain looks like sugar, andthe gilt on the pagodas is like gilt on gingerbread. It looks just likea little pagan temple. "

"Yes, " said Father Brown. "Let's have a look at the god. " And with anagility hardly to be expected of him, he hopped up on to the raisedplatform. 

"Oh, very well, " said Flambeau, laughing; and the next instant his owntowering figure was visible on that quaint elevation. 

Slight as was the difference of height, it gave in those level wastes asense of seeing yet farther and farther across land and sea. Inland thelittle wintry gardens faded into a confused grey copse; beyond that, inthe distance, were long low barns of a lonely farmhouse, and beyond thatnothing but the long East Anglian plains. Seawards there was no sailor sign of life save a few seagulls: and even they looked like the lastsnowflakes, and seemed to float rather than fly. 

Flambeau turned abruptly at an exclamation behind him. It seemed to comefrom lower down than might have been expected, and to be addressed tohis heels rather than his head. He instantly held out his hand, but hecould hardly help laughing at what he saw. For some reason or other theplatform had given way under Father Brown, and the unfortunate littleman had dropped through to the level of the parade. He was just tallenough, or short enough, for his head alone to stick out of the hole inthe broken wood, looking like St John the Baptist's head on a charger. The face wore a disconcerted expression, as did, perhaps, that of StJohn the Baptist. 

In a moment he began to laugh a little. "This wood must be rotten, " saidFlambeau. "Though it seems odd it should bear me, and you go through theweak place. Let me help you out. "

But the little priest was looking rather curiously at the corners andedges of the wood alleged to be rotten, and there was a sort of troubleon his brow. 

"Come along, " cried Flambeau impatiently, still with his big brown handextended. "Don't you want to get out?"

The priest was holding a splinter of the broken wood between his fingerand thumb, and did not immediately reply. At last he said thoughtfully:"Want to get out? Why, no. I rather think I want to get in. " And hedived into the darkness under the wooden floor so abruptly as to knockoff his big curved clerical hat and leave it lying on the boards above, without any clerical head in it. 

Flambeau looked once more inland and out to sea, and once more could seenothing but seas as wintry as the snow, and snows as level as the sea. 

There came a scurrying noise behind him, and the little priest camescrambling out of the hole faster than he had fallen in. His face was nolonger disconcerted, but rather resolute, and, perhaps only through thereflections of the snow, a trifle paler than usual. 

"Well?" asked his tall friend. "Have you found the god of the temple?"

"No, " answered Father Brown. "I have found what was sometimes moreimportant. The Sacrifice. "

"What the devil do you mean?" cried Flambeau, quite alarmed. 

Father Brown did not answer. He was staring, with a knot in hisforehead, at the landscape; and he suddenly pointed at it. "What's thathouse over there?" he asked. 

Following his finger, Flambeau saw for the first time the corners of abuilding nearer than the farmhouse, but screened for the most part witha fringe of trees. It was not a large building, and stood well back fromthe shore--, but a glint of ornament on it suggested that it was partof the same watering-place scheme of decoration as the bandstand, thelittle gardens and the curly-backed iron seats. 

Father Brown jumped off the bandstand, his friend following; and as theywalked in the direction indicated the trees fell away to right andleft, and they saw a small, rather flashy hotel, such as is common inresorts--the hotel of the Saloon Bar rather than the Bar Parlour. Almostthe whole frontage was of gilt plaster and figured glass, and betweenthat grey seascape and the grey, witch-like trees, its gimcrack qualityhad something spectral in its melancholy. They both felt vaguely thatif any food or drink were offered at such a hostelry, it would be thepaste-board ham and empty mug of the pantomime. 

In this, however, they were not altogether confirmed. As they drewnearer and nearer to the place they saw in front of the buffet, whichwas apparently closed, one of the iron garden-seats with curly backsthat had adorned the gardens, but much longer, running almost the wholelength of the frontage. Presumably, it was placed so that visitors mightsit there and look at the sea, but one hardly expected to find anyonedoing it in such weather. 

Nevertheless, just in front of the extreme end of the iron seat stooda small round restaurant table, and on this stood a small bottle ofChablis and a plate of almonds and raisins. Behind the table and on theseat sat a dark-haired young man, bareheaded, and gazing at the sea in astate of almost astonishing immobility. 

But though he might have been a waxwork when they were within four yardsof him, he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box when they came within three, and said in a deferential, though not undignified, manner: "Will youstep inside, gentlemen? I have no staff at present, but I can get youanything simple myself. "

"Much obliged, " said Flambeau. "So you are the proprietor?"

"Yes, " said the dark man, dropping back a little into his motionlessmanner. "My waiters are all Italians, you see, and I thought it onlyfair they should see their countryman beat the black, if he really cando it. You know the great fight between Malvoli and Nigger Ned is comingoff after all?"

"I'm afraid we can't wait to trouble your hospitality seriously, " saidFather Brown. "But my friend would be glad of a glass of sherry, I'msure, to keep out the cold and drink success to the Latin champion. "

Flambeau did not understand the sherry, but he did not object to it inthe least. He could only say amiably: "Oh, thank you very much. "

"Sherry, sir--certainly, " said their host, turning to his hostel. "Excuse me if I detain you a few minutes. As I told you, I have nostaff--" And he went towards the black windows of his shuttered andunlighted inn. 

"Oh, it doesn't really matter, " began Flambeau, but the man turned toreassure him. 

"I have the keys, " he said. "I could find my way in the dark. "

"I didn't mean--" began Father Brown. 

He was interrupted by a bellowing human voice that came out of thebowels of the uninhabited hotel. It thundered some foreign name loudlybut inaudibly, and the hotel proprietor moved more sharply towards itthan he had done for Flambeau's sherry. As instant evidence proved, theproprietor had told, then and after, nothing but the literal truth. Butboth Flambeau and Father Brown have often confessed that, in all their(often outrageous) adventures, nothing had so chilled their blood asthat voice of an ogre, sounding suddenly out of a silent and empty inn. 

"My cook!" cried the proprietor hastily. "I had forgotten my cook. Hewill be starting presently. Sherry, sir?"

And, sure enough, there appeared in the doorway a big white bulk withwhite cap and white apron, as befits a cook, but with the needlessemphasis of a black face. Flambeau had often heard that negroes madegood cooks. But somehow something in the contrast of colour and casteincreased his surprise that the hotel proprietor should answer thecall of the cook, and not the cook the call of the proprietor. But hereflected that head cooks are proverbially arrogant; and, besides, thehost had come back with the sherry, and that was the great thing. 

"I rather wonder, " said Father Brown, "that there are so few peopleabout the beach, when this big fight is coming on after all. We only metone man for miles. "

The hotel proprietor shrugged his shoulders. "They come from the otherend of the town, you see--from the station, three miles from here. Theyare only interested in the sport, and will stop in hotels for the nightonly. After all, it is hardly weather for basking on the shore. "

"Or on the seat, " said Flambeau, and pointed to the little table. 

"I have to keep a look-out, " said the man with the motionless face. Hewas a quiet, well-featured fellow, rather sallow; his dark clothes hadnothing distinctive about them, except that his black necktie was wornrather high, like a stock, and secured by a gold pin with some grotesquehead to it. Nor was there anything notable in the face, except somethingthat was probably a mere nervous trick--a habit of opening one eyemore narrowly than the other, giving the impression that the other waslarger, or was, perhaps, artificial. 

The silence that ensued was broken by their host saying quietly:"Whereabouts did you meet the one man on your march?"

"Curiously enough, " answered the priest, "close by here--just by thatbandstand. "

Flambeau, who had sat on the long iron seat to finish his sherry, put itdown and rose to his feet, staring at his friend in amazement. He openedhis mouth to speak, and then shut it again. 

"Curious, " said the dark-haired man thoughtfully. "What was he like?"

"It was rather dark when I saw him, " began Father Brown, "but he was--"

As has been said, the hotel-keeper can be proved to have told theprecise truth. His phrase that the cook was starting presently wasfulfilled to the letter, for the cook came out, pulling his gloves on, even as they spoke. 

But he was a very different figure from the confused mass of white andblack that had appeared for an instant in the doorway. He was buttonedand buckled up to his bursting eyeballs in the most brilliant fashion. A tall black hat was tilted on his broad black head--a hat of the sortthat the French wit has compared to eight mirrors. But somehow the blackman was like the black hat. He also was black, and yet his glossy skinflung back the light at eight angles or more. It is needless to saythat he wore white spats and a white slip inside his waistcoat. The redflower stood up in his buttonhole aggressively, as if it had suddenlygrown there. And in the way he carried his cane in one hand and hiscigar in the other there was a certain attitude--an attitude we mustalways remember when we talk of racial prejudices: something innocentand insolent--the cake walk. 

"Sometimes, " said Flambeau, looking after him, "I'm not surprised thatthey lynch them. "

"I am never surprised, " said Father Brown, "at any work of hell. But asI was saying, " he resumed, as the negro, still ostentatiously pulling onhis yellow gloves, betook himself briskly towards the watering-place, a queer music-hall figure against that grey and frosty scene--"as I wassaying, I couldn't describe the man very minutely, but he had a flourishand old-fashioned whiskers and moustachios, dark or dyed, as in thepictures of foreign financiers, round his neck was wrapped a long purplescarf that thrashed out in the wind as he walked. It was fixed at thethroat rather in the way that nurses fix children's comforters with asafety-pin. Only this, " added the priest, gazing placidly out to sea, "was not a safety-pin. "

The man sitting on the long iron bench was also gazing placidly out tosea. Now he was once more in repose. Flambeau felt quite certain thatone of his eyes was naturally larger than the other. Both were now wellopened, and he could almost fancy the left eye grew larger as he gazed. 

"It was a very long gold pin, and had the carved head of a monkey orsome such thing, " continued the cleric; "and it was fixed in a ratherodd way--he wore pince-nez and a broad black--"

The motionless man continued to gaze at the sea, and the eyes in hishead might have belonged to two different men. Then he made a movementof blinding swiftness. 

Father Brown had his back to him, and in that flash might have fallendead on his face. Flambeau had no weapon, but his large brown hands wereresting on the end of the long iron seat. His shoulders abruptly alteredtheir shape, and he heaved the whole huge thing high over his head, likea headsman's axe about to fall. The mere height of the thing, as he heldit vertical, looked like a long iron ladder by which he was inviting mento climb towards the stars. But the long shadow, in the level eveninglight, looked like a giant brandishing the Eiffel Tower. It was theshock of that shadow, before the shock of the iron crash, that made thestranger quail and dodge, and then dart into his inn, leaving the flatand shining dagger he had dropped exactly where it had fallen. 

"We must get away from here instantly, " cried Flambeau, flinging thehuge seat away with furious indifference on the beach. He caught thelittle priest by the elbow and ran him down a grey perspective of barrenback garden, at the end of which there was a closed back garden door. Flambeau bent over it an instant in violent silence, and then said: "Thedoor is locked. "

As he spoke a black feather from one of the ornamental firs fell, brushing the brim of his hat. It startled him more than the small anddistant detonation that had come just before. Then came another distantdetonation, and the door he was trying to open shook under the bulletburied in it. Flambeau's shoulders again filled out and alteredsuddenly. Three hinges and a lock burst at the same instant, and he wentout into the empty path behind, carrying the great garden door with him, as Samson carried the gates of Gaza. 

Then he flung the garden door over the garden wall, just as a third shotpicked up a spurt of snow and dust behind his heel. Without ceremony hesnatched up the little priest, slung him astraddle on his shoulders, andwent racing towards Seawood as fast as his long legs could carry him. It was not until nearly two miles farther on that he set his smallcompanion down. It had hardly been a dignified escape, in spite of theclassic model of Anchises, but Father Brown's face only wore a broadgrin. 

"Well, " said Flambeau, after an impatient silence, as they resumed theirmore conventional tramp through the streets on the edge of the town, where no outrage need be feared, "I don't know what all this means, butI take it I may trust my own eyes that you never met the man you have soaccurately described. "

"I did meet him in a way, " Brown said, biting his finger rathernervously--"I did really. And it was too dark to see him properly, because it was under that bandstand affair. But I'm afraid I didn'tdescribe him so very accurately after all, for his pince-nez was brokenunder him, and the long gold pin wasn't stuck through his purple scarfbut through his heart. "

"And I suppose, " said the other in a lower voice, "that glass-eyed guyhad something to do with it. "

"I had hoped he had only a little, " answered Brown in a rather troubledvoice, "and I may have been wrong in what I did. I acted on impulse. ButI fear this business has deep roots and dark. "

They walked on through some streets in silence. The yellow lamps werebeginning to be lit in the cold blue twilight, and they were evidentlyapproaching the more central parts of the town. Highly coloured billsannouncing the glove-fight between Nigger Ned and Malvoli were slappedabout the walls. 

"Well, " said Flambeau, "I never murdered anyone, even in my criminaldays, but I can almost sympathize with anyone doing it in such adreary place. Of all God-forsaken dustbins of Nature, I think the mostheart-breaking are places like that bandstand, that were meant to befestive and are forlorn. I can fancy a morbid man feeling he must killhis rival in the solitude and irony of such a scene. I remember oncetaking a tramp in your glorious Surrey hills, thinking of nothing butgorse and skylarks, when I came out on a vast circle of land, and overme lifted a vast, voiceless structure, tier above tier of seats, as hugeas a Roman amphitheatre and as empty as a new letter-rack. A bird sailedin heaven over it. It was the Grand Stand at Epsom. And I felt that noone would ever be happy there again. "

"It's odd you should mention Epsom, " said the priest. "Do you rememberwhat was called the Sutton Mystery, because two suspected men--ice-creammen, I think--happened to live at Sutton? They were eventually released. A man was found strangled, it was said, on the Downs round that part. Asa fact, I know (from an Irish policeman who is a friend of mine) that hewas found close up to the Epsom Grand Stand--in fact, only hidden by oneof the lower doors being pushed back. "

"That is queer, " assented Flambeau. "But it rather confirms my viewthat such pleasure places look awfully lonely out of season, or the manwouldn't have been murdered there. "

"I'm not so sure he--" began Brown, and stopped. 

"Not so sure he was murdered?" queried his companion. 

"Not so sure he was murdered out of the season, " answered the littlepriest, with simplicity. "Don't you think there's something rathertricky about this solitude, Flambeau? Do you feel sure a wise murdererwould always want the spot to be lonely? It's very, very seldom a man isquite alone. And, short of that, the more alone he is, the more certainhe is to be seen. No; I think there must be some other--Why, here we areat the Pavilion or Palace, or whatever they call it. "

They had emerged on a small square, brilliantly lighted, of which theprincipal building was gay with gilding, gaudy with posters, and flankedwith two giant photographs of Malvoli and Nigger Ned. 

"Hallo!" cried Flambeau in great surprise, as his clerical friendstumped straight up the broad steps. "I didn't know pugilism was yourlatest hobby. Are you going to see the fight?"

"I don't think there will be any fight, " replied Father Brown. 

They passed rapidly through ante-rooms and inner rooms; they passedthrough the hall of combat itself, raised, roped, and padded withinnumerable seats and boxes, and still the cleric did not look roundor pause till he came to a clerk at a desk outside a door marked"Committee". There he stopped and asked to see Lord Pooley. 

The attendant observed that his lordship was very busy, as the fightwas coming on soon, but Father Brown had a good-tempered tedium ofreiteration for which the official mind is generally not prepared. In afew moments the rather baffled Flambeau found himself in the presence ofa man who was still shouting directions to another man going out of theroom. "Be careful, you know, about the ropes after the fourth--Well, andwhat do you want, I wonder!"

Lord Pooley was a gentleman, and, like most of the few remaining to ourrace, was worried--especially about money. He was half grey and halfflaxen, and he had the eyes of fever and a high-bridged, frost-bittennose. 

"Only a word, " said Father Brown. "I have come to prevent a man beingkilled. "

Lord Pooley bounded off his chair as if a spring had flung him from it. "I'm damned if I'll stand any more of this!" he cried. "You and yourcommittees and parsons and petitions! Weren't there parsons in the olddays, when they fought without gloves? Now they're fighting with theregulation gloves, and there's not the rag of a possibility of either ofthe boxers being killed. "

"I didn't mean either of the boxers, " said the little priest. 

"Well, well, well!" said the nobleman, with a touch of frosty humour. "Who's going to be killed? The referee?"

"I don't know who's going to be killed, " replied Father Brown, with areflective stare. "If I did I shouldn't have to spoil your pleasure. Icould simply get him to escape. I never could see anything wrong aboutprize-fights. As it is, I must ask you to announce that the fight is offfor the present. "

"Anything else?" jeered the gentleman with feverish eyes. "And what doyou say to the two thousand people who have come to see it?"

"I say there will be one thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine of themleft alive when they have seen it, " said Father Brown. 

Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau. "Is your friend mad?" he asked. 

"Far from it, " was the reply. 

"And look here, " resumed Pooley in his restless way, "it's worse thanthat. A whole pack of Italians have turned up to back Malvoli--swarthy, savage fellows of some country, anyhow. You know what theseMediterranean races are like. If I send out word that it's off we shallhave Malvoli storming in here at the head of a whole Corsican clan. "

"My lord, it is a matter of life and death, " said the priest. "Ring yourbell. Give your message. And see whether it is Malvoli who answers. "

The nobleman struck the bell on the table with an odd air of newcuriosity. He said to the clerk who appeared almost instantly in thedoorway: "I have a serious announcement to make to the audience shortly. Meanwhile, would you kindly tell the two champions that the fight willhave to be put off. "

The clerk stared for some seconds as if at a demon and vanished. 

"What authority have you for what you say?" asked Lord Pooley abruptly. "Whom did you consult?"

"I consulted a bandstand, " said Father Brown, scratching his head. "But, no, I'm wrong; I consulted a book, too. I picked it up on a bookstall inLondon--very cheap, too. "

He had taken out of his pocket a small, stout, leather-bound volume, andFlambeau, looking over his shoulder, could see that it was some book ofold travels, and had a leaf turned down for reference. 

"'The only form in which Voodoo--'" began Father Brown, reading aloud. 

"In which what?" inquired his lordship. 

"'In which Voodoo, '" repeated the reader, almost with relish, "'iswidely organized outside Jamaica itself is in the form known as theMonkey, or the God of the Gongs, which is powerful in many parts of thetwo American continents, especially among half-breeds, many of whomlook exactly like white men. It differs from most other forms ofdevil-worship and human sacrifice in the fact that the blood is not shedformally on the altar, but by a sort of assassination among the crowd. The gongs beat with a deafening din as the doors of the shrine open andthe monkey-god is revealed; almost the whole congregation rivet ecstaticeyes on him. But after--'"

The door of the room was flung open, and the fashionable negro stoodframed in it, his eyeballs rolling, his silk hat still insolently tiltedon his head. "Huh!" he cried, showing his apish teeth. "What this? Huh!Huh! You steal a coloured gentleman's prize--prize his already--yo'think yo' jes' save that white 'Talian trash--"

"The matter is only deferred, " said the nobleman quietly. "I will bewith you to explain in a minute or two. "

"Who you to--" shouted Nigger Ned, beginning to storm. 

"My name is Pooley, " replied the other, with a creditable coolness. "I am the organizing secretary, and I advise you just now to leave theroom. "

"Who this fellow?" demanded the dark champion, pointing to the priestdisdainfully. 

"My name is Brown, " was the reply. "And I advise you just now to leavethe country. "

The prize-fighter stood glaring for a few seconds, and then, rather tothe surprise of Flambeau and the others, strode out, sending the door towith a crash behind him. 

"Well, " asked Father Brown rubbing his dusty hair up, "what do you thinkof Leonardo da Vinci? A beautiful Italian head. "

"Look here, " said Lord Pooley, "I've taken a considerableresponsibility, on your bare word. I think you ought to tell me moreabout this. "

"You are quite right, my lord, " answered Brown. "And it won't take longto tell. " He put the little leather book in his overcoat pocket. "Ithink we know all that this can tell us, but you shall look at it to seeif I'm right. That negro who has just swaggered out is one of the mostdangerous men on earth, for he has the brains of a European, with theinstincts of a cannibal. He has turned what was clean, common-sensebutchery among his fellow-barbarians into a very modern and scientificsecret society of assassins. He doesn't know I know it, nor, for thematter of that, that I can't prove it. "

There was a silence, and the little man went on. 

"But if I want to murder somebody, will it really be the best plan tomake sure I'm alone with him?"

Lord Pooley's eyes recovered their frosty twinkle as he looked at thelittle clergyman. He only said: "If you want to murder somebody, Ishould advise it. "

Father Brown shook his head, like a murderer of much riper experience. "So Flambeau said, " he replied, with a sigh. "But consider. The more aman feels lonely the less he can be sure he is alone. It must mean emptyspaces round him, and they are just what make him obvious. Have younever seen one ploughman from the heights, or one shepherd from thevalleys? Have you never walked along a cliff, and seen one man walkingalong the sands? Didn't you know when he's killed a crab, and wouldn'tyou have known if it had been a creditor? No! No! No! For an intelligentmurderer, such as you or I might be, it is an impossible plan to makesure that nobody is looking at you. "

"But what other plan is there?"

"There is only one, " said the priest. "To make sure that everybody islooking at something else. A man is throttled close by the big stand atEpsom. Anybody might have seen it done while the stand stood empty--anytramp under the hedges or motorist among the hills. But nobody wouldhave seen it when the stand was crowded and the whole ring roaring, when the favourite was coming in first--or wasn't. The twisting of aneck-cloth, the thrusting of a body behind a door could be done in aninstant--so long as it was that instant. It was the same, of course, "he continued turning to Flambeau, "with that poor fellow under thebandstand. He was dropped through the hole (it wasn't an accidentalhole) just at some very dramatic moment of the entertainment, when thebow of some great violinist or the voice of some great singer openedor came to its climax. And here, of course, when the knock-out blowcame--it would not be the only one. That is the little trick Nigger Nedhas adopted from his old God of Gongs. "

"By the way, Malvoli--" Pooley began. 

"Malvoli, " said the priest, "has nothing to do with it. I dare say hehas some Italians with him, but our amiable friends are not Italians. They are octoroons and African half-bloods of various shades, but I fearwe English think all foreigners are much the same so long as they aredark and dirty. Also, " he added, with a smile, "I fear the Englishdecline to draw any fine distinction between the moral characterproduced by my religion and that which blooms out of Voodoo. "

The blaze of the spring season had burst upon Seawood, littering itsforeshore with famines and bathing-machines, with nomadic preachers andnigger minstrels, before the two friends saw it again, and long beforethe storm of pursuit after the strange secret society had died away. Almost on every hand the secret of their purpose perished with them. The man of the hotel was found drifting dead on the sea like so muchseaweed; his right eye was closed in peace, but his left eye waswide open, and glistened like glass in the moon. Nigger Ned had beenovertaken a mile or two away, and murdered three policemen with hisclosed left hand. The remaining officer was surprised--nay, pained--andthe negro got away. But this was enough to set all the English papers ina flame, and for a month or two the main purpose of the British Empirewas to prevent the buck nigger (who was so in both senses) escaping byany English port. Persons of a figure remotely reconcilable with hiswere subjected to quite extraordinary inquisitions, made to scrub theirfaces before going on board ship, as if each white complexion were madeup like a mask, of greasepaint. Every negro in England was put underspecial regulations and made to report himself; the outgoing ships wouldno more have taken a nigger than a basilisk. For people had found outhow fearful and vast and silent was the force of the savage secretsociety, and by the time Flambeau and Father Brown were leaning on theparade parapet in April, the Black Man meant in England almost what heonce meant in Scotland. 

"He must be still in England, " observed Flambeau, "and horridly wellhidden, too. They must have found him at the ports if he had onlywhitened his face. "

"You see, he is really a clever man, " said Father Brown apologetically. "And I'm sure he wouldn't whiten his face. "

"Well, but what would he do?"

"I think, " said Father Brown, "he would blacken his face. "

Flambeau, leaning motionless on the parapet, laughed and said: "My dearfellow!"

Father Brown, also leaning motionless on the parapet, moved one fingerfor an instant into the direction of the soot-masked niggers singing onthe sands. 

TEN -- The Salad of Colonel Cray

FATHER BROWN was walking home from Mass on a white weird morning whenthe mists were slowly lifting--one of those mornings when the veryelement of light appears as something mysterious and new. The scatteredtrees outlined themselves more and more out of the vapour, as if theywere first drawn in grey chalk and then in charcoal. At yet more distantintervals appeared the houses upon the broken fringe of the suburb;their outlines became clearer and clearer until he recognized many inwhich he had chance acquaintances, and many more the names of whoseowners he knew. But all the windows and doors were sealed; none of thepeople were of the sort that would be up at such a time, or still lesson such an errand. But as he passed under the shadow of one handsomevilla with verandas and wide ornate gardens, he heard a noise that madehim almost involuntarily stop. It was the unmistakable noise of a pistolor carbine or some light firearm discharged; but it was not this thatpuzzled him most. The first full noise was immediately followed by aseries of fainter noises--as he counted them, about six. He supposedit must be the echo; but the odd thing was that the echo was not in theleast like the original sound. It was not like anything else that hecould think of; the three things nearest to it seemed to be the noisemade by siphons of soda-water, one of the many noises made by an animal, and the noise made by a person attempting to conceal laughter. None ofwhich seemed to make much sense. 

Father Brown was made of two men. There was a man of action, who wasas modest as a primrose and as punctual as a clock; who went his smallround of duties and never dreamed of altering it. There was also a manof reflection, who was much simpler but much stronger, who could noteasily be stopped; whose thought was always (in the only intelligentsense of the words) free thought. He could not help, even unconsciously, asking himself all the questions that there were to be asked, andanswering as many of them as he could; all that went on like hisbreathing or circulation. But he never consciously carried his actionsoutside the sphere of his own duty; and in this case the two attitudeswere aptly tested. He was just about to resume his trudge in thetwilight, telling himself it was no affair of his, but instinctivelytwisting and untwisting twenty theories about what the odd noisesmight mean. Then the grey sky-line brightened into silver, and inthe broadening light he realized that he had been to the house whichbelonged to an Anglo-Indian Major named Putnam; and that the Major hada native cook from Malta who was of his communion. He also began toremember that pistol-shots are sometimes serious things; accompaniedwith consequences with which he was legitimately concerned. He turnedback and went in at the garden gate, making for the front door. 

Half-way down one side of the house stood out a projection like a verylow shed; it was, as he afterwards discovered, a large dustbin. Roundthe corner of this came a figure, at first a mere shadow in the haze, apparently bending and peering about. Then, coming nearer, it solidifiedinto a figure that was, indeed, rather unusually solid. Major Putnam wasa bald-headed, bull-necked man, short and very broad, with one of thoserather apoplectic faces that are produced by a prolonged attempt tocombine the oriental climate with the occidental luxuries. But the facewas a good-humoured one, and even now, though evidently puzzled andinquisitive, wore a kind of innocent grin. He had a large palm-leafhat on the back of his head (suggesting a halo that was by no meansappropriate to the face), but otherwise he was clad only in a very vividsuit of striped scarlet and yellow pyjamas; which, though glowing enoughto behold, must have been, on a fresh morning, pretty chilly to wear. Hehad evidently come out of his house in a hurry, and the priest was notsurprised when he called out without further ceremony: "Did you hearthat noise?"

"Yes, " answered Father Brown; "I thought I had better look in, in caseanything was the matter. "

The Major looked at him rather queerly with his good-humoured gooseberryeyes. "What do you think the noise was?" he asked. 

"It sounded like a gun or something, " replied the other, with somehesitation; "but it seemed to have a singular sort of echo. "

The Major was still looking at him quietly, but with protruding eyes, when the front door was flung open, releasing a flood of gaslight on theface of the fading mist; and another figure in pyjamas sprang or tumbledout into the garden. The figure was much longer, leaner, and moreathletic; the pyjamas, though equally tropical, were comparativelytasteful, being of white with a light lemon-yellow stripe. The man washaggard, but handsome, more sunburned than the other; he had an aquilineprofile and rather deep-sunken eyes, and a slight air of oddity arisingfrom the combination of coal-black hair with a much lighter moustache. All this Father Brown absorbed in detail more at leisure. For the momenthe only saw one thing about the man; which was the revolver in his hand. 

"Cray!" exclaimed the Major, staring at him; "did you fire that shot?"

"Yes, I did, " retorted the black-haired gentleman hotly; "and so wouldyou in my place. If you were chased everywhere by devils and nearly--"

The Major seemed to intervene rather hurriedly. "This is my friendFather Brown, " he said. And then to Brown: "I don't know whether you'vemet Colonel Cray of the Royal Artillery. "

"I have heard of him, of course, " said the priest innocently. "Didyou--did you hit anything?"

"I thought so, " answered Cray with gravity. 

"Did he--" asked Major Putnam in a lowered voice, "did he fall or cryout, or anything?"

Colonel Cray was regarding his host with a strange and steady stare. "I'll tell you exactly what he did, " he said. "He sneezed. "

Father Brown's hand went half-way to his head, with the gesture of a manremembering somebody's name. He knew now what it was that was neithersoda-water nor the snorting of a dog. 

"Well, " ejaculated the staring Major, "I never heard before that aservice revolver was a thing to be sneezed at. "

"Nor I, " said Father Brown faintly. "It's lucky you didn't turn yourartillery on him or you might have given him quite a bad cold. " Then, after a bewildered pause, he said: "Was it a burglar?"

"Let us go inside, " said Major Putnam, rather sharply, and led the wayinto his house. 

The interior exhibited a paradox often to be marked in such morninghours: that the rooms seemed brighter than the sky outside; even afterthe Major had turned out the one gaslight in the front hall. FatherBrown was surprised to see the whole dining-table set out as for afestive meal, with napkins in their rings, and wine-glasses of some sixunnecessary shapes set beside every plate. It was common enough, at thattime of the morning, to find the remains of a banquet over-night; but tofind it freshly spread so early was unusual. 

While he stood wavering in the hall Major Putnam rushed past him andsent a raging eye over the whole oblong of the tablecloth. At last hespoke, spluttering: "All the silver gone!" he gasped. "Fish-knives andforks gone. Old cruet-stand gone. Even the old silver cream-jug gone. And now, Father Brown, I am ready to answer your question of whether itwas a burglar. "

"They're simply a blind, " said Cray stubbornly. "I know better than youwhy people persecute this house; I know better than you why--"

The Major patted him on the shoulder with a gesture almost peculiar tothe soothing of a sick child, and said: "It was a burglar. Obviously itwas a burglar. "

"A burglar with a bad cold, " observed Father Brown, "that might assistyou to trace him in the neighbourhood. "

The Major shook his head in a sombre manner. "He must be far beyondtrace now, I fear, " he said. 

Then, as the restless man with the revolver turned again towards thedoor in the garden, he added in a husky, confidential voice: "I doubtwhether I should send for the police, for fear my friend here has been alittle too free with his bullets, and got on the wrong side of the law. He's lived in very wild places; and, to be frank with you, I think hesometimes fancies things. "

"I think you once told me, " said Brown, "that he believes some Indiansecret society is pursuing him. "

Major Putnam nodded, but at the same time shrugged his shoulders. "Isuppose we'd better follow him outside, " he said. "I don't want anymore--shall we say, sneezing?"

They passed out into the morning light, which was now even tingedwith sunshine, and saw Colonel Cray's tall figure bent almost double, minutely examining the condition of gravel and grass. While the Majorstrolled unobtrusively towards him, the priest took an equally indolentturn, which took him round the next corner of the house to within a yardor two of the projecting dustbin. 

He stood regarding this dismal object for some minute and a half--, thenhe stepped towards it, lifted the lid and put his head inside. Dust andother discolouring matter shook upwards as he did so; but FatherBrown never observed his own appearance, whatever else he observed. Heremained thus for a measurable period, as if engaged in some mysteriousprayers. Then he came out again, with some ashes on his hair, and walkedunconcernedly away. 

By the time he came round to the garden door again he found a groupthere which seemed to roll away morbidities as the sunlight had alreadyrolled away the mists. It was in no way rationally reassuring; it wassimply broadly comic, like a cluster of Dickens's characters. MajorPutnam had managed to slip inside and plunge into a proper shirt andtrousers, with a crimson cummerbund, and a light square jacket overall; thus normally set off, his red festive face seemed bursting with acommonplace cordiality. He was indeed emphatic, but then he was talkingto his cook--the swarthy son of Malta, whose lean, yellow and rathercareworn face contrasted quaintly with his snow-white cap and costume. The cook might well be careworn, for cookery was the Major's hobby. Hewas one of those amateurs who always know more than the professional. The only other person he even admitted to be a judge of an omelette washis friend Cray--and as Brown remembered this, he turned to look for theother officer. In the new presence of daylight and people clothed andin their right mind, the sight of him was rather a shock. The taller andmore elegant man was still in his night-garb, with tousled black hair, and now crawling about the garden on his hands and knees, still lookingfor traces of the burglar; and now and again, to all appearance, striking the ground with his hand in anger at not finding him. Seeinghim thus quadrupedal in the grass, the priest raised his eyebrows rathersadly; and for the first time guessed that "fancies things" might be aneuphemism. 

The third item in the group of the cook and the epicure was also knownto Father Brown; it was Audrey Watson, the Major's ward and housekeeper;and at this moment, to judge by her apron, tucked-up sleeves andresolute manner, much more the housekeeper than the ward. 

"It serves you right, " she was saying: "I always told you not to havethat old-fashioned cruet-stand. "

"I prefer it, " said Putnam, placably. "I'm old-fashioned myself; and thethings keep together. "

"And vanish together, as you see, " she retorted. "Well, if you are notgoing to bother about the burglar, I shouldn't bother about the lunch. It's Sunday, and we can't send for vinegar and all that in the town; andyou Indian gentlemen can't enjoy what you call a dinner without a lotof hot things. I wish to goodness now you hadn't asked Cousin Oliver totake me to the musical service. It isn't over till half-past twelve, and the Colonel has to leave by then. I don't believe you men can managealone. "

"Oh yes, we can, my dear, " said the Major, looking at her very amiably. "Marco has all the sauces, and we've often done ourselves well in veryrough places, as you might know by now. And it's time you had a treat, Audrey; you mustn't be a housekeeper every hour of the day; and I knowyou want to hear the music. "

"I want to go to church, " she said, with rather severe eyes. 

She was one of those handsome women who will always be handsome, becausethe beauty is not in an air or a tint, but in the very structure of thehead and features. But though she was not yet middle-aged and her auburnhair was of a Titianesque fullness in form and colour, there was alook in her mouth and around her eyes which suggested that some sorrowswasted her, as winds waste at last the edges of a Greek temple. Forindeed the little domestic difficulty of which she was now speaking sodecisively was rather comic than tragic. Father Brown gathered, from thecourse of the conversation, that Cray, the other gourmet, had to leavebefore the usual lunch-time; but that Putnam, his host, not to be doneout of a final feast with an old crony, had arranged for a specialdejeuner to be set out and consumed in the course of the morning, whileAudrey and other graver persons were at morning service. She was goingthere under the escort of a relative and old friend of hers, Dr OliverOman, who, though a scientific man of a somewhat bitter type, wasenthusiastic for music, and would go even to church to get it. There wasnothing in all this that could conceivably concern the tragedy in MissWatson's face; and by a half conscious instinct, Father Brown turnedagain to the seeming lunatic grubbing about in the grass. 

When he strolled across to him, the black, unbrushed head was liftedabruptly, as if in some surprise at his continued presence. And indeed, Father Brown, for reasons best known to himself, had lingered muchlonger than politeness required; or even, in the ordinary sense, permitted. 

"Well!" cried Cray, with wild eyes. "I suppose you think I'm mad, likethe rest?"

"I have considered the thesis, " answered the little man, composedly. "And I incline to think you are not. "

"What do you mean?" snapped Cray quite savagely. 

"Real madmen, " explained Father Brown, "always encourage their ownmorbidity. They never strive against it. But you are trying to findtraces of the burglar; even when there aren't any. You are strugglingagainst it. You want what no madman ever wants. "

"And what is that?"

"You want to be proved wrong, " said Brown. 

During the last words Cray had sprung or staggered to his feet and wasregarding the cleric with agitated eyes. "By hell, but that is a trueword!" he cried. "They are all at me here that the fellow was only afterthe silver--as if I shouldn't be only too pleased to think so! She'sbeen at me, " and he tossed his tousled black head towards Audrey, butthe other had no need of the direction, "she's been at me today abouthow cruel I was to shoot a poor harmless house-breaker, and how I havethe devil in me against poor harmless natives. But I was a good-naturedman once--as good-natured as Putnam. "

After a pause he said: "Look here, I've never seen you before; but youshall judge of the whole story. Old Putnam and I were friends in thesame mess; but, owing to some accidents on the Afghan border, I got mycommand much sooner than most men; only we were both invalided homefor a bit. I was engaged to Audrey out there; and we all travelled backtogether. But on the journey back things happened. Curious things. Theresult of them was that Putnam wants it broken off, and even Audreykeeps it hanging on--and I know what they mean. I know what they think Iam. So do you. 

"Well, these are the facts. The last day we were in an Indian city Iasked Putnam if I could get some Trichinopoli cigars, he directed me toa little place opposite his lodgings. I have since found he was quiteright; but 'opposite' is a dangerous word when one decent house standsopposite five or six squalid ones; and I must have mistaken the door. Itopened with difficulty, and then only on darkness; but as I turned back, the door behind me sank back and settled into its place with a noise asof innumerable bolts. There was nothing to do but to walk forward; whichI did through passage after passage, pitch-dark. Then I came to a flightof steps, and then to a blind door, secured by a latch of elaborateEastern ironwork, which I could only trace by touch, but which Iloosened at last. I came out again upon gloom, which was half turnedinto a greenish twilight by a multitude of small but steady lampsbelow. They showed merely the feet or fringes of some huge and emptyarchitecture. Just in front of me was something that looked like amountain. I confess I nearly fell on the great stone platform on whichI had emerged, to realize that it was an idol. And worst of all, an idolwith its back to me. 

"It was hardly half human, I guessed; to judge by the small squat head, and still more by a thing like a tail or extra limb turned up behind andpointing, like a loathsome large finger, at some symbol graven in thecentre of the vast stone back. I had begun, in the dim light, to guessat the hieroglyphic, not without horror, when a more horrible thinghappened. A door opened silently in the temple wall behind me and a mancame out, with a brown face and a black coat. He had a carved smile onhis face, of copper flesh and ivory teeth; but I think the most hatefulthing about him was that he was in European dress. I was prepared, Ithink, for shrouded priests or naked fakirs. But this seemed to say thatthe devilry was over all the earth. As indeed I found it to be. 

"'If you had only seen the Monkey's Feet, ' he said, smiling steadily, and without other preface, 'we should have been very gentle--you wouldonly be tortured and die. If you had seen the Monkey's Face, still weshould be very moderate, very tolerant--you would only be tortured andlive. But as you have seen the Monkey's Tail, we must pronounce theworst sentence, which is--Go Free. '

"When he said the words I heard the elaborate iron latch with which Ihad struggled, automatically unlock itself: and then, far down the darkpassages I had passed, I heard the heavy street-door shifting its ownbolts backwards. 

"'It is vain to ask for mercy; you must go free, ' said the smiling man. 'Henceforth a hair shall slay you like a sword, and a breath shall biteyou like an adder; weapons shall come against you out of nowhere; andyou shall die many times. ' And with that he was swallowed once more inthe wall behind; and I went out into the street. "

Cray paused; and Father Brown unaffectedly sat down on the lawn andbegan to pick daisies. 

Then the soldier continued: "Putnam, of course, with his jolly commonsense, pooh-poohed all my fears; and from that time dates his doubt ofmy mental balance. Well, I'll simply tell you, in the fewest words, thethree things that have happened since; and you shall judge which of usis right. 

"The first happened in an Indian village on the edge of the jungle, but hundreds of miles from the temple, or town, or type of tribes andcustoms where the curse had been put on me. I woke in black midnight, and lay thinking of nothing in particular, when I felt a faint ticklingthing, like a thread or a hair, trailed across my throat. I shrank backout of its way, and could not help thinking of the words in the temple. But when I got up and sought lights and a mirror, the line across myneck was a line of blood. 

"The second happened in a lodging in Port Said, later, on our journeyhome together. It was a jumble of tavern and curiosity-shop; and thoughthere was nothing there remotely suggesting the cult of the Monkey, itis, of course, possible that some of its images or talismans were insuch a place. Its curse was there, anyhow. I woke again in the dark witha sensation that could not be put in colder or more literal words thanthat a breath bit like an adder. Existence was an agony of extinction;I dashed my head against walls until I dashed it against a window; andfell rather than jumped into the garden below. Putnam, poor fellow, whohad called the other thing a chance scratch, was bound to take seriouslythe fact of finding me half insensible on the grass at dawn. But I fearit was my mental state he took seriously; and not my story. 

"The third happened in Malta. We were in a fortress there; and as ithappened our bedrooms overlooked the open sea, which almost came up toour window-sills, save for a flat white outer wall as bare as the sea. I woke up again; but it was not dark. There was a full moon, as I walkedto the window; I could have seen a bird on the bare battlement, ora sail on the horizon. What I did see was a sort of stick or branchcircling, self-supported, in the empty sky. It flew straight in at mywindow and smashed the lamp beside the pillow I had just quitted. It wasone of those queer-shaped war-clubs some Eastern tribes use. But it hadcome from no human hand. "

Father Brown threw away a daisy-chain he was making, and rose with awistful look. "Has Major Putnam, " he asked, "got any Eastern curios, idols, weapons and so on, from which one might get a hint?"

"Plenty of those, though not much use, I fear, " replied Cray; "but byall means come into his study. "

As they entered they passed Miss Watson buttoning her gloves for church, and heard the voice of Putnam downstairs still giving a lecture oncookery to the cook. In the Major's study and den of curios they camesuddenly on a third party, silk-hatted and dressed for the street, who was poring over an open book on the smoking-table--a book which hedropped rather guiltily, and turned. 

Cray introduced him civilly enough, as Dr Oman, but he showed suchdisfavour in his very face that Brown guessed the two men, whetherAudrey knew it or not, were rivals. Nor was the priest whollyunsympathetic with the prejudice. Dr Oman was a very well-dressedgentleman indeed; well-featured, though almost dark enough for anAsiatic. But Father Brown had to tell himself sharply that one should bein charity even with those who wax their pointed beards, who have smallgloved hands, and who speak with perfectly modulated voices. 

Cray seemed to find something specially irritating in the smallprayer-book in Oman's dark-gloved hand. "I didn't know that was in yourline, " he said rather rudely. 

Oman laughed mildly, but without offence. "This is more so, I know, " hesaid, laying his hand on the big book he had dropped, "a dictionary ofdrugs and such things. But it's rather too large to take to church. "Then he closed the larger book, and there seemed again the faintesttouch of hurry and embarrassment. 

"I suppose, " said the priest, who seemed anxious to change the subject, "all these spears and things are from India?"

"From everywhere, " answered the doctor. "Putnam is an old soldier, andhas been in Mexico and Australia, and the Cannibal Islands for all Iknow. "

"I hope it was not in the Cannibal Islands, " said Brown, "that he learntthe art of cookery. " And he ran his eyes over the stew-pots or otherstrange utensils on the wall. 

At this moment the jolly subject of their conversation thrust hislaughing, lobsterish face into the room. "Come along, Cray, " he cried. "Your lunch is just coming in. And the bells are ringing for those whowant to go to church. "

Cray slipped upstairs to change; Dr Oman and Miss Watson betookthemselves solemnly down the street, with a string of other churchgoers;but Father Brown noticed that the doctor twice looked back andscrutinized the house; and even came back to the corner of the street tolook at it again. 

The priest looked puzzled. "He can't have been at the dustbin, " hemuttered. "Not in those clothes. Or was he there earlier today?"

Father Brown, touching other people, was as sensitive as a barometer;but today he seemed about as sensitive as a rhinoceros. By no sociallaw, rigid or implied, could he be supposed to linger round the lunchof the Anglo-Indian friends; but he lingered, covering his position withtorrents of amusing but quite needless conversation. He was the morepuzzling because he did not seem to want any lunch. As one after anotherof the most exquisitely balanced kedgerees of curries, accompanied withtheir appropriate vintages, were laid before the other two, he onlyrepeated that it was one of his fast-days, and munched a piece of breadand sipped and then left untasted a tumbler of cold water. His talk, however, was exuberant. 

"I'll tell you what I'll do for you, " he cried--, "I'll mix you a salad!I can't eat it, but I'll mix it like an angel! You've got a lettucethere. "

"Unfortunately it's the only thing we have got, " answered thegood-humoured Major. "You must remember that mustard, vinegar, oil andso on vanished with the cruet and the burglar. "

"I know, " replied Brown, rather vaguely. "That's what I've always beenafraid would happen. That's why I always carry a cruet-stand about withme. I'm so fond of salads. "

And to the amazement of the two men he took a pepper-pot out of hiswaistcoat pocket and put it on the table. 

"I wonder why the burglar wanted mustard, too, " he went on, taking amustard-pot from another pocket. "A mustard plaster, I suppose. Andvinegar"--and producing that condiment--"haven't I heard something aboutvinegar and brown paper? As for oil, which I think I put in my left--"

His garrulity was an instant arrested; for lifting his eyes, he saw whatno one else saw--the black figure of Dr Oman standing on the sunlitlawn and looking steadily into the room. Before he could quite recoverhimself Cray had cloven in. 

"You're an astounding card, " he said, staring. "I shall come and hearyour sermons, if they're as amusing as your manners. " His voice changeda little, and he leaned back in his chair. 

"Oh, there are sermons in a cruet-stand, too, " said Father Brown, quitegravely. "Have you heard of faith like a grain of mustard-seed; orcharity that anoints with oil? And as for vinegar, can any soldiersforget that solitary soldier, who, when the sun was darkened--"

Colonel Cray leaned forward a little and clutched the tablecloth. 

Father Brown, who was making the salad, tipped two spoonfuls of themustard into the tumbler of water beside him; stood up and said in anew, loud and sudden voice--"Drink that!"

At the same moment the motionless doctor in the garden came running, andbursting open a window cried: "Am I wanted? Has he been poisoned?"

"Pretty near, " said Brown, with the shadow of a smile; for the emetichad very suddenly taken effect. And Cray lay in a deck-chair, gasping asfor life, but alive. 

Major Putnam had sprung up, his purple face mottled. "A crime!" he criedhoarsely. "I will go for the police!"

The priest could hear him dragging down his palm-leaf hat from the pegand tumbling out of the front door; he heard the garden gate slam. Buthe only stood looking at Cray; and after a silence said quietly:

"I shall not talk to you much; but I will tell you what you want toknow. There is no curse on you. The Temple of the Monkey was either acoincidence or a part of the trick; the trick was the trick of a whiteman. There is only one weapon that will bring blood with that merefeathery touch: a razor held by a white man. There is one way of makinga common room full of invisible, overpowering poison: turning on thegas--the crime of a white man. And there is only one kind of club thatcan be thrown out of a window, turn in mid-air and come back to thewindow next to it: the Australian boomerang. You'll see some of them inthe Major's study. "

With that he went outside and spoke for a moment to the doctor. Themoment after, Audrey Watson came rushing into the house and fell onher knees beside Cray's chair. He could not hear what they said to eachother; but their faces moved with amazement, not unhappiness. The doctorand the priest walked slowly towards the garden gate. 

"I suppose the Major was in love with her, too, " he said with a sigh;and when the other nodded, observed: "You were very generous, doctor. You did a fine thing. But what made you suspect?"

"A very small thing, " said Oman; "but it kept me restless in church tillI came back to see that all was well. That book on his table was a workon poisons; and was put down open at the place where it stated thata certain Indian poison, though deadly and difficult to trace, wasparticularly easily reversible by the use of the commonest emetics. Isuppose he read that at the last moment--"

"And remembered that there were emetics in the cruet-stand, " said FatherBrown. "Exactly. He threw the cruet in the dustbin--where I found it, along with other silver--for the sake of a burglary blind. But if youlook at that pepper-pot I put on the table, you'll see a small hole. That's where Cray's bullet struck, shaking up the pepper and making thecriminal sneeze. "

There was a silence. Then Dr Oman said grimly: "The Major is a long timelooking for the police. "

"Or the police in looking for the Major?" said the priest. "Well, good-bye. "

ELEVEN -- The Strange Crime of John Boulnois

MR CALHOUN KIDD was a very young gentleman with a very old face, a facedried up with its own eagerness, framed in blue-black hair and a blackbutterfly tie. He was the emissary in England of the colossal Americandaily called the Western Sun--also humorously described as the "RisingSunset". This was in allusion to a great journalistic declaration(attributed to Mr Kidd himself) that "he guessed the sun would risein the west yet, if American citizens did a bit more hustling. " Those, however, who mock American journalism from the standpoint of somewhatmellower traditions forget a certain paradox which partly redeems it. For while the journalism of the States permits a pantomimic vulgaritylong past anything English, it also shows a real excitement about themost earnest mental problems, of which English papers are innocent, orrather incapable. The Sun was full of the most solemn matters treatedin the most farcical way. William James figured there as well as"Weary Willie, " and pragmatists alternated with pugilists in the longprocession of its portraits. 

Thus, when a very unobtrusive Oxford man named John Boulnois wrote in avery unreadable review called the Natural Philosophy Quarterly a seriesof articles on alleged weak points in Darwinian evolution, it flutteredno corner of the English papers; though Boulnois's theory (which wasthat of a comparatively stationary universe visited occasionally byconvulsions of change) had some rather faddy fashionableness at Oxford, and got so far as to be named "Catastrophism". But many American papersseized on the challenge as a great event; and the Sun threw the shadowof Mr Boulnois quite gigantically across its pages. By the paradoxalready noted, articles of valuable intelligence and enthusiasm werepresented with headlines apparently written by an illiterate maniac, headlines such as "Darwin Chews Dirt; Critic Boulnois says He Jumps theShocks"--or "Keep Catastrophic, says Thinker Boulnois. " And Mr CalhounKidd, of the Western Sun, was bidden to take his butterfly tie andlugubrious visage down to the little house outside Oxford where ThinkerBoulnois lived in happy ignorance of such a title. 

That fated philosopher had consented, in a somewhat dazed manner, toreceive the interviewer, and had named the hour of nine that evening. The last of a summer sunset clung about Cumnor and the low wooded hills;the romantic Yankee was both doubtful of his road and inquisitive abouthis surroundings; and seeing the door of a genuine feudal old-countryinn, The Champion Arms, standing open, he went in to make inquiries. 

In the bar parlour he rang the bell, and had to wait some little timefor a reply to it. The only other person present was a lean man withclose red hair and loose, horsey-looking clothes, who was drinking verybad whisky, but smoking a very good cigar. The whisky, of course, wasthe choice brand of The Champion Arms; the cigar he had probably broughtwith him from London. Nothing could be more different than his cynicalnegligence from the dapper dryness of the young American; but somethingin his pencil and open notebook, and perhaps in the expression of hisalert blue eye, caused Kidd to guess, correctly, that he was a brotherjournalist. 

"Could you do me the favour, " asked Kidd, with the courtesy of hisnation, "of directing me to the Grey Cottage, where Mr Boulnois lives, as I understand?"

"It's a few yards down the road, " said the red-haired man, removing hiscigar; "I shall be passing it myself in a minute, but I'm going on toPendragon Park to try and see the fun. "

"What is Pendragon Park?" asked Calhoun Kidd. 

"Sir Claude Champion's place--haven't you come down for that, too?"asked the other pressman, looking up. "You're a journalist, aren't you?"

"I have come to see Mr Boulnois, " said Kidd. 

"I've come to see Mrs Boulnois, " replied the other. "But I shan't catchher at home. " And he laughed rather unpleasantly. 

"Are you interested in Catastrophism?" asked the wondering Yankee. 

"I'm interested in catastrophes; and there are going to be some, "replied his companion gloomily. "Mine's a filthy trade, and I neverpretend it isn't. "

With that he spat on the floor; yet somehow in the very act and instantone could realize that the man had been brought up as a gentleman. 

The American pressman considered him with more attention. His face waspale and dissipated, with the promise of formidable passions yet to beloosed; but it was a clever and sensitive face; his clothes were coarseand careless, but he had a good seal ring on one of his long, thinfingers. His name, which came out in the course of talk, was JamesDalroy; he was the son of a bankrupt Irish landlord, and attached toa pink paper which he heartily despised, called Smart Society, in thecapacity of reporter and of something painfully like a spy. 

Smart Society, I regret to say, felt none of that interest in Boulnoison Darwin which was such a credit to the head and hearts of the WesternSun. Dalroy had come down, it seemed, to snuff up the scent of a scandalwhich might very well end in the Divorce Court, but which was at presenthovering between Grey Cottage and Pendragon Park. 

Sir Claude Champion was known to the readers of the Western Sun as wellas Mr Boulnois. So were the Pope and the Derby Winner; but the ideaof their intimate acquaintanceship would have struck Kidd as equallyincongruous. He had heard of (and written about, nay, falsely pretendedto know) Sir Claude Champion, as "one of the brightest and wealthiest ofEngland's Upper Ten"; as the great sportsman who raced yachts round theworld; as the great traveller who wrote books about the Himalayas, asthe politician who swept constituencies with a startling sort of ToryDemocracy, and as the great dabbler in art, music, literature, and, above all, acting. Sir Claude was really rather magnificent in otherthan American eyes. There was something of the Renascence Prince abouthis omnivorous culture and restless publicity--, he was not only a greatamateur, but an ardent one. There was in him none of that antiquarianfrivolity that we convey by the word "dilettante". 

That faultless falcon profile with purple-black Italian eye, which hadbeen snap-shotted so often both for Smart Society and the Western Sun, gave everyone the impression of a man eaten by ambition as by a fire, or even a disease. But though Kidd knew a great deal about Sir Claude--agreat deal more, in fact, than there was to know--it would never havecrossed his wildest dreams to connect so showy an aristocrat with thenewly-unearthed founder of Catastrophism, or to guess that Sir ClaudeChampion and John Boulnois could be intimate friends. Such, accordingto Dalroy's account, was nevertheless the fact. The two had hunted incouples at school and college, and, though their social destinies hadbeen very different (for Champion was a great landlord and almost amillionaire, while Boulnois was a poor scholar and, until just lately, an unknown one), they still kept in very close touch with each other. Indeed, Boulnois's cottage stood just outside the gates of PendragonPark. 

But whether the two men could be friends much longer was becoming adark and ugly question. A year or two before, Boulnois had married abeautiful and not unsuccessful actress, to whom he was devoted in hisown shy and ponderous style; and the proximity of the household toChampion's had given that flighty celebrity opportunities for behavingin a way that could not but cause painful and rather base excitement. Sir Claude had carried the arts of publicity to perfection; and heseemed to take a crazy pleasure in being equally ostentatious in anintrigue that could do him no sort of honour. Footmen from Pendragonwere perpetually leaving bouquets for Mrs Boulnois; carriages andmotor-cars were perpetually calling at the cottage for Mrs Boulnois;balls and masquerades perpetually filled the grounds in which thebaronet paraded Mrs Boulnois, like the Queen of Love and Beauty at atournament. That very evening, marked by Mr Kidd for the exposition ofCatastrophism, had been marked by Sir Claude Champion for an open-airrendering of Romeo and Juliet, in which he was to play Romeo to a Julietit was needless to name. 

"I don't think it can go on without a smash, " said the young manwith red hair, getting up and shaking himself. "Old Boulnois may besquared--or he may be square. But if he's square he's thick--what youmight call cubic. But I don't believe it's possible. "

"He is a man of grand intellectual powers, " said Calhoun Kidd in a deepvoice. 

"Yes, " answered Dalroy; "but even a man of grand intellectual powerscan't be such a blighted fool as all that. Must you be going on? I shallbe following myself in a minute or two. "

But Calhoun Kidd, having finished a milk and soda, betook himselfsmartly up the road towards the Grey Cottage, leaving his cynicalinformant to his whisky and tobacco. The last of the daylight had faded;the skies were of a dark, green-grey, like slate, studded here and therewith a star, but lighter on the left side of the sky, with the promiseof a rising moon. 

The Grey Cottage, which stood entrenched, as it were, in a square ofstiff, high thorn-hedges, was so close under the pines and palisades ofthe Park that Kidd at first mistook it for the Park Lodge. Finding thename on the narrow wooden gate, however, and seeing by his watch thatthe hour of the "Thinker's" appointment had just struck, he went in andknocked at the front door. Inside the garden hedge, he could see thatthe house, though unpretentious enough, was larger and more luxuriousthan it looked at first, and was quite a different kind of place from aporter's lodge. A dog-kennel and a beehive stood outside, like symbolsof old English country-life; the moon was rising behind a plantationof prosperous pear trees, the dog that came out of the kennel wasreverend-looking and reluctant to bark; and the plain, elderlyman-servant who opened the door was brief but dignified. 

"Mr Boulnois asked me to offer his apologies, sir, " he said, "but he hasbeen obliged to go out suddenly. "

"But see here, I had an appointment, " said the interviewer, with arising voice. "Do you know where he went to?"

"To Pendragon Park, sir, " said the servant, rather sombrely, and beganto close the door. 

Kidd started a little. 

"Did he go with Mrs--with the rest of the party?" he asked rathervaguely. 

"No, sir, " said the man shortly; "he stayed behind, and then went outalone. " And he shut the door, brutally, but with an air of duty notdone. 

The American, that curious compound of impudence and sensitiveness, was annoyed. He felt a strong desire to hustle them all along a bitand teach them business habits; the hoary old dog and the grizzled, heavy-faced old butler with his prehistoric shirt-front, and the drowsyold moon, and above all the scatter-brained old philosopher who couldn'tkeep an appointment. 

"If that's the way he goes on he deserves to lose his wife's purestdevotion, " said Mr Calhoun Kidd. "But perhaps he's gone over to makea row. In that case I reckon a man from the Western Sun will be on thespot. "

And turning the corner by the open lodge-gates, he set off, stumping upthe long avenue of black pine-woods that pointed in abrupt perspectivetowards the inner gardens of Pendragon Park. The trees were as black andorderly as plumes upon a hearse; there were still a few stars. He wasa man with more literary than direct natural associations; the word"Ravenswood" came into his head repeatedly. It was partly the ravencolour of the pine-woods; but partly also an indescribable atmospherealmost described in Scott's great tragedy; the smell of something thatdied in the eighteenth century; the smell of dank gardens and brokenurns, of wrongs that will never now be righted; of something that isnone the less incurably sad because it is strangely unreal. 

More than once, as he went up that strange, black road of tragicartifice, he stopped, startled, thinking he heard steps in front of him. He could see nothing in front but the twin sombre walls of pine andthe wedge of starlit sky above them. At first he thought he must havefancied it or been mocked by a mere echo of his own tramp. But as hewent on he was more and more inclined to conclude, with the remains ofhis reason, that there really were other feet upon the road. He thoughthazily of ghosts; and was surprised how swiftly he could see theimage of an appropriate and local ghost, one with a face as white asPierrot's, but patched with black. The apex of the triangle of dark-bluesky was growing brighter and bluer, but he did not realize as yet thatthis was because he was coming nearer to the lights of the great houseand garden. He only felt that the atmosphere was growing more intense, there was in the sadness more violence and secrecy--more--he hesitatedfor the word, and then said it with a jerk of laughter--Catastrophism. 

More pines, more pathway slid past him, and then he stood rooted as bya blast of magic. It is vain to say that he felt as if he had got into adream; but this time he felt quite certain that he had got into a book. For we human beings are used to inappropriate things; we are accustomedto the clatter of the incongruous; it is a tune to which we can go tosleep. If one appropriate thing happens, it wakes us up like the pang ofa perfect chord. Something happened such as would have happened in sucha place in a forgotten tale. 

Over the black pine-wood came flying and flashing in the moon a nakedsword--such a slender and sparkling rapier as may have fought many anunjust duel in that ancient park. It fell on the pathway far in front ofhim and lay there glistening like a large needle. He ran like a hare andbent to look at it. Seen at close quarters it had rather a showy look:the big red jewels in the hilt and guard were a little dubious. Butthere were other red drops upon the blade which were not dubious. 

He looked round wildly in the direction from which the dazzling missilehad come, and saw that at this point the sable facade of fir and pinewas interrupted by a smaller road at right angles; which, when he turnedit, brought him in full view of the long, lighted house, with a lake andfountains in front of it. Nevertheless, he did not look at this, havingsomething more interesting to look at. 

Above him, at the angle of the steep green bank of the terraced garden, was one of those small picturesque surprises common in the old landscapegardening; a kind of small round hill or dome of grass, like a giantmole-hill, ringed and crowned with three concentric fences of roses, andhaving a sundial in the highest point in the centre. Kidd could see thefinger of the dial stand up dark against the sky like the dorsal fin ofa shark and the vain moonlight clinging to that idle clock. But he sawsomething else clinging to it also, for one wild moment--the figure of aman. 

Though he saw it there only for a moment, though it was outlandish andincredible in costume, being clad from neck to heel in tight crimson, with glints of gold, yet he knew in one flash of moonlight who it was. That white face flung up to heaven, clean-shaven and so unnaturallyyoung, like Byron with a Roman nose, those black curls alreadygrizzled--he had seen the thousand public portraits of Sir ClaudeChampion. The wild red figure reeled an instant against the sundial; thenext it had rolled down the steep bank and lay at the American's feet, faintly moving one arm. A gaudy, unnatural gold ornament on the armsuddenly reminded Kidd of Romeo and Juliet; of course the tight crimsonsuit was part of the play. But there was a long red stain down the bankfrom which the man had rolled--that was no part of the play. He had beenrun through the body. 

Mr Calhoun Kidd shouted and shouted again. Once more he seemed to hearphantasmal footsteps, and started to find another figure already nearhim. He knew the figure, and yet it terrified him. The dissipated youthwho had called himself Dalroy had a horribly quiet way with him; ifBoulnois failed to keep appointments that had been made, Dalroy hada sinister air of keeping appointments that hadn't. The moonlightdiscoloured everything, against Dalroy's red hair his wan face lookednot so much white as pale green. 

All this morbid impressionism must be Kidd's excuse for having criedout, brutally and beyond all reason: "Did you do this, you devil?"

James Dalroy smiled his unpleasing smile; but before he could speak, thefallen figure made another movement of the arm, waving vaguely towardsthe place where the sword fell; then came a moan, and then it managed tospeak. 

"Boulnois. .. . Boulnois, I say. .. . Boulnois did it. .. Jealous of me. .. Hewas jealous, he was, he was. .. "

Kidd bent his head down to hear more, and just managed to catch thewords:

"Boulnois. .. With my own sword. .. He threw it. .. "

Again the failing hand waved towards the sword, and then fell rigid witha thud. In Kidd rose from its depth all that acrid humour that is thestrange salt of the seriousness of his race. 

"See here, " he said sharply and with command, "you must fetch a doctor. This man's dead. "

"And a priest, too, I suppose, " said Dalroy in an undecipherable manner. "All these Champions are papists. "

The American knelt down by the body, felt the heart, propped up thehead and used some last efforts at restoration; but before the otherjournalist reappeared, followed by a doctor and a priest, he was alreadyprepared to assert they were too late. 

"Were you too late also?" asked the doctor, a solid prosperous-lookingman, with conventional moustache and whiskers, but a lively eye, whichdarted over Kidd dubiously. 

"In one sense, " drawled the representative of the Sun. "I was toolate to save the man, but I guess I was in time to hear something ofimportance. I heard the dead man denounce his assassin. "

"And who was the assassin?" asked the doctor, drawing his eyebrowstogether. 

"Boulnois, " said Calhoun Kidd, and whistled softly. 

The doctor stared at him gloomily with a reddening brow--, but he didnot contradict. Then the priest, a shorter figure in the background, said mildly: "I understood that Mr Boulnois was not coming to PendragonPark this evening. "

"There again, " said the Yankee grimly, "I may be in a position to givethe old country a fact or two. Yes, sir, John Boulnois was going to stayin all this evening; he fixed up a real good appointment there with me. But John Boulnois changed his mind; John Boulnois left his home abruptlyand all alone, and came over to this darned Park an hour or so ago. His butler told me so. I think we hold what the all-wise police call aclue--have you sent for them?"

"Yes, " said the doctor, "but we haven't alarmed anyone else yet. "

"Does Mrs Boulnois know?" asked James Dalroy, and again Kidd wasconscious of an irrational desire to hit him on his curling mouth. 

"I have not told her, " said the doctor gruffly--, "but here come thepolice. "

The little priest had stepped out into the main avenue, and now returnedwith the fallen sword, which looked ludicrously large and theatricalwhen attached to his dumpy figure, at once clerical and commonplace. "Just before the police come, " he said apologetically, "has anyone got alight?"

The Yankee journalist took an electric torch from his pocket, and thepriest held it close to the middle part of the blade, which he examinedwith blinking care. Then, without glancing at the point or pommel, hehanded the long weapon to the doctor. 

"I fear I'm no use here, " he said, with a brief sigh. "I'll say goodnight to you, gentlemen. " And he walked away up the dark avenue towardsthe house, his hands clasped behind him and his big head bent incogitation. 

The rest of the group made increased haste towards the lodge-gates, where an inspector and two constables could already be seen inconsultation with the lodge-keeper. But the little priest only walkedslower and slower in the dim cloister of pine, and at last stopped dead, on the steps of the house. It was his silent way of acknowledging anequally silent approach; for there came towards him a presence thatmight have satisfied even Calhoun Kidd's demands for a lovely andaristocratic ghost. It was a young woman in silvery satins of aRenascence design; she had golden hair in two long shining ropes, anda face so startingly pale between them that she might have beenchryselephantine--made, that is, like some old Greek statues, out ofivory and gold. But her eyes were very bright, and her voice, thoughlow, was confident. 

"Father Brown?" she said. 

"Mrs Boulnois?" he replied gravely. Then he looked at her andimmediately said: "I see you know about Sir Claude. "

"How do you know I know?" she asked steadily. 

He did not answer the question, but asked another: "Have you seen yourhusband?"

"My husband is at home, " she said. "He has nothing to do with this. "

Again he did not answer; and the woman drew nearer to him, with acuriously intense expression on her face. 

"Shall I tell you something more?" she said, with a rather fearfulsmile. "I don't think he did it, and you don't either. " Father Brownreturned her gaze with a long, grave stare, and then nodded, yet moregravely. 

"Father Brown, " said the lady, "I am going to tell you all I know, butI want you to do me a favour first. Will you tell me why you haven'tjumped to the conclusion of poor John's guilt, as all the rest havedone? Don't mind what you say: I--I know about the gossip and theappearances that are against me. "

Father Brown looked honestly embarrassed, and passed his hand acrosshis forehead. "Two very little things, " he said. "At least, one's verytrivial and the other very vague. But such as they are, they don't fitin with Mr Boulnois being the murderer. "

He turned his blank, round face up to the stars and continuedabsentmindedly: "To take the vague idea first. I attach a good deal ofimportance to vague ideas. All those things that 'aren't evidence'are what convince me. I think a moral impossibility the biggest of allimpossibilities. I know your husband only slightly, but I think thiscrime of his, as generally conceived, something very like a moralimpossibility. Please do not think I mean that Boulnois could not be sowicked. Anybody can be wicked--as wicked as he chooses. We can directour moral wills; but we can't generally change our instinctive tastesand ways of doing things. Boulnois might commit a murder, but not thismurder. He would not snatch Romeo's sword from its romantic scabbard;or slay his foe on the sundial as on a kind of altar; or leave his bodyamong the roses, or fling the sword away among the pines. If Boulnoiskilled anyone he'd do it quietly and heavily, as he'd do any otherdoubtful thing--take a tenth glass of port, or read a loose Greek poet. No, the romantic setting is not like Boulnois. It's more like Champion. "

"Ah!" she said, and looked at him with eyes like diamonds. 

"And the trivial thing was this, " said Brown. "There were finger-printson that sword; finger-prints can be detected quite a time after they aremade if they're on some polished surface like glass or steel. These wereon a polished surface. They were half-way down the blade of the sword. Whose prints they were I have no earthly clue; but why should anybodyhold a sword half-way down? It was a long sword, but length is anadvantage in lunging at an enemy. At least, at most enemies. At allenemies except one. "

"Except one, " she repeated. 

"There is only one enemy, " said Father Brown, "whom it is easier to killwith a dagger than a sword. "

"I know, " said the woman. "Oneself. "

There was a long silence, and then the priest said quietly but abruptly:"Am I right, then? Did Sir Claude kill himself?"

"Yes" she said, with a face like marble. "I saw him do it. "

"He died, " said Father Brown, "for love of you?"

An extraordinary expression flashed across her face, very differentfrom pity, modesty, remorse, or anything her companion had expected: hervoice became suddenly strong and full. "I don't believe, " she said, "heever cared about me a rap. He hated my husband. "

"Why?" asked the other, and turned his round face from the sky to thelady. 

"He hated my husband because. .. It is so strange I hardly know how to sayit. .. Because. .. "

"Yes?" said Brown patiently. 

"Because my husband wouldn't hate him. "

Father Brown only nodded, and seemed still to be listening; he differedfrom most detectives in fact and fiction in a small point--he neverpretended not to understand when he understood perfectly well. 

Mrs Boulnois drew near once more with the same contained glow ofcertainty. "My husband, " she said, "is a great man. Sir Claude Championwas not a great man: he was a celebrated and successful man. My husbandhas never been celebrated or successful; and it is the solemn truth thathe has never dreamed of being so. He no more expects to be famous forthinking than for smoking cigars. On all that side he has a sort ofsplendid stupidity. He has never grown up. He still liked Championexactly as he liked him at school; he admired him as he would admirea conjuring trick done at the dinner-table. But he couldn't be gotto conceive the notion of envying Champion. And Champion wanted to beenvied. He went mad and killed himself for that. "

"Yes, " said Father Brown; "I think I begin to understand. "

"Oh, don't you see?" she cried; "the whole picture is made for that--theplace is planned for it. Champion put John in a little house at his verydoor, like a dependant--to make him feel a failure. He never felt it. He thinks no more about such things than--than an absent-minded lion. Champion would burst in on John's shabbiest hours or homeliest mealswith some dazzling present or announcement or expedition that made itlike the visit of Haroun Alraschid, and John would accept or refuseamiably with one eye off, so to speak, like one lazy schoolboy agreeingor disagreeing with another. After five years of it John had not turneda hair; and Sir Claude Champion was a monomaniac. "

"And Haman began to tell them, " said Father Brown, "of all the thingswherein the king had honoured him; and he said: 'All these things profitme nothing while I see Mordecai the Jew sitting in the gate. '"

"The crisis came, " Mrs Boulnois continued, "when I persuaded John to letme take down some of his speculations and send them to a magazine. Theybegan to attract attention, especially in America, and one paper wantedto interview him. When Champion (who was interviewed nearly every day)heard of this late little crumb of success falling to his unconsciousrival, the last link snapped that held back his devilish hatred. Then hebegan to lay that insane siege to my own love and honour which has beenthe talk of the shire. You will ask me why I allowed such atrociousattentions. I answer that I could not have declined them except byexplaining to my husband, and there are some things the soul cannotdo, as the body cannot fly. Nobody could have explained to my husband. Nobody could do it now. If you said to him in so many words, 'Championis stealing your wife, ' he would think the joke a little vulgar: thatit could be anything but a joke--that notion could find no crack in hisgreat skull to get in by. Well, John was to come and see us act thisevening, but just as we were starting he said he wouldn't; he had got aninteresting book and a cigar. I told this to Sir Claude, and it was hisdeath-blow. The monomaniac suddenly saw despair. He stabbed himself, crying out like a devil that Boulnois was slaying him; he lies therein the garden dead of his own jealousy to produce jealousy, and John issitting in the dining-room reading a book. "

There was another silence, and then the little priest said: "There isonly one weak point, Mrs Boulnois, in all your very vivid account. Yourhusband is not sitting in the dining-room reading a book. That Americanreporter told me he had been to your house, and your butler told him MrBoulnois had gone to Pendragon Park after all. "

Her bright eyes widened to an almost electric glare; and yet it seemedrather bewilderment than confusion or fear. "Why, what can youmean?" she cried. "All the servants were out of the house, seeing thetheatricals. And we don't keep a butler, thank goodness!"

Father Brown started and spun half round like an absurd teetotum. "What, what?" he cried seeming galvanized into sudden life. "Look here--Isay--can I make your husband hear if I go to the house?"

"Oh, the servants will be back by now, " she said, wondering. 

"Right, right!" rejoined the cleric energetically, and set off scuttlingup the path towards the Park gates. He turned once to say: "Better gethold of that Yankee, or 'Crime of John Boulnois' will be all over theRepublic in large letters. "

"You don't understand, " said Mrs Boulnois. "He wouldn't mind. I don'tthink he imagines that America really is a place. "

When Father Brown reached the house with the beehive and the drowsy dog, a small and neat maid-servant showed him into the dining-room, whereBoulnois sat reading by a shaded lamp, exactly as his wife describedhim. A decanter of port and a wineglass were at his elbow; and theinstant the priest entered he noted the long ash stand out unbroken onhis cigar. 

"He has been here for half an hour at least, " thought Father Brown. Infact, he had the air of sitting where he had sat when his dinner wascleared away. 

"Don't get up, Mr Boulnois, " said the priest in his pleasant, prosaicway. "I shan't interrupt you a moment. I fear I break in on some of yourscientific studies. "

"No, " said Boulnois; "I was reading 'The Bloody Thumb. '" He said it withneither frown nor smile, and his visitor was conscious of a certain deepand virile indifference in the man which his wife had called greatness. He laid down a gory yellow "shocker" without even feeling itsincongruity enough to comment on it humorously. John Boulnois was a big, slow-moving man with a massive head, partly grey and partly bald, and blunt, burly features. He was in shabby and very old-fashionedevening-dress, with a narrow triangular opening of shirt-front: he hadassumed it that evening in his original purpose of going to see his wifeact Juliet. 

"I won't keep you long from 'The Bloody Thumb' or any other catastrophicaffairs, " said Father Brown, smiling. "I only came to ask you about thecrime you committed this evening. "

Boulnois looked at him steadily, but a red bar began to show across hisbroad brow; and he seemed like one discovering embarrassment for thefirst time. 

"I know it was a strange crime, " assented Brown in a low voice. "Stranger than murder perhaps--to you. The little sins are sometimesharder to confess than the big ones--but that's why it's so important toconfess them. Your crime is committed by every fashionable hostess sixtimes a week: and yet you find it sticks to your tongue like a namelessatrocity. "

"It makes one feel, " said the philosopher slowly, "such a damned fool. "

"I know, " assented the other, "but one often has to choose betweenfeeling a damned fool and being one. "

"I can't analyse myself well, " went on Boulnois; "but sitting in thatchair with that story I was as happy as a schoolboy on a half-holiday. It was security, eternity--I can't convey it. .. The cigars were withinreach. .. The matches were within reach. .. The Thumb had four moreappearances to. .. It was not only a peace, but a plenitude. Then thatbell rang, and I thought for one long, mortal minute that I couldn't getout of that chair--literally, physically, muscularly couldn't. Then Idid it like a man lifting the world, because I knew all the servantswere out. I opened the front door, and there was a little man with hismouth open to speak and his notebook open to write in. I remembered theYankee interviewer I had forgotten. His hair was parted in the middle, and I tell you that murder--"

"I understand, " said Father Brown. "I've seen him. "

"I didn't commit murder, " continued the Catastrophist mildly, "but onlyperjury. I said I had gone across to Pendragon Park and shut the door inhis face. That is my crime, Father Brown, and I don't know what penanceyou would inflict for it. "

"I shan't inflict any penance, " said the clerical gentleman, collectinghis heavy hat and umbrella with an air of some amusement; "quite thecontrary. I came here specially to let you off the little penance whichwould otherwise have followed your little offence. "

"And what, " asked Boulnois, smiling, "is the little penance I have soluckily been let off?"

"Being hanged, " said Father Brown. 

TWELVE -- The Fairy Tale of Father Brown

THE picturesque city and state of Heiligwaldenstein was one of those toykingdoms of which certain parts of the German Empire still consist. Ithad come under the Prussian hegemony quite late in history--hardly fiftyyears before the fine summer day when Flambeau and Father Brown foundthemselves sitting in its gardens and drinking its beer. There had beennot a little of war and wild justice there within living memory, as soonwill be shown. But in merely looking at it one could not dismissthat impression of childishness which is the most charming side ofGermany--those little pantomime, paternal monarchies in which a kingseems as domestic as a cook. The German soldiers by the innumerablesentry-boxes looked strangely like German toys, and the clean-cutbattlements of the castle, gilded by the sunshine, looked the morelike the gilt gingerbread. For it was brilliant weather. The sky wasas Prussian a blue as Potsdam itself could require, but it was yet morelike that lavish and glowing use of the colour which a child extractsfrom a shilling paint-box. Even the grey-ribbed trees looked young, forthe pointed buds on them were still pink, and in a pattern against thestrong blue looked like innumerable childish figures. 

Despite his prosaic appearance and generally practical walk of life, Father Brown was not without a certain streak of romance in hiscomposition, though he generally kept his daydreams to himself, as manychildren do. Amid the brisk, bright colours of such a day, and in theheraldic framework of such a town, he did feel rather as if he hadentered a fairy tale. He took a childish pleasure, as a younger brothermight, in the formidable sword-stick which Flambeau always flung as hewalked, and which now stood upright beside his tall mug of Munich. Nay, in his sleepy irresponsibility, he even found himself eyeing the knobbedand clumsy head of his own shabby umbrella, with some faint memories ofthe ogre's club in a coloured toy-book. But he never composed anythingin the form of fiction, unless it be the tale that follows:

"I wonder, " he said, "whether one would have real adventures in a placelike this, if one put oneself in the way? It's a splendid back-scene forthem, but I always have a kind of feeling that they would fight you withpasteboard sabres more than real, horrible swords. "

"You are mistaken, " said his friend. "In this place they not only fightwith swords, but kill without swords. And there's worse than that. "

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Father Brown. 

"Why, " replied the other, "I should say this was the only place inEurope where a man was ever shot without firearms. "

"Do you mean a bow and arrow?" asked Brown in some wonder. 

"I mean a bullet in the brain, " replied Flambeau. "Don't you know thestory of the late Prince of this place? It was one of the great policemysteries about twenty years ago. You remember, of course, that thisplace was forcibly annexed at the time of Bismarck's very earliestschemes of consolidation--forcibly, that is, but not at all easily. Theempire (or what wanted to be one) sent Prince Otto of Grossenmark torule the place in the Imperial interests. We saw his portrait inthe gallery there--a handsome old gentleman if he'd had any hair oreyebrows, and hadn't been wrinkled all over like a vulture; but he hadthings to harass him, as I'll explain in a minute. He was a soldier ofdistinguished skill and success, but he didn't have altogether an easyjob with this little place. He was defeated in several battles bythe celebrated Arnhold brothers--the three guerrilla patriots to whomSwinburne wrote a poem, you remember:

 Wolves with the hair of the ermine, Crows that are crowned and kings-- These things be many as vermin, Yet Three shall abide these things. 

Or something of that kind. Indeed, it is by no means certain that theoccupation would ever have been successful had not one of the threebrothers, Paul, despicably, but very decisively declined to abidethese things any longer, and, by surrendering all the secrets of theinsurrection, ensured its overthrow and his own ultimate promotion tothe post of chamberlain to Prince Otto. After this, Ludwig, the onegenuine hero among Mr Swinburne's heroes, was killed, sword in hand, in the capture of the city; and the third, Heinrich, who, though not atraitor, had always been tame and even timid compared with his activebrothers, retired into something like a hermitage, became converted to aChristian quietism which was almost Quakerish, and never mixed with menexcept to give nearly all he had to the poor. They tell me that not longago he could still be seen about the neighbourhood occasionally, a manin a black cloak, nearly blind, with very wild, white hair, but a faceof astonishing softness. "

"I know, " said Father Brown. "I saw him once. "

His friend looked at him in some surprise. "I didn't know you'd beenhere before, " he said. "Perhaps you know as much about it as I do. Anyhow, that's the story of the Arnholds, and he was the last survivorof them. Yes, and of all the men who played parts in that drama. "

"You mean that the Prince, too, died long before?"

"Died, " repeated Flambeau, "and that's about as much as we can say. Youmust understand that towards the end of his life he began to havethose tricks of the nerves not uncommon with tyrants. He multiplied theordinary daily and nightly guard round his castle till there seemed tobe more sentry-boxes than houses in the town, and doubtful characterswere shot without mercy. He lived almost entirely in a little room thatwas in the very centre of the enormous labyrinth of all the other rooms, and even in this he erected another sort of central cabin or cupboard, lined with steel, like a safe or a battleship. Some say that under thefloor of this again was a secret hole in the earth, no more than largeenough to hold him, so that, in his anxiety to avoid the grave, he waswilling to go into a place pretty much like it. But he went further yet. The populace had been supposed to be disarmed ever since the suppressionof the revolt, but Otto now insisted, as governments very seldominsist, on an absolute and literal disarmament. It was carried out, with extraordinary thoroughness and severity, by very well-organizedofficials over a small and familiar area, and, so far as human strengthand science can be absolutely certain of anything, Prince Otto wasabsolutely certain that nobody could introduce so much as a toy pistolinto Heiligwaldenstein. "

"Human science can never be quite certain of things like that, " saidFather Brown, still looking at the red budding of the branches overhis head, "if only because of the difficulty about definition andconnotation. What is a weapon? People have been murdered with themildest domestic comforts; certainly with tea-kettles, probably withtea-cosies. On the other hand, if you showed an Ancient Briton arevolver, I doubt if he would know it was a weapon--until it was firedinto him, of course. Perhaps somebody introduced a firearm so new thatit didn't even look like a firearm. Perhaps it looked like a thimble orsomething. Was the bullet at all peculiar?"

"Not that I ever heard of, " answered Flambeau; "but my information isfragmentary, and only comes from my old friend Grimm. He was a very abledetective in the German service, and he tried to arrest me; I arrestedhim instead, and we had many interesting chats. He was in charge hereof the inquiry about Prince Otto, but I forgot to ask him anything aboutthe bullet. According to Grimm, what happened was this. " He paused amoment to drain the greater part of his dark lager at a draught, andthen resumed:

"On the evening in question, it seems, the Prince was expected to appearin one of the outer rooms, because he had to receive certain visitorswhom he really wished to meet. They were geological experts sent toinvestigate the old question of the alleged supply of gold from therocks round here, upon which (as it was said) the small city-statehad so long maintained its credit and been able to negotiate withits neighbours even under the ceaseless bombardment of bigger armies. Hitherto it had never been found by the most exacting inquiry whichcould--"

"Which could be quite certain of discovering a toy pistol, " said FatherBrown with a smile. "But what about the brother who ratted? Hadn't heanything to tell the Prince?"

"He always asseverated that he did not know, " replied Flambeau; "thatthis was the one secret his brothers had not told him. It is only rightto say that it received some support from fragmentary words--spoken bythe great Ludwig in the hour of death, when he looked at Heinrich butpointed at Paul, and said, 'You have not told him. .. ' and was soonafterwards incapable of speech. Anyhow, the deputation of distinguishedgeologists and mineralogists from Paris and Berlin were there in themost magnificent and appropriate dress, for there are no men who likewearing their decorations so much as the men of science--as anybodyknows who has ever been to a soiree of the Royal Society. It was abrilliant gathering, but very late, and gradually the Chamberlain--yousaw his portrait, too: a man with black eyebrows, serious eyes, and ameaningless sort of smile underneath--the Chamberlain, I say, discoveredthere was everything there except the Prince himself. He searched allthe outer salons; then, remembering the man's mad fits of fear, hurriedto the inmost chamber. That also was empty, but the steel turret orcabin erected in the middle of it took some time to open. When it didopen it was empty, too. He went and looked into the hole in the ground, which seemed deeper and somehow all the more like a grave--that is hisaccount, of course. And even as he did so he heard a burst of cries andtumult in the long rooms and corridors without. 

"First it was a distant din and thrill of something unthinkable on thehorizon of the crowd, even beyond the castle. Next it was a wordlessclamour startlingly close, and loud enough to be distinct if each wordhad not killed the other. Next came words of a terrible clearness, coming nearer, and next one man, rushing into the room and telling thenews as briefly as such news is told. 

"Otto, Prince of Heiligwaldenstein and Grossenmark, was lying in thedews of the darkening twilight in the woods beyond the castle, with hisarms flung out and his face flung up to the moon. The blood still pulsedfrom his shattered temple and jaw, but it was the only part of him thatmoved like a living thing. He was clad in his full white and yellowuniform, as to receive his guests within, except that the sash or scarfhad been unbound and lay rather crumpled by his side. Before he couldbe lifted he was dead. But, dead or alive, he was a riddle--he who hadalways hidden in the inmost chamber out there in the wet woods, unarmedand alone. "

"Who found his body?" asked Father Brown. 

"Some girl attached to the Court named Hedwig von something or other, "replied his friend, "who had been out in the wood picking wild flowers. "

"Had she picked any?" asked the priest, staring rather vacantly at theveil of the branches above him. 

"Yes, " replied Flambeau. "I particularly remember that the Chamberlain, or old Grimm or somebody, said how horrible it was, when they came upat her call, to see a girl holding spring flowers and bending overthat--that bloody collapse. However, the main point is that before helparrived he was dead, and the news, of course, had to be carried back tothe castle. The consternation it created was something beyond even thatnatural in a Court at the fall of a potentate. The foreign visitors, especially the mining experts, were in the wildest doubt and excitement, as well as many important Prussian officials, and it soon began to beclear that the scheme for finding the treasure bulked much bigger inthe business than people had supposed. Experts and officials had beenpromised great prizes or international advantages, and some even saidthat the Prince's secret apartments and strong military protection weredue less to fear of the populace than to the pursuit of some privateinvestigation of--"

"Had the flowers got long stalks?" asked Father Brown. 

Flambeau stared at him. "What an odd person you are!" he said. "That'sexactly what old Grimm said. He said the ugliest part of it, hethought--uglier than the blood and bullet--was that the flowers werequite short, plucked close under the head. "

"Of course, " said the priest, "when a grown up girl is really pickingflowers, she picks them with plenty of stalk. If she just pulled theirheads off, as a child does, it looks as if--" And he hesitated. 

"Well?" inquired the other. 

"Well, it looks rather as if she had snatched them nervously, to make anexcuse for being there after--well, after she was there. "

"I know what you're driving at, " said Flambeau rather gloomily. "Butthat and every other suspicion breaks down on the one point--the wantof a weapon. He could have been killed, as you say, with lots of otherthings--even with his own military sash; but we have to explain not howhe was killed, but how he was shot. And the fact is we can't. They hadthe girl most ruthlessly searched; for, to tell the truth, she was alittle suspect, though the niece and ward of the wicked old Chamberlain, Paul Arnhold. But she was very romantic, and was suspected of sympathywith the old revolutionary enthusiasm in her family. All the same, however romantic you are, you can't imagine a big bullet into a man'sjaw or brain without using a gun or pistol. And there was no pistol, though there were two pistol shots. I leave it to you, my friend. "

"How do you know there were two shots?" asked the little priest. 

"There was only one in his head, " said his companion, "but there wasanother bullet-hole in the sash. "

Father Brown's smooth brow became suddenly constricted. "Was the otherbullet found?" he demanded. 

Flambeau started a little. "I don't think I remember, " he said. 

"Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!" cried Brown, frowning more and more, witha quite unusual concentration of curiosity. "Don't think me rude. Let methink this out for a moment. "

"All right, " said Flambeau, laughing, and finished his beer. A slightbreeze stirred the budding trees and blew up into the sky cloudlets ofwhite and pink that seemed to make the sky bluer and the whole colouredscene more quaint. They might have been cherubs flying home to thecasements of a sort of celestial nursery. The oldest tower of thecastle, the Dragon Tower, stood up as grotesque as the ale-mug, but ashomely. Only beyond the tower glimmered the wood in which the man hadlain dead. 

"What became of this Hedwig eventually?" asked the priest at last. 

"She is married to General Schwartz, " said Flambeau. "No doubt you'veheard of his career, which was rather romantic. He had distinguishedhimself even, before his exploits at Sadowa and Gravelotte; in fact, herose from the ranks, which is very unusual even in the smallest of theGerman. .. "

Father Brown sat up suddenly. 

"Rose from the ranks!" he cried, and made a mouth as if to whistle. "Well, well, what a queer story! What a queer way of killing a man;but I suppose it was the only one possible. But to think of hate sopatient--"

"What do you mean?" demanded the other. "In what way did they kill theman?"

"They killed him with the sash, " said Brown carefully; and then, asFlambeau protested: "Yes, yes, I know about the bullet. Perhaps I oughtto say he died of having a sash. I know it doesn't sound like having adisease. "

"I suppose, " said Flambeau, "that you've got some notion in your head, but it won't easily get the bullet out of his. As I explained before, hemight easily have been strangled. But he was shot. By whom? By what?"

"He was shot by his own orders, " said the priest. 

"You mean he committed suicide?"

"I didn't say by his own wish, " replied Father Brown. "I said by his ownorders. "

"Well, anyhow, what is your theory?"

Father Brown laughed. "I am only on my holiday, " he said. "I haven't gotany theories. Only this place reminds me of fairy stories, and, if youlike, I'll tell you a story. "

The little pink clouds, that looked rather like sweet-stuff, had floatedup to crown the turrets of the gilt gingerbread castle, and the pinkbaby fingers of the budding trees seemed spreading and stretching toreach them; the blue sky began to take a bright violet of evening, whenFather Brown suddenly spoke again:

"It was on a dismal night, with rain still dropping from the treesand dew already clustering, that Prince Otto of Grossenmark steppedhurriedly out of a side door of the castle and walked swiftly into thewood. One of the innumerable sentries saluted him, but he did not noticeit. He had no wish to be specially noticed himself. He was glad when thegreat trees, grey and already greasy with rain, swallowed him up likea swamp. He had deliberately chosen the least frequented side of hispalace, but even that was more frequented than he liked. But there wasno particular chance of officious or diplomatic pursuit, for his exithad been a sudden impulse. All the full-dressed diplomatists he leftbehind were unimportant. He had realized suddenly that he could dowithout them. 

"His great passion was not the much nobler dread of death, but thestrange desire of gold. For this legend of the gold he had leftGrossenmark and invaded Heiligwaldenstein. For this and only this hehad bought the traitor and butchered the hero, for this he had longquestioned and cross-questioned the false Chamberlain, until he had cometo the conclusion that, touching his ignorance, the renegade reallytold the truth. For this he had, somewhat reluctantly, paid and promisedmoney on the chance of gaining the larger amount; and for this he hadstolen out of his palace like a thief in the rain, for he had thought ofanother way to get the desire of his eyes, and to get it cheap. 

"Away at the upper end of a rambling mountain path to which he wasmaking his way, among the pillared rocks along the ridge that hangsabove the town, stood the hermitage, hardly more than a cavern fencedwith thorn, in which the third of the great brethren had long hiddenhimself from the world. He, thought Prince Otto, could have no realreason for refusing to give up the gold. He had known its place foryears, and made no effort to find it, even before his new ascetic creedhad cut him off from property or pleasures. True, he had been an enemy, but he now professed a duty of having no enemies. Some concession to hiscause, some appeal to his principles, would probably get the meremoney secret out of him. Otto was no coward, in spite of his network ofmilitary precautions, and, in any case, his avarice was stronger thanhis fears. Nor was there much cause for fear. Since he was certain therewere no private arms in the whole principality, he was a hundred timesmore certain there were none in the Quaker's little hermitage on thehill, where he lived on herbs, with two old rustic servants, and withno other voice of man for year after year. Prince Otto looked downwith something of a grim smile at the bright, square labyrinths of thelamp-lit city below him. For as far as the eye could see there ran therifles of his friends, and not one pinch of powder for his enemies. Rifles ranked so close even to that mountain path that a cry from himwould bring the soldiers rushing up the hill, to say nothing of the factthat the wood and ridge were patrolled at regular intervals; rifles sofar away, in the dim woods, dwarfed by distance, beyond the river, thatan enemy could not slink into the town by any detour. And round thepalace rifles at the west door and the east door, at the north door andthe south, and all along the four facades linking them. He was safe. 

"It was all the more clear when he had crested the ridge and foundhow naked was the nest of his old enemy. He found himself on a smallplatform of rock, broken abruptly by the three corners of precipice. Behind was the black cave, masked with green thorn, so low that it washard to believe that a man could enter it. In front was the fall of thecliffs and the vast but cloudy vision of the valley. On the small rockplatform stood an old bronze lectern or reading-stand, groaning under agreat German Bible. The bronze or copper of it had grown green with theeating airs of that exalted place, and Otto had instantly the thought, 'Even if they had arms, they must be rusted by now. ' Moonrise hadalready made a deathly dawn behind the crests and crags, and the rainhad ceased. 

"Behind the lectern, and looking across the valley, stood a very oldman in a black robe that fell as straight as the cliffs around him, butwhose white hair and weak voice seemed alike to waver in the wind. He was evidently reading some daily lesson as part of his religiousexercises. 'They trust in their horses. .. '

"'Sir, ' said the Prince of Heiligwaldenstein, with quite unusualcourtesy, 'I should like only one word with you. '

"'. .. And in their chariots, ' went on the old man weakly, 'but wewill trust in the name of the Lord of Hosts. .. . ' His last words wereinaudible, but he closed the book reverently and, being nearly blind, made a groping movement and gripped the reading-stand. Instantly his twoservants slipped out of the low-browed cavern and supported him. Theywore dull-black gowns like his own, but they had not the frosty silveron the hair, nor the frost-bitten refinement of the features. They werepeasants, Croat or Magyar, with broad, blunt visages and blinking eyes. For the first time something troubled the Prince, but his courage anddiplomatic sense stood firm. 

"'I fear we have not met, ' he said, 'since that awful cannonade in whichyour poor brother died. '

"'All my brothers died, ' said the old man, still looking across thevalley. Then, for one instant turning on Otto his drooping, delicatefeatures, and the wintry hair that seemed to drip over his eyebrows likeicicles, he added: 'You see, I am dead, too. '

"'I hope you'll understand, ' said the Prince, controlling himself almostto a point of conciliation, 'that I do not come here to haunt you, as amere ghost of those great quarrels. We will not talk about who was rightor wrong in that, but at least there was one point on which we werenever wrong, because you were always right. Whatever is to be said ofthe policy of your family, no one for one moment imagines that you weremoved by the mere gold; you have proved yourself above the suspicionthat. .. '

"The old man in the black gown had hitherto continued to gaze at himwith watery blue eyes and a sort of weak wisdom in his face. Butwhen the word 'gold' was said he held out his hand as if in arrest ofsomething, and turned away his face to the mountains. 

"'He has spoken of gold, ' he said. 'He has spoken of things not lawful. Let him cease to speak. '

"Otto had the vice of his Prussian type and tradition, which is toregard success not as an incident but as a quality. He conceived himselfand his like as perpetually conquering peoples who were perpetuallybeing conquered. Consequently, he was ill acquainted with the emotionof surprise, and ill prepared for the next movement, which startled andstiffened him. He had opened his mouth to answer the hermit, when themouth was stopped and the voice strangled by a strong, soft gag suddenlytwisted round his head like a tourniquet. It was fully forty secondsbefore he even realized that the two Hungarian servants had done it, andthat they had done it with his own military scarf. 

"The old man went again weakly to his great brazen-supported Bible, turned over the leaves, with a patience that had something horribleabout it, till he came to the Epistle of St James, and then began toread: 'The tongue is a little member, but--'

"Something in the very voice made the Prince turn suddenly and plungedown the mountain-path he had climbed. He was half-way towards thegardens of the palace before he even tried to tear the strangling scarffrom his neck and jaws. He tried again and again, and it was impossible;the men who had knotted that gag knew the difference between what a mancan do with his hands in front of him and what he can do with his handsbehind his head. His legs were free to leap like an antelope on themountains, his arms were free to use any gesture or wave any signal, buthe could not speak. A dumb devil was in him. 

"He had come close to the woods that walled in the castle before he hadquite realized what his wordless state meant and was meant to mean. Once more he looked down grimly at the bright, square labyrinths ofthe lamp-lit city below him, and he smiled no more. He felt himselfrepeating the phrases of his former mood with a murderous irony. Far asthe eye could see ran the rifles of his friends, every one of whom wouldshoot him dead if he could not answer the challenge. Rifles were sonear that the wood and ridge could be patrolled at regular intervals;therefore it was useless to hide in the wood till morning. Rifles wereranked so far away that an enemy could not slink into the town byany detour; therefore it was vain to return to the city by any remotecourse. A cry from him would bring his soldiers rushing up the hill. Butfrom him no cry would come. 

"The moon had risen in strengthening silver, and the sky showed instripes of bright, nocturnal blue between the black stripes of the pinesabout the castle. Flowers of some wide and feathery sort--for he hadnever noticed such things before--were at once luminous and discolouredby the moonshine, and seemed indescribably fantastic as they clustered, as if crawling about the roots of the trees. Perhaps his reason had beensuddenly unseated by the unnatural captivity he carried with him, but inthat wood he felt something unfathomably German--the fairy tale. He knewwith half his mind that he was drawing near to the castle of an ogre--hehad forgotten that he was the ogre. He remembered asking his mother ifbears lived in the old park at home. He stooped to pick a flower, asif it were a charm against enchantment. The stalk was stronger than heexpected, and broke with a slight snap. Carefully trying to place it inhis scarf, he heard the halloo, 'Who goes there?' Then he remembered thescarf was not in its usual place. 

"He tried to scream and was silent. The second challenge came; and thena shot that shrieked as it came and then was stilled suddenly by impact. Otto of Grossenmark lay very peacefully among the fairy trees, and woulddo no more harm either with gold or steel; only the silver pencil of themoon would pick out and trace here and there the intricate ornament ofhis uniform, or the old wrinkles on his brow. May God have mercy on hissoul. 

"The sentry who had fired, according to the strict orders of thegarrison, naturally ran forward to find some trace of his quarry. He wasa private named Schwartz, since not unknown in his profession, and whathe found was a bald man in uniform, but with his face so bandaged by akind of mask made of his own military scarf that nothing but open, deadeyes could be seen, glittering stonily in the moonlight. The bullet hadgone through the gag into the jaw; that is why there was a shot-holein the scarf, but only one shot. Naturally, if not correctly, youngSchwartz tore off the mysterious silken mask and cast it on the grass;and then he saw whom he had slain. 

"We cannot be certain of the next phase. But I incline to believe thatthere was a fairy tale, after all, in that little wood, horrible aswas its occasion. Whether the young lady named Hedwig had any previousknowledge of the soldier she saved and eventually married, or whethershe came accidentally upon the accident and their intimacy began thatnight, we shall probably never know. But we can know, I fancy, that thisHedwig was a heroine, and deserved to marry a man who became somethingof a hero. She did the bold and the wise thing. She persuaded the sentryto go back to his post, in which place there was nothing to connect himwith the disaster; he was but one of the most loyal and orderly of fiftysuch sentries within call. She remained by the body and gave the alarm;and there was nothing to connect her with the disaster either, since shehad not got, and could not have, any firearms. 

"Well, " said Father Brown rising cheerfully "I hope they're happy. "

"Where are you going?" asked his friend. 

"I'm going to have another look at that portrait of the Chamberlain, theArnhold who betrayed his brethren, " answered the priest. "I wonder whatpart--I wonder if a man is less a traitor when he is twice a traitor?"

And he ruminated long before the portrait of a white-haired manwith black eyebrows and a pink, painted sort of smile that seemed tocontradict the black warning in his eyes.