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diff --git a/204-0.txt b/204-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..850e698 --- /dev/null +++ b/204-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8784 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Innocence of Father Brown, by G. K. Chesterton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Innocence of Father Brown + +Author: G. K. Chesterton + +Release Date: January, 1995 [eBook #204] +[Most recently updated: June 1, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN *** + + + + +THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN + +By G. K. Chesterton + + Contents + + + The Blue Cross + The Secret Garden + The Queer Feet + The Flying Stars + The Invisible Man + The Honour of Israel Gow + The Wrong Shape + The Sins of Prince Saradine + The Hammer of God + The Eye of Apollo + The Sign of the Broken Sword + The Three Tools of Death + + + + + +The Blue Cross + +Between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of +sea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies, +among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous--nor +wished to be. There was nothing notable about him, except a slight +contrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes and the official +gravity of his face. His clothes included a slight, pale grey jacket, +a white waistcoat, and a silver straw hat with a grey-blue ribbon. His +lean face was dark by contrast, and ended in a curt black beard that +looked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan ruff. He was smoking a +cigarette with the seriousness of an idler. There was nothing about him +to indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver, +that the white waistcoat covered a police card, or that the straw hat +covered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe. For this was +Valentin himself, the head of the Paris police and the most famous +investigator of the world; and he was coming from Brussels to London to +make the greatest arrest of the century. + +Flambeau was in England. The police of three countries had tracked the +great criminal at last from Ghent to Brussels, from Brussels to the Hook +of Holland; and it was conjectured that he would take some advantage of +the unfamiliarity and confusion of the Eucharistic Congress, then +taking place in London. Probably he would travel as some minor clerk +or secretary connected with it; but, of course, Valentin could not be +certain; nobody could be certain about Flambeau. + +It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceased +keeping the world in a turmoil; and when he ceased, as they said after +the death of Roland, there was a great quiet upon the earth. But in +his best days (I mean, of course, his worst) Flambeau was a figure as +statuesque and international as the Kaiser. Almost every morning the +daily paper announced that he had escaped the consequences of one +extraordinary crime by committing another. He was a Gascon of gigantic +stature and bodily daring; and the wildest tales were told of his +outbursts of athletic humour; how he turned the juge d’instruction +upside down and stood him on his head, “to clear his mind”; how he ran +down the Rue de Rivoli with a policeman under each arm. It is due to him +to say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed in +such bloodless though undignified scenes; his real crimes were chiefly +those of ingenious and wholesale robbery. But each of his thefts was +almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ran +the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no +carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers. These he served by +the simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people’s +doors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept up an +unaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose whole +letter-bag was intercepted, by the extraordinary trick of photographing +his messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. A +sweeping simplicity, however, marked many of his experiments. It is said +that he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night +merely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is quite certain that +he invented a portable pillar-box, which he put up at corners in quiet +suburbs on the chance of strangers dropping postal orders into it. +Lastly, he was known to be a startling acrobat; despite his huge figure, +he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the tree-tops like a +monkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, was +perfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him. + +But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin’s ideas were +still in process of settlement. + +There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, +could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentin’s quick +eye had caught a tall apple-woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerably +tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. But all along his +train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than +a cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he had +already satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on +the journey limited themselves with certainty to six. There was a short +railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short +market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow +lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic +priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last +case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so +much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull +as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had +several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. +The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local +stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles +disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and +could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and +this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby +umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know +which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a +moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be +careful, because he had something made of real silver “with blue stones” + in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness +with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the +priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came +back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good +nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody +about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for +someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or +female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above +it. + +He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure +that he had not missed the criminal so far. He then went to Scotland +Yard to regularise his position and arrange for help in case of need; he +then lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in the streets of +London. As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, he +paused suddenly and stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical +of London, full of an accidental stillness. The tall, flat houses round +looked at once prosperous and uninhabited; the square of shrubbery in +the centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific islet. One of the four +sides was much higher than the rest, like a dais; and the line of this +side was broken by one of London’s admirable accidents--a restaurant +that looked as if it had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonably +attractive object, with dwarf plants in pots and long, striped blinds of +lemon yellow and white. It stood specially high above the street, and in +the usual patchwork way of London, a flight of steps from the street +ran up to meet the front door almost as a fire-escape might run up to +a first-floor window. Valentin stood and smoked in front of the +yellow-white blinds and considered them long. + +The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. A few +clouds in heaven do come together into the staring shape of one human +eye. A tree does stand up in the landscape of a doubtful journey in the +exact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation. I have seen both +these things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in the +instant of victory; and a man named Williams does quite accidentally +murder a man named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide. +In short, there is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people +reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss. As it has been well +expressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen. + +Aristide Valentin was unfathomably French; and the French intelligence +is intelligence specially and solely. He was not “a thinking machine”; +for that is a brainless phrase of modern fatalism and materialism. A +machine only is a machine because it cannot think. But he was a thinking +man, and a plain man at the same time. All his wonderful successes, that +looked like conjuring, had been gained by plodding logic, by clear +and commonplace French thought. The French electrify the world not by +starting any paradox, they electrify it by carrying out a truism. They +carry a truism so far--as in the French Revolution. But exactly because +Valentin understood reason, he understood the limits of reason. Only a +man who knows nothing of motors talks of motoring without petrol; only +a man who knows nothing of reason talks of reasoning without strong, +undisputed first principles. Here he had no strong first principles. +Flambeau had been missed at Harwich; and if he was in London at all, +he might be anything from a tall tramp on Wimbledon Common to a tall +toast-master at the Hotel Metropole. In such a naked state of nescience, +Valentin had a view and a method of his own. + +In such cases he reckoned on the unforeseen. In such cases, when he +could not follow the train of the reasonable, he coldly and carefully +followed the train of the unreasonable. Instead of going to the right +places--banks, police stations, rendezvous--he systematically went to +the wrong places; knocked at every empty house, turned down every cul de +sac, went up every lane blocked with rubbish, went round every crescent +that led him uselessly out of the way. He defended this crazy course +quite logically. He said that if one had a clue this was the worst way; +but if one had no clue at all it was the best, because there was just +the chance that any oddity that caught the eye of the pursuer might be +the same that had caught the eye of the pursued. Somewhere a man must +begin, and it had better be just where another man might stop. Something +about that flight of steps up to the shop, something about the quietude +and quaintness of the restaurant, roused all the detective’s rare +romantic fancy and made him resolve to strike at random. He went up the +steps, and sitting down at a table by the window, asked for a cup of +black coffee. + +It was half-way through the morning, and he had not breakfasted; the +slight litter of other breakfasts stood about on the table to remind +him of his hunger; and adding a poached egg to his order, he proceeded +musingly to shake some white sugar into his coffee, thinking all the +time about Flambeau. He remembered how Flambeau had escaped, once by a +pair of nail scissors, and once by a house on fire; once by having to +pay for an unstamped letter, and once by getting people to look through +a telescope at a comet that might destroy the world. He thought his +detective brain as good as the criminal’s, which was true. But he fully +realised the disadvantage. “The criminal is the creative artist; the +detective only the critic,” he said with a sour smile, and lifted his +coffee cup to his lips slowly, and put it down very quickly. He had put +salt in it. + +He looked at the vessel from which the silvery powder had come; it +was certainly a sugar-basin; as unmistakably meant for sugar as a +champagne-bottle for champagne. He wondered why they should keep salt in +it. He looked to see if there were any more orthodox vessels. Yes; there +were two salt-cellars quite full. Perhaps there was some speciality in +the condiment in the salt-cellars. He tasted it; it was sugar. Then he +looked round at the restaurant with a refreshed air of interest, to see +if there were any other traces of that singular artistic taste which +puts the sugar in the salt-cellars and the salt in the sugar-basin. +Except for an odd splash of some dark fluid on one of the white-papered +walls, the whole place appeared neat, cheerful and ordinary. He rang the +bell for the waiter. + +When that official hurried up, fuzzy-haired and somewhat blear-eyed at +that early hour, the detective (who was not without an appreciation of +the simpler forms of humour) asked him to taste the sugar and see if +it was up to the high reputation of the hotel. The result was that the +waiter yawned suddenly and woke up. + +“Do you play this delicate joke on your customers every morning?” + inquired Valentin. “Does changing the salt and sugar never pall on you +as a jest?” + +The waiter, when this irony grew clearer, stammeringly assured him that +the establishment had certainly no such intention; it must be a most +curious mistake. He picked up the sugar-basin and looked at it; he +picked up the salt-cellar and looked at that, his face growing more and +more bewildered. At last he abruptly excused himself, and hurrying +away, returned in a few seconds with the proprietor. The proprietor also +examined the sugar-basin and then the salt-cellar; the proprietor also +looked bewildered. + +Suddenly the waiter seemed to grow inarticulate with a rush of words. + +“I zink,” he stuttered eagerly, “I zink it is those two clergy-men.” + +“What two clergymen?” + +“The two clergymen,” said the waiter, “that threw soup at the wall.” + +“Threw soup at the wall?” repeated Valentin, feeling sure this must be +some singular Italian metaphor. + +“Yes, yes,” said the attendant excitedly, and pointed at the dark splash +on the white paper; “threw it over there on the wall.” + +Valentin looked his query at the proprietor, who came to his rescue with +fuller reports. + +“Yes, sir,” he said, “it’s quite true, though I don’t suppose it has +anything to do with the sugar and salt. Two clergymen came in and drank +soup here very early, as soon as the shutters were taken down. They were +both very quiet, respectable people; one of them paid the bill and went +out; the other, who seemed a slower coach altogether, was some minutes +longer getting his things together. But he went at last. Only, the +instant before he stepped into the street he deliberately picked up +his cup, which he had only half emptied, and threw the soup slap on the +wall. I was in the back room myself, and so was the waiter; so I could +only rush out in time to find the wall splashed and the shop empty. It +don’t do any particular damage, but it was confounded cheek; and I tried +to catch the men in the street. They were too far off though; I only +noticed they went round the next corner into Carstairs Street.” + +The detective was on his feet, hat settled and stick in hand. He had +already decided that in the universal darkness of his mind he could +only follow the first odd finger that pointed; and this finger was odd +enough. Paying his bill and clashing the glass doors behind him, he was +soon swinging round into the other street. + +It was fortunate that even in such fevered moments his eye was cool and +quick. Something in a shop-front went by him like a mere flash; yet +he went back to look at it. The shop was a popular greengrocer and +fruiterer’s, an array of goods set out in the open air and plainly +ticketed with their names and prices. In the two most prominent +compartments were two heaps, of oranges and of nuts respectively. On +the heap of nuts lay a scrap of cardboard, on which was written in bold, +blue chalk, “Best tangerine oranges, two a penny.” On the oranges was +the equally clear and exact description, “Finest Brazil nuts, 4d. a lb.” + M. Valentin looked at these two placards and fancied he had met this +highly subtle form of humour before, and that somewhat recently. He +drew the attention of the red-faced fruiterer, who was looking +rather sullenly up and down the street, to this inaccuracy in his +advertisements. The fruiterer said nothing, but sharply put each +card into its proper place. The detective, leaning elegantly on his +walking-cane, continued to scrutinise the shop. At last he said, “Pray +excuse my apparent irrelevance, my good sir, but I should like to ask +you a question in experimental psychology and the association of ideas.” + +The red-faced shopman regarded him with an eye of menace; but he +continued gaily, swinging his cane, “Why,” he pursued, “why are two +tickets wrongly placed in a greengrocer’s shop like a shovel hat that +has come to London for a holiday? Or, in case I do not make myself +clear, what is the mystical association which connects the idea of nuts +marked as oranges with the idea of two clergymen, one tall and the other +short?” + +The eyes of the tradesman stood out of his head like a snail’s; he +really seemed for an instant likely to fling himself upon the stranger. +At last he stammered angrily: “I don’t know what you ’ave to do with it, +but if you’re one of their friends, you can tell ’em from me that I’ll +knock their silly ’eads off, parsons or no parsons, if they upset my +apples again.” + +“Indeed?” asked the detective, with great sympathy. “Did they upset your +apples?” + +“One of ’em did,” said the heated shopman; “rolled ’em all over the +street. I’d ’ave caught the fool but for havin’ to pick ’em up.” + +“Which way did these parsons go?” asked Valentin. + +“Up that second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square,” + said the other promptly. + +“Thanks,” replied Valentin, and vanished like a fairy. On the other side +of the second square he found a policeman, and said: “This is urgent, +constable; have you seen two clergymen in shovel hats?” + +The policeman began to chuckle heavily. “I ’ave, sir; and if you arst +me, one of ’em was drunk. He stood in the middle of the road that +bewildered that--” + +“Which way did they go?” snapped Valentin. + +“They took one of them yellow buses over there,” answered the man; “them +that go to Hampstead.” + +Valentin produced his official card and said very rapidly: “Call up two +of your men to come with me in pursuit,” and crossed the road with such +contagious energy that the ponderous policeman was moved to almost agile +obedience. In a minute and a half the French detective was joined on the +opposite pavement by an inspector and a man in plain clothes. + +“Well, sir,” began the former, with smiling importance, “and what +may--?” + +Valentin pointed suddenly with his cane. “I’ll tell you on the top of +that omnibus,” he said, and was darting and dodging across the tangle of +the traffic. When all three sank panting on the top seats of the yellow +vehicle, the inspector said: “We could go four times as quick in a +taxi.” + +“Quite true,” replied their leader placidly, “if we only had an idea of +where we were going.” + +“Well, where are you going?” asked the other, staring. + +Valentin smoked frowningly for a few seconds; then, removing his +cigarette, he said: “If you know what a man’s doing, get in front of +him; but if you want to guess what he’s doing, keep behind him. Stray +when he strays; stop when he stops; travel as slowly as he. Then you may +see what he saw and may act as he acted. All we can do is to keep our +eyes skinned for a queer thing.” + +“What sort of queer thing do you mean?” asked the inspector. + +“Any sort of queer thing,” answered Valentin, and relapsed into +obstinate silence. + +The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed like +hours on end; the great detective would not explain further, and perhaps +his assistants felt a silent and growing doubt of his errand. Perhaps, +also, they felt a silent and growing desire for lunch, for the hours +crept long past the normal luncheon hour, and the long roads of the +North London suburbs seemed to shoot out into length after length like +an infernal telescope. It was one of those journeys on which a man +perpetually feels that now at last he must have come to the end of the +universe, and then finds he has only come to the beginning of Tufnell +Park. London died away in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs, and then +was unaccountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant hotels. +It was like passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities all +just touching each other. But though the winter twilight was already +threatening the road ahead of them, the Parisian detective still sat +silent and watchful, eyeing the frontage of the streets that slid by on +either side. By the time they had left Camden Town behind, the policemen +were nearly asleep; at least, they gave something like a jump as +Valentin leapt erect, struck a hand on each man’s shoulder, and shouted +to the driver to stop. + +They tumbled down the steps into the road without realising why they +had been dislodged; when they looked round for enlightenment they found +Valentin triumphantly pointing his finger towards a window on the left +side of the road. It was a large window, forming part of the long +façade of a gilt and palatial public-house; it was the part reserved for +respectable dining, and labelled “Restaurant.” This window, like all the +rest along the frontage of the hotel, was of frosted and figured glass; +but in the middle of it was a big, black smash, like a star in the ice. + +“Our cue at last,” cried Valentin, waving his stick; “the place with the +broken window.” + +“What window? What cue?” asked his principal assistant. “Why, what proof +is there that this has anything to do with them?” + +Valentin almost broke his bamboo stick with rage. + +“Proof!” he cried. “Good God! the man is looking for proof! Why, of +course, the chances are twenty to one that it has nothing to do with +them. But what else can we do? Don’t you see we must either follow one +wild possibility or else go home to bed?” He banged his way into the +restaurant, followed by his companions, and they were soon seated at a +late luncheon at a little table, and looked at the star of smashed glass +from the inside. Not that it was very informative to them even then. + +“Got your window broken, I see,” said Valentin to the waiter as he paid +the bill. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the attendant, bending busily over the change, to +which Valentin silently added an enormous tip. The waiter straightened +himself with mild but unmistakable animation. + +“Ah, yes, sir,” he said. “Very odd thing, that, sir.” + +“Indeed?” Tell us about it,” said the detective with careless curiosity. + +“Well, two gents in black came in,” said the waiter; “two of those +foreign parsons that are running about. They had a cheap and quiet +little lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other was +just going out to join him when I looked at my change again and found +he’d paid me more than three times too much. ‘Here,’ I says to the chap +who was nearly out of the door, ‘you’ve paid too much.’ ‘Oh,’ he says, +very cool, ‘have we?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, and picks up the bill to show him. +Well, that was a knock-out.” + +“What do you mean?” asked his interlocutor. + +“Well, I’d have sworn on seven Bibles that I’d put 4s. on that bill. But +now I saw I’d put 14s., as plain as paint.” + +“Well?” cried Valentin, moving slowly, but with burning eyes, “and +then?” + +“The parson at the door he says all serene, ‘Sorry to confuse your +accounts, but it’ll pay for the window.’ ‘What window?’ I says. ‘The +one I’m going to break,’ he says, and smashed that blessed pane with his +umbrella.” + +All three inquirers made an exclamation; and the inspector said under +his breath, “Are we after escaped lunatics?” The waiter went on with +some relish for the ridiculous story: + +“I was so knocked silly for a second, I couldn’t do anything. The man +marched out of the place and joined his friend just round the corner. +Then they went so quick up Bullock Street that I couldn’t catch them, +though I ran round the bars to do it.” + +“Bullock Street,” said the detective, and shot up that thoroughfare as +quickly as the strange couple he pursued. + +Their journey now took them through bare brick ways like tunnels; +streets with few lights and even with few windows; streets that seemed +built out of the blank backs of everything and everywhere. Dusk was +deepening, and it was not easy even for the London policemen to guess +in what exact direction they were treading. The inspector, however, was +pretty certain that they would eventually strike some part of Hampstead +Heath. Abruptly one bulging gas-lit window broke the blue twilight like +a bull’s-eye lantern; and Valentin stopped an instant before a little +garish sweetstuff shop. After an instant’s hesitation he went in; he +stood amid the gaudy colours of the confectionery with entire gravity +and bought thirteen chocolate cigars with a certain care. He was clearly +preparing an opening; but he did not need one. + +An angular, elderly young woman in the shop had regarded his elegant +appearance with a merely automatic inquiry; but when she saw the door +behind him blocked with the blue uniform of the inspector, her eyes +seemed to wake up. + +“Oh,” she said, “if you’ve come about that parcel, I’ve sent it off +already.” + +“Parcel?” repeated Valentin; and it was his turn to look inquiring. + +“I mean the parcel the gentleman left--the clergyman gentleman.” + +“For goodness’ sake,” said Valentin, leaning forward with his first +real confession of eagerness, “for Heaven’s sake tell us what happened +exactly.” + +“Well,” said the woman a little doubtfully, “the clergymen came in about +half an hour ago and bought some peppermints and talked a bit, and then +went off towards the Heath. But a second after, one of them runs +back into the shop and says, ‘Have I left a parcel!’ Well, I looked +everywhere and couldn’t see one; so he says, ‘Never mind; but if it +should turn up, please post it to this address,’ and he left me the +address and a shilling for my trouble. And sure enough, though I thought +I’d looked everywhere, I found he’d left a brown paper parcel, so I +posted it to the place he said. I can’t remember the address now; it +was somewhere in Westminster. But as the thing seemed so important, I +thought perhaps the police had come about it.” + +“So they have,” said Valentin shortly. “Is Hampstead Heath near here?” + +“Straight on for fifteen minutes,” said the woman, “and you’ll come +right out on the open.” Valentin sprang out of the shop and began to +run. The other detectives followed him at a reluctant trot. + +The street they threaded was so narrow and shut in by shadows that when +they came out unexpectedly into the void common and vast sky they were +startled to find the evening still so light and clear. A perfect dome +of peacock-green sank into gold amid the blackening trees and the dark +violet distances. The glowing green tint was just deep enough to pick +out in points of crystal one or two stars. All that was left of the +daylight lay in a golden glitter across the edge of Hampstead and that +popular hollow which is called the Vale of Health. The holiday makers +who roam this region had not wholly dispersed; a few couples sat +shapelessly on benches; and here and there a distant girl still shrieked +in one of the swings. The glory of heaven deepened and darkened around +the sublime vulgarity of man; and standing on the slope and looking +across the valley, Valentin beheld the thing which he sought. + +Among the black and breaking groups in that distance was one especially +black which did not break--a group of two figures clerically clad. +Though they seemed as small as insects, Valentin could see that one of +them was much smaller than the other. Though the other had a student’s +stoop and an inconspicuous manner, he could see that the man was well +over six feet high. He shut his teeth and went forward, whirling his +stick impatiently. By the time he had substantially diminished the +distance and magnified the two black figures as in a vast microscope, +he had perceived something else; something which startled him, and yet +which he had somehow expected. Whoever was the tall priest, there could +be no doubt about the identity of the short one. It was his friend of +the Harwich train, the stumpy little cure of Essex whom he had warned +about his brown paper parcels. + +Now, so far as this went, everything fitted in finally and rationally +enough. Valentin had learned by his inquiries that morning that a Father +Brown from Essex was bringing up a silver cross with sapphires, a +relic of considerable value, to show some of the foreign priests at the +congress. This undoubtedly was the “silver with blue stones”; and Father +Brown undoubtedly was the little greenhorn in the train. Now there +was nothing wonderful about the fact that what Valentin had found out +Flambeau had also found out; Flambeau found out everything. Also there +was nothing wonderful in the fact that when Flambeau heard of a sapphire +cross he should try to steal it; that was the most natural thing in all +natural history. And most certainly there was nothing wonderful about +the fact that Flambeau should have it all his own way with such a silly +sheep as the man with the umbrella and the parcels. He was the sort of +man whom anybody could lead on a string to the North Pole; it was not +surprising that an actor like Flambeau, dressed as another priest, could +lead him to Hampstead Heath. So far the crime seemed clear enough; and +while the detective pitied the priest for his helplessness, he almost +despised Flambeau for condescending to so gullible a victim. But when +Valentin thought of all that had happened in between, of all that had +led him to his triumph, he racked his brains for the smallest rhyme or +reason in it. What had the stealing of a blue-and-silver cross from a +priest from Essex to do with chucking soup at wall paper? What had it +to do with calling nuts oranges, or with paying for windows first and +breaking them afterwards? He had come to the end of his chase; yet +somehow he had missed the middle of it. When he failed (which was +seldom), he had usually grasped the clue, but nevertheless missed the +criminal. Here he had grasped the criminal, but still he could not grasp +the clue. + +The two figures that they followed were crawling like black flies +across the huge green contour of a hill. They were evidently sunk in +conversation, and perhaps did not notice where they were going; but they +were certainly going to the wilder and more silent heights of the Heath. +As their pursuers gained on them, the latter had to use the undignified +attitudes of the deer-stalker, to crouch behind clumps of trees and +even to crawl prostrate in deep grass. By these ungainly ingenuities the +hunters even came close enough to the quarry to hear the murmur of the +discussion, but no word could be distinguished except the word “reason” + recurring frequently in a high and almost childish voice. Once over +an abrupt dip of land and a dense tangle of thickets, the detectives +actually lost the two figures they were following. They did not find the +trail again for an agonising ten minutes, and then it led round the brow +of a great dome of hill overlooking an amphitheatre of rich and desolate +sunset scenery. Under a tree in this commanding yet neglected spot was +an old ramshackle wooden seat. On this seat sat the two priests still in +serious speech together. The gorgeous green and gold still clung to +the darkening horizon; but the dome above was turning slowly from +peacock-green to peacock-blue, and the stars detached themselves more +and more like solid jewels. Mutely motioning to his followers, Valentin +contrived to creep up behind the big branching tree, and, standing there +in deathly silence, heard the words of the strange priests for the first +time. + +After he had listened for a minute and a half, he was gripped by a +devilish doubt. Perhaps he had dragged the two English policemen to the +wastes of a nocturnal heath on an errand no saner than seeking figs on +its thistles. For the two priests were talking exactly like priests, +piously, with learning and leisure, about the most aerial enigmas of +theology. The little Essex priest spoke the more simply, with his round +face turned to the strengthening stars; the other talked with his +head bowed, as if he were not even worthy to look at them. But no more +innocently clerical conversation could have been heard in any white +Italian cloister or black Spanish cathedral. + +The first he heard was the tail of one of Father Brown’s sentences, +which ended: “... what they really meant in the Middle Ages by the +heavens being incorruptible.” + +The taller priest nodded his bowed head and said: + +“Ah, yes, these modern infidels appeal to their reason; but who can +look at those millions of worlds and not feel that there may well be +wonderful universes above us where reason is utterly unreasonable?” + +“No,” said the other priest; “reason is always reasonable, even in the +last limbo, in the lost borderland of things. I know that people charge +the Church with lowering reason, but it is just the other way. Alone +on earth, the Church makes reason really supreme. Alone on earth, the +Church affirms that God himself is bound by reason.” + +The other priest raised his austere face to the spangled sky and said: + +“Yet who knows if in that infinite universe--?” + +“Only infinite physically,” said the little priest, turning sharply +in his seat, “not infinite in the sense of escaping from the laws of +truth.” + +Valentin behind his tree was tearing his fingernails with silent fury. +He seemed almost to hear the sniggers of the English detectives whom +he had brought so far on a fantastic guess only to listen to the +metaphysical gossip of two mild old parsons. In his impatience he lost +the equally elaborate answer of the tall cleric, and when he listened +again it was again Father Brown who was speaking: + +“Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Look +at those stars. Don’t they look as if they were single diamonds and +sapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please. +Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moon +is a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don’t fancy that all +that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason +and justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out of +pearl, you would still find a notice-board, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’” + +Valentin was just in the act of rising from his rigid and crouching +attitude and creeping away as softly as might be, felled by the one +great folly of his life. But something in the very silence of the tall +priest made him stop until the latter spoke. When at last he did speak, +he said simply, his head bowed and his hands on his knees: + +“Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than our +reason. The mystery of heaven is unfathomable, and I for one can only +bow my head.” + +Then, with brow yet bent and without changing by the faintest shade his +attitude or voice, he added: + +“Just hand over that sapphire cross of yours, will you? We’re all alone +here, and I could pull you to pieces like a straw doll.” + +The utterly unaltered voice and attitude added a strange violence to +that shocking change of speech. But the guarder of the relic only seemed +to turn his head by the smallest section of the compass. He seemed still +to have a somewhat foolish face turned to the stars. Perhaps he had not +understood. Or, perhaps, he had understood and sat rigid with terror. + +“Yes,” said the tall priest, in the same low voice and in the same still +posture, “yes, I am Flambeau.” + +Then, after a pause, he said: + +“Come, will you give me that cross?” + +“No,” said the other, and the monosyllable had an odd sound. + +Flambeau suddenly flung off all his pontifical pretensions. The great +robber leaned back in his seat and laughed low but long. + +“No,” he cried, “you won’t give it me, you proud prelate. You won’t give +it me, you little celibate simpleton. Shall I tell you why you won’t +give it me? Because I’ve got it already in my own breast-pocket.” + +The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face in the +dusk, and said, with the timid eagerness of “The Private Secretary”: + +“Are--are you sure?” + +Flambeau yelled with delight. + +“Really, you’re as good as a three-act farce,” he cried. “Yes, you +turnip, I am quite sure. I had the sense to make a duplicate of the +right parcel, and now, my friend, you’ve got the duplicate and I’ve got +the jewels. An old dodge, Father Brown--a very old dodge.” + +“Yes,” said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair with the +same strange vagueness of manner. “Yes, I’ve heard of it before.” + +The colossus of crime leaned over to the little rustic priest with a +sort of sudden interest. + +“You have heard of it?” he asked. “Where have you heard of it?” + +“Well, I mustn’t tell you his name, of course,” said the little man +simply. “He was a penitent, you know. He had lived prosperously for +about twenty years entirely on duplicate brown paper parcels. And so, +you see, when I began to suspect you, I thought of this poor chap’s way +of doing it at once.” + +“Began to suspect me?” repeated the outlaw with increased intensity. +“Did you really have the gumption to suspect me just because I brought +you up to this bare part of the heath?” + +“No, no,” said Brown with an air of apology. “You see, I suspected you +when we first met. It’s that little bulge up the sleeve where you people +have the spiked bracelet.” + +“How in Tartarus,” cried Flambeau, “did you ever hear of the spiked +bracelet?” + +“Oh, one’s little flock, you know!” said Father Brown, arching his +eyebrows rather blankly. “When I was a curate in Hartlepool, there were +three of them with spiked bracelets. So, as I suspected you from the +first, don’t you see, I made sure that the cross should go safe, anyhow. +I’m afraid I watched you, you know. So at last I saw you change the +parcels. Then, don’t you see, I changed them back again. And then I left +the right one behind.” + +“Left it behind?” repeated Flambeau, and for the first time there was +another note in his voice beside his triumph. + +“Well, it was like this,” said the little priest, speaking in the same +unaffected way. “I went back to that sweet-shop and asked if I’d left a +parcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knew +I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did. So, instead of running after +me with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of +mine in Westminster.” Then he added rather sadly: “I learnt that, too, +from a poor fellow in Hartlepool. He used to do it with handbags he +stole at railway stations, but he’s in a monastery now. Oh, one gets to +know, you know,” he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort of +desperate apology. “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us +these things.” + +Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket and rent it +in pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He +sprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture, and cried: + +“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a bumpkin like you could manage +all that. I believe you’ve still got the stuff on you, and if you don’t +give it up--why, we’re all alone, and I’ll take it by force!” + +“No,” said Father Brown simply, and stood up also, “you won’t take it +by force. First, because I really haven’t still got it. And, second, +because we are not alone.” + +Flambeau stopped in his stride forward. + +“Behind that tree,” said Father Brown, pointing, “are two strong +policemen and the greatest detective alive. How did they come here, do +you ask? Why, I brought them, of course! How did I do it? Why, I’ll tell +you if you like! Lord bless you, we have to know twenty such things +when we work among the criminal classes! Well, I wasn’t sure you were +a thief, and it would never do to make a scandal against one of our +own clergy. So I just tested you to see if anything would make you show +yourself. A man generally makes a small scene if he finds salt in his +coffee; if he doesn’t, he has some reason for keeping quiet. I changed +the salt and sugar, and you kept quiet. A man generally objects if +his bill is three times too big. If he pays it, he has some motive for +passing unnoticed. I altered your bill, and you paid it.” + +The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger. But he was +held back as by a spell; he was stunned with the utmost curiosity. + +“Well,” went on Father Brown, with lumbering lucidity, “as you wouldn’t +leave any tracks for the police, of course somebody had to. At every +place we went to, I took care to do something that would get us talked +about for the rest of the day. I didn’t do much harm--a splashed wall, +spilt apples, a broken window; but I saved the cross, as the cross will +always be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn’t +stop it with the Donkey’s Whistle.” + +“With the what?” asked Flambeau. + +“I’m glad you’ve never heard of it,” said the priest, making a face. +“It’s a foul thing. I’m sure you’re too good a man for a Whistler. I +couldn’t have countered it even with the Spots myself; I’m not strong +enough in the legs.” + +“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the other. + +“Well, I did think you’d know the Spots,” said Father Brown, agreeably +surprised. “Oh, you can’t have gone so very wrong yet!” + +“How in blazes do you know all these horrors?” cried Flambeau. + +The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clerical +opponent. + +“Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose,” he said. “Has it never +struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men’s real sins +is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter of +fact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren’t a priest.” + +“What?” asked the thief, almost gaping. + +“You attacked reason,” said Father Brown. “It’s bad theology.” + +And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three policemen +came out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an artist and a +sportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great bow. + +“Do not bow to me, mon ami,” said Valentin with silver clearness. “Let +us both bow to our master.” + +And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex priest +blinked about for his umbrella. + + + + +The Secret Garden + + +Aristide Valentin, Chief of the Paris Police, was late for his dinner, +and some of his guests began to arrive before him. These were, however, +reassured by his confidential servant, Ivan, the old man with a scar, +and a face almost as grey as his moustaches, who always sat at a table +in the entrance hall--a hall hung with weapons. Valentin’s house was +perhaps as peculiar and celebrated as its master. It was an old house, +with high walls and tall poplars almost overhanging the Seine; but the +oddity--and perhaps the police value--of its architecture was this: that +there was no ultimate exit at all except through this front door, which +was guarded by Ivan and the armoury. The garden was large and elaborate, +and there were many exits from the house into the garden. But there was +no exit from the garden into the world outside; all round it ran a tall, +smooth, unscalable wall with special spikes at the top; no bad garden, +perhaps, for a man to reflect in whom some hundred criminals had sworn +to kill. + +As Ivan explained to the guests, their host had telephoned that he +was detained for ten minutes. He was, in truth, making some last +arrangements about executions and such ugly things; and though these +duties were rootedly repulsive to him, he always performed them with +precision. Ruthless in the pursuit of criminals, he was very mild about +their punishment. Since he had been supreme over French--and largely +over European--policial methods, his great influence had been honourably +used for the mitigation of sentences and the purification of prisons. +He was one of the great humanitarian French freethinkers; and the only +thing wrong with them is that they make mercy even colder than justice. + +When Valentin arrived he was already dressed in black clothes and the +red rosette--an elegant figure, his dark beard already streaked with +grey. He went straight through his house to his study, which opened on +the grounds behind. The garden door of it was open, and after he had +carefully locked his box in its official place, he stood for a few +seconds at the open door looking out upon the garden. A sharp moon +was fighting with the flying rags and tatters of a storm, and Valentin +regarded it with a wistfulness unusual in such scientific natures as +his. Perhaps such scientific natures have some psychic prevision of the +most tremendous problem of their lives. From any such occult mood, +at least, he quickly recovered, for he knew he was late, and that his +guests had already begun to arrive. A glance at his drawing-room when he +entered it was enough to make certain that his principal guest was not +there, at any rate. He saw all the other pillars of the little party; +he saw Lord Galloway, the English Ambassador--a choleric old man with a +russet face like an apple, wearing the blue ribbon of the Garter. He +saw Lady Galloway, slim and threadlike, with silver hair and a face +sensitive and superior. He saw her daughter, Lady Margaret Graham, a +pale and pretty girl with an elfish face and copper-coloured hair. He +saw the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, black-eyed and opulent, and with +her her two daughters, black-eyed and opulent also. He saw Dr. Simon, +a typical French scientist, with glasses, a pointed brown beard, and a +forehead barred with those parallel wrinkles which are the penalty +of superciliousness, since they come through constantly elevating +the eyebrows. He saw Father Brown, of Cobhole, in Essex, whom he had +recently met in England. He saw--perhaps with more interest than any +of these--a tall man in uniform, who had bowed to the Galloways without +receiving any very hearty acknowledgment, and who now advanced alone to +pay his respects to his host. This was Commandant O’Brien, of the +French Foreign Legion. He was a slim yet somewhat swaggering figure, +clean-shaven, dark-haired, and blue-eyed, and, as seemed natural in an +officer of that famous regiment of victorious failures and successful +suicides, he had an air at once dashing and melancholy. He was by birth +an Irish gentleman, and in boyhood had known the Galloways--especially +Margaret Graham. He had left his country after some crash of debts, and +now expressed his complete freedom from British etiquette by swinging +about in uniform, sabre and spurs. When he bowed to the Ambassador’s +family, Lord and Lady Galloway bent stiffly, and Lady Margaret looked +away. + +But for whatever old causes such people might be interested in each +other, their distinguished host was not specially interested in them. No +one of them at least was in his eyes the guest of the evening. Valentin +was expecting, for special reasons, a man of world-wide fame, whose +friendship he had secured during some of his great detective tours and +triumphs in the United States. He was expecting Julius K. Brayne, that +multi-millionaire whose colossal and even crushing endowments of small +religions have occasioned so much easy sport and easier solemnity for +the American and English papers. Nobody could quite make out whether Mr. +Brayne was an atheist or a Mormon or a Christian Scientist; but he was +ready to pour money into any intellectual vessel, so long as it was +an untried vessel. One of his hobbies was to wait for the American +Shakespeare--a hobby more patient than angling. He admired Walt Whitman, +but thought that Luke P. Tanner, of Paris, Pa., was more “progressive” + than Whitman any day. He liked anything that he thought “progressive.” + He thought Valentin “progressive,” thereby doing him a grave injustice. + +The solid appearance of Julius K. Brayne in the room was as decisive +as a dinner bell. He had this great quality, which very few of us +can claim, that his presence was as big as his absence. He was a huge +fellow, as fat as he was tall, clad in complete evening black, without +so much relief as a watch-chain or a ring. His hair was white and well +brushed back like a German’s; his face was red, fierce and cherubic, +with one dark tuft under the lower lip that threw up that otherwise +infantile visage with an effect theatrical and even Mephistophelean. Not +long, however, did that salon merely stare at the celebrated American; +his lateness had already become a domestic problem, and he was sent with +all speed into the dining-room with Lady Galloway on his arm. + +Except on one point the Galloways were genial and casual enough. So long +as Lady Margaret did not take the arm of that adventurer O’Brien, her +father was quite satisfied; and she had not done so, she had decorously +gone in with Dr. Simon. Nevertheless, old Lord Galloway was restless and +almost rude. He was diplomatic enough during dinner, but when, over the +cigars, three of the younger men--Simon the doctor, Brown the priest, +and the detrimental O’Brien, the exile in a foreign uniform--all melted +away to mix with the ladies or smoke in the conservatory, then the +English diplomatist grew very undiplomatic indeed. He was stung +every sixty seconds with the thought that the scamp O’Brien might be +signalling to Margaret somehow; he did not attempt to imagine how. He +was left over the coffee with Brayne, the hoary Yankee who believed +in all religions, and Valentin, the grizzled Frenchman who believed in +none. They could argue with each other, but neither could appeal to +him. After a time this “progressive” logomachy had reached a crisis of +tedium; Lord Galloway got up also and sought the drawing-room. He lost +his way in long passages for some six or eight minutes: till he heard +the high-pitched, didactic voice of the doctor, and then the dull voice +of the priest, followed by general laughter. They also, he thought with +a curse, were probably arguing about “science and religion.” But the +instant he opened the salon door he saw only one thing--he saw what +was not there. He saw that Commandant O’Brien was absent, and that Lady +Margaret was absent too. + +Rising impatiently from the drawing-room, as he had from the +dining-room, he stamped along the passage once more. His notion of +protecting his daughter from the Irish-Algerian n’er-do-well had become +something central and even mad in his mind. As he went towards the back +of the house, where was Valentin’s study, he was surprised to meet his +daughter, who swept past with a white, scornful face, which was a second +enigma. If she had been with O’Brien, where was O’Brien! If she had +not been with O’Brien, where had she been? With a sort of senile and +passionate suspicion he groped his way to the dark back parts of the +mansion, and eventually found a servants’ entrance that opened on to the +garden. The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled away all +the storm-wrack. The argent light lit up all four corners of the garden. +A tall figure in blue was striding across the lawn towards the study +door; a glint of moonlit silver on his facings picked him out as +Commandant O’Brien. + +He vanished through the French windows into the house, leaving Lord +Galloway in an indescribable temper, at once virulent and vague. The +blue-and-silver garden, like a scene in a theatre, seemed to taunt him +with all that tyrannic tenderness against which his worldly authority +was at war. The length and grace of the Irishman’s stride enraged him as +if he were a rival instead of a father; the moonlight maddened him. +He was trapped as if by magic into a garden of troubadours, a Watteau +fairyland; and, willing to shake off such amorous imbecilities by +speech, he stepped briskly after his enemy. As he did so he tripped over +some tree or stone in the grass; looked down at it first with irritation +and then a second time with curiosity. The next instant the moon and the +tall poplars looked at an unusual sight--an elderly English diplomatist +running hard and crying or bellowing as he ran. + +His hoarse shouts brought a pale face to the study door, the beaming +glasses and worried brow of Dr. Simon, who heard the nobleman’s first +clear words. Lord Galloway was crying: “A corpse in the grass--a +blood-stained corpse.” O’Brien at last had gone utterly out of his mind. + +“We must tell Valentin at once,” said the doctor, when the other had +brokenly described all that he had dared to examine. “It is fortunate +that he is here;” and even as he spoke the great detective entered the +study, attracted by the cry. It was almost amusing to note his typical +transformation; he had come with the common concern of a host and a +gentleman, fearing that some guest or servant was ill. When he was +told the gory fact, he turned with all his gravity instantly bright and +businesslike; for this, however abrupt and awful, was his business. + +“Strange, gentlemen,” he said as they hurried out into the garden, “that +I should have hunted mysteries all over the earth, and now one comes and +settles in my own back-yard. But where is the place?” They crossed the +lawn less easily, as a slight mist had begun to rise from the river; but +under the guidance of the shaken Galloway they found the body sunken +in deep grass--the body of a very tall and broad-shouldered man. He lay +face downwards, so they could only see that his big shoulders were clad +in black cloth, and that his big head was bald, except for a wisp or +two of brown hair that clung to his skull like wet seaweed. A scarlet +serpent of blood crawled from under his fallen face. + +“At least,” said Simon, with a deep and singular intonation, “he is none +of our party.” + +“Examine him, doctor,” cried Valentin rather sharply. “He may not be +dead.” + +The doctor bent down. “He is not quite cold, but I am afraid he is dead +enough,” he answered. “Just help me to lift him up.” + +They lifted him carefully an inch from the ground, and all doubts as +to his being really dead were settled at once and frightfully. The head +fell away. It had been entirely sundered from the body; whoever had +cut his throat had managed to sever the neck as well. Even Valentin +was slightly shocked. “He must have been as strong as a gorilla,” he +muttered. + +Not without a shiver, though he was used to anatomical abortions, Dr. +Simon lifted the head. It was slightly slashed about the neck and jaw, +but the face was substantially unhurt. It was a ponderous, yellow face, +at once sunken and swollen, with a hawk-like nose and heavy lids--a face +of a wicked Roman emperor, with, perhaps, a distant touch of a Chinese +emperor. All present seemed to look at it with the coldest eye of +ignorance. Nothing else could be noted about the man except that, as +they had lifted his body, they had seen underneath it the white gleam of +a shirt-front defaced with a red gleam of blood. As Dr. Simon said, +the man had never been of their party. But he might very well have been +trying to join it, for he had come dressed for such an occasion. + +Valentin went down on his hands and knees and examined with his closest +professional attention the grass and ground for some twenty yards round +the body, in which he was assisted less skillfully by the doctor, and +quite vaguely by the English lord. Nothing rewarded their grovellings +except a few twigs, snapped or chopped into very small lengths, which +Valentin lifted for an instant’s examination and then tossed away. + +“Twigs,” he said gravely; “twigs, and a total stranger with his head cut +off; that is all there is on this lawn.” + +There was an almost creepy stillness, and then the unnerved Galloway +called out sharply: + +“Who’s that! Who’s that over there by the garden wall!” + +A small figure with a foolishly large head drew waveringly near them in +the moonlit haze; looked for an instant like a goblin, but turned out to +be the harmless little priest whom they had left in the drawing-room. + +“I say,” he said meekly, “there are no gates to this garden, do you +know.” + +Valentin’s black brows had come together somewhat crossly, as they did +on principle at the sight of the cassock. But he was far too just a man +to deny the relevance of the remark. “You are right,” he said. “Before +we find out how he came to be killed, we may have to find out how he +came to be here. Now listen to me, gentlemen. If it can be done without +prejudice to my position and duty, we shall all agree that certain +distinguished names might well be kept out of this. There are ladies, +gentlemen, and there is a foreign ambassador. If we must mark it down as +a crime, then it must be followed up as a crime. But till then I can use +my own discretion. I am the head of the police; I am so public that I +can afford to be private. Please Heaven, I will clear everyone of my own +guests before I call in my men to look for anybody else. Gentlemen, upon +your honour, you will none of you leave the house till tomorrow at noon; +there are bedrooms for all. Simon, I think you know where to find my +man, Ivan, in the front hall; he is a confidential man. Tell him to +leave another servant on guard and come to me at once. Lord Galloway, +you are certainly the best person to tell the ladies what has happened, +and prevent a panic. They also must stay. Father Brown and I will remain +with the body.” + +When this spirit of the captain spoke in Valentin he was obeyed like a +bugle. Dr. Simon went through to the armoury and routed out Ivan, the +public detective’s private detective. Galloway went to the drawing-room +and told the terrible news tactfully enough, so that by the time the +company assembled there the ladies were already startled and already +soothed. Meanwhile the good priest and the good atheist stood at the +head and foot of the dead man motionless in the moonlight, like symbolic +statues of their two philosophies of death. + +Ivan, the confidential man with the scar and the moustaches, came out +of the house like a cannon ball, and came racing across the lawn to +Valentin like a dog to his master. His livid face was quite lively +with the glow of this domestic detective story, and it was with almost +unpleasant eagerness that he asked his master’s permission to examine +the remains. + +“Yes; look, if you like, Ivan,” said Valentin, “but don’t be long. We +must go in and thrash this out in the house.” + +Ivan lifted the head, and then almost let it drop. + +“Why,” he gasped, “it’s--no, it isn’t; it can’t be. Do you know this +man, sir?” + +“No,” said Valentin indifferently; “we had better go inside.” + +Between them they carried the corpse to a sofa in the study, and then +all made their way to the drawing-room. + +The detective sat down at a desk quietly, and even without hesitation; +but his eye was the iron eye of a judge at assize. He made a few rapid +notes upon paper in front of him, and then said shortly: “Is everybody +here?” + +“Not Mr. Brayne,” said the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, looking round. + +“No,” said Lord Galloway in a hoarse, harsh voice. “And not Mr. Neil +O’Brien, I fancy. I saw that gentleman walking in the garden when the +corpse was still warm.” + +“Ivan,” said the detective, “go and fetch Commandant O’Brien and Mr. +Brayne. Mr. Brayne, I know, is finishing a cigar in the dining-room; +Commandant O’Brien, I think, is walking up and down the conservatory. I +am not sure.” + +The faithful attendant flashed from the room, and before anyone could +stir or speak Valentin went on with the same soldierly swiftness of +exposition. + +“Everyone here knows that a dead man has been found in the garden, his +head cut clean from his body. Dr. Simon, you have examined it. Do you +think that to cut a man’s throat like that would need great force? Or, +perhaps, only a very sharp knife?” + +“I should say that it could not be done with a knife at all,” said the +pale doctor. + +“Have you any thought,” resumed Valentin, “of a tool with which it could +be done?” + +“Speaking within modern probabilities, I really haven’t,” said the +doctor, arching his painful brows. “It’s not easy to hack a neck through +even clumsily, and this was a very clean cut. It could be done with a +battle-axe or an old headsman’s axe, or an old two-handed sword.” + +“But, good heavens!” cried the Duchess, almost in hysterics, “there +aren’t any two-handed swords and battle-axes round here.” + +Valentin was still busy with the paper in front of him. “Tell me,” he +said, still writing rapidly, “could it have been done with a long French +cavalry sabre?” + +A low knocking came at the door, which, for some unreasonable reason, +curdled everyone’s blood like the knocking in Macbeth. Amid that frozen +silence Dr. Simon managed to say: “A sabre--yes, I suppose it could.” + +“Thank you,” said Valentin. “Come in, Ivan.” + +The confidential Ivan opened the door and ushered in Commandant Neil +O’Brien, whom he had found at last pacing the garden again. + +The Irish officer stood up disordered and defiant on the threshold. +“What do you want with me?” he cried. + +“Please sit down,” said Valentin in pleasant, level tones. “Why, you +aren’t wearing your sword. Where is it?” + +“I left it on the library table,” said O’Brien, his brogue deepening in +his disturbed mood. “It was a nuisance, it was getting--” + +“Ivan,” said Valentin, “please go and get the Commandant’s sword from +the library.” Then, as the servant vanished, “Lord Galloway says he saw +you leaving the garden just before he found the corpse. What were you +doing in the garden?” + +The Commandant flung himself recklessly into a chair. “Oh,” he cried in +pure Irish, “admirin’ the moon. Communing with Nature, me bhoy.” + +A heavy silence sank and endured, and at the end of it came again that +trivial and terrible knocking. Ivan reappeared, carrying an empty steel +scabbard. “This is all I can find,” he said. + +“Put it on the table,” said Valentin, without looking up. + +There was an inhuman silence in the room, like that sea of inhuman +silence round the dock of the condemned murderer. The Duchess’s weak +exclamations had long ago died away. Lord Galloway’s swollen hatred was +satisfied and even sobered. The voice that came was quite unexpected. + +“I think I can tell you,” cried Lady Margaret, in that clear, quivering +voice with which a courageous woman speaks publicly. “I can tell you +what Mr. O’Brien was doing in the garden, since he is bound to +silence. He was asking me to marry him. I refused; I said in my family +circumstances I could give him nothing but my respect. He was a little +angry at that; he did not seem to think much of my respect. I wonder,” + she added, with rather a wan smile, “if he will care at all for it now. +For I offer it him now. I will swear anywhere that he never did a thing +like this.” + +Lord Galloway had edged up to his daughter, and was intimidating her in +what he imagined to be an undertone. “Hold your tongue, Maggie,” he said +in a thunderous whisper. “Why should you shield the fellow? Where’s his +sword? Where’s his confounded cavalry--” + +He stopped because of the singular stare with which his daughter was +regarding him, a look that was indeed a lurid magnet for the whole +group. + +“You old fool!” she said in a low voice without pretence of piety, “what +do you suppose you are trying to prove? I tell you this man was innocent +while with me. But if he wasn’t innocent, he was still with me. If he +murdered a man in the garden, who was it who must have seen--who must +at least have known? Do you hate Neil so much as to put your own +daughter--” + +Lady Galloway screamed. Everyone else sat tingling at the touch of those +satanic tragedies that have been between lovers before now. They saw +the proud, white face of the Scotch aristocrat and her lover, the Irish +adventurer, like old portraits in a dark house. The long silence was +full of formless historical memories of murdered husbands and poisonous +paramours. + +In the centre of this morbid silence an innocent voice said: “Was it a +very long cigar?” + +The change of thought was so sharp that they had to look round to see +who had spoken. + +“I mean,” said little Father Brown, from the corner of the room, “I +mean that cigar Mr. Brayne is finishing. It seems nearly as long as a +walking-stick.” + +Despite the irrelevance there was assent as well as irritation in +Valentin’s face as he lifted his head. + +“Quite right,” he remarked sharply. “Ivan, go and see about Mr. Brayne +again, and bring him here at once.” + +The instant the factotum had closed the door, Valentin addressed the +girl with an entirely new earnestness. + +“Lady Margaret,” he said, “we all feel, I am sure, both gratitude +and admiration for your act in rising above your lower dignity and +explaining the Commandant’s conduct. But there is a hiatus still. +Lord Galloway, I understand, met you passing from the study to the +drawing-room, and it was only some minutes afterwards that he found the +garden and the Commandant still walking there.” + +“You have to remember,” replied Margaret, with a faint irony in her +voice, “that I had just refused him, so we should scarcely have come +back arm in arm. He is a gentleman, anyhow; and he loitered behind--and +so got charged with murder.” + +“In those few moments,” said Valentin gravely, “he might really--” + +The knock came again, and Ivan put in his scarred face. + +“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Brayne has left the house.” + +“Left!” cried Valentin, and rose for the first time to his feet. + +“Gone. Scooted. Evaporated,” replied Ivan in humorous French. “His hat +and coat are gone, too, and I’ll tell you something to cap it all. I ran +outside the house to find any traces of him, and I found one, and a big +trace, too.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Valentin. + +“I’ll show you,” said his servant, and reappeared with a flashing naked +cavalry sabre, streaked with blood about the point and edge. Everyone in +the room eyed it as if it were a thunderbolt; but the experienced Ivan +went on quite quietly: + +“I found this,” he said, “flung among the bushes fifty yards up the road +to Paris. In other words, I found it just where your respectable Mr. +Brayne threw it when he ran away.” + +There was again a silence, but of a new sort. Valentin took the sabre, +examined it, reflected with unaffected concentration of thought, and +then turned a respectful face to O’Brien. “Commandant,” he said, “we +trust you will always produce this weapon if it is wanted for police +examination. Meanwhile,” he added, slapping the steel back in the +ringing scabbard, “let me return you your sword.” + +At the military symbolism of the action the audience could hardly +refrain from applause. + +For Neil O’Brien, indeed, that gesture was the turning-point of +existence. By the time he was wandering in the mysterious garden again +in the colours of the morning the tragic futility of his ordinary mien +had fallen from him; he was a man with many reasons for happiness. Lord +Galloway was a gentleman, and had offered him an apology. Lady Margaret +was something better than a lady, a woman at least, and had perhaps +given him something better than an apology, as they drifted among the +old flowerbeds before breakfast. The whole company was more lighthearted +and humane, for though the riddle of the death remained, the load of +suspicion was lifted off them all, and sent flying off to Paris with the +strange millionaire--a man they hardly knew. The devil was cast out of +the house--he had cast himself out. + +Still, the riddle remained; and when O’Brien threw himself on a garden +seat beside Dr. Simon, that keenly scientific person at once resumed +it. He did not get much talk out of O’Brien, whose thoughts were on +pleasanter things. + +“I can’t say it interests me much,” said the Irishman frankly, +“especially as it seems pretty plain now. Apparently Brayne hated this +stranger for some reason; lured him into the garden, and killed him with +my sword. Then he fled to the city, tossing the sword away as he went. +By the way, Ivan tells me the dead man had a Yankee dollar in his +pocket. So he was a countryman of Brayne’s, and that seems to clinch it. +I don’t see any difficulties about the business.” + +“There are five colossal difficulties,” said the doctor quietly; “like +high walls within walls. Don’t mistake me. I don’t doubt that Brayne +did it; his flight, I fancy, proves that. But as to how he did it. +First difficulty: Why should a man kill another man with a great hulking +sabre, when he can almost kill him with a pocket knife and put it back +in his pocket? Second difficulty: Why was there no noise or outcry? +Does a man commonly see another come up waving a scimitar and offer +no remarks? Third difficulty: A servant watched the front door all the +evening; and a rat cannot get into Valentin’s garden anywhere. How did +the dead man get into the garden? Fourth difficulty: Given the same +conditions, how did Brayne get out of the garden?” + +“And the fifth,” said Neil, with eyes fixed on the English priest who +was coming slowly up the path. + +“Is a trifle, I suppose,” said the doctor, “but I think an odd one. When +I first saw how the head had been slashed, I supposed the assassin had +struck more than once. But on examination I found many cuts across the +truncated section; in other words, they were struck after the head was +off. Did Brayne hate his foe so fiendishly that he stood sabring his +body in the moonlight?” + +“Horrible!” said O’Brien, and shuddered. + +The little priest, Brown, had arrived while they were talking, and had +waited, with characteristic shyness, till they had finished. Then he +said awkwardly: + +“I say, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I was sent to tell you the news!” + +“News?” repeated Simon, and stared at him rather painfully through his +glasses. + +“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Father Brown mildly. “There’s been another +murder, you know.” + +Both men on the seat sprang up, leaving it rocking. + +“And, what’s stranger still,” continued the priest, with his dull eye +on the rhododendrons, “it’s the same disgusting sort; it’s another +beheading. They found the second head actually bleeding into the river, +a few yards along Brayne’s road to Paris; so they suppose that he--” + +“Great Heaven!” cried O’Brien. “Is Brayne a monomaniac?” + +“There are American vendettas,” said the priest impassively. Then he +added: “They want you to come to the library and see it.” + +Commandant O’Brien followed the others towards the inquest, feeling +decidedly sick. As a soldier, he loathed all this secretive carnage; +where were these extravagant amputations going to stop? First one +head was hacked off, and then another; in this case (he told himself +bitterly) it was not true that two heads were better than one. As he +crossed the study he almost staggered at a shocking coincidence. Upon +Valentin’s table lay the coloured picture of yet a third bleeding head; +and it was the head of Valentin himself. A second glance showed him it +was only a Nationalist paper, called _The Guillotine_, which every week +showed one of its political opponents with rolling eyes and writhing +features just after execution; for Valentin was an anti-clerical of some +note. But O’Brien was an Irishman, with a kind of chastity even in his +sins; and his gorge rose against that great brutality of the intellect +which belongs only to France. He felt Paris as a whole, from the +grotesques on the Gothic churches to the gross caricatures in the +newspapers. He remembered the gigantic jests of the Revolution. He saw +the whole city as one ugly energy, from the sanguinary sketch lying on +Valentin’s table up to where, above a mountain and forest of gargoyles, +the great devil grins on Notre Dame. + +The library was long, low, and dark; what light entered it shot from +under low blinds and had still some of the ruddy tinge of morning. +Valentin and his servant Ivan were waiting for them at the upper end of +a long, slightly-sloping desk, on which lay the mortal remains, looking +enormous in the twilight. The big black figure and yellow face of the +man found in the garden confronted them essentially unchanged. The +second head, which had been fished from among the river reeds that +morning, lay streaming and dripping beside it; Valentin’s men were still +seeking to recover the rest of this second corpse, which was supposed +to be afloat. Father Brown, who did not seem to share O’Brien’s +sensibilities in the least, went up to the second head and examined it +with his blinking care. It was little more than a mop of wet white hair, +fringed with silver fire in the red and level morning light; the face, +which seemed of an ugly, empurpled and perhaps criminal type, had been +much battered against trees or stones as it tossed in the water. + +“Good morning, Commandant O’Brien,” said Valentin, with quiet +cordiality. “You have heard of Brayne’s last experiment in butchery, I +suppose?” + +Father Brown was still bending over the head with white hair, and he +said, without looking up: + +“I suppose it is quite certain that Brayne cut off this head, too.” + +“Well, it seems common sense,” said Valentin, with his hands in his +pockets. “Killed in the same way as the other. Found within a few yards +of the other. And sliced by the same weapon which we know he carried +away.” + +“Yes, yes; I know,” replied Father Brown submissively. “Yet, you know, I +doubt whether Brayne could have cut off this head.” + +“Why not?” inquired Dr. Simon, with a rational stare. + +“Well, doctor,” said the priest, looking up blinking, “can a man cut off +his own head? I don’t know.” + +O’Brien felt an insane universe crashing about his ears; but the doctor +sprang forward with impetuous practicality and pushed back the wet white +hair. + +“Oh, there’s no doubt it’s Brayne,” said the priest quietly. “He had +exactly that chip in the left ear.” + +The detective, who had been regarding the priest with steady and +glittering eyes, opened his clenched mouth and said sharply: “You seem +to know a lot about him, Father Brown.” + +“I do,” said the little man simply. “I’ve been about with him for some +weeks. He was thinking of joining our church.” + +The star of the fanatic sprang into Valentin’s eyes; he strode towards +the priest with clenched hands. “And, perhaps,” he cried, with a +blasting sneer, “perhaps he was also thinking of leaving all his money +to your church.” + +“Perhaps he was,” said Brown stolidly; “it is possible.” + +“In that case,” cried Valentin, with a dreadful smile, “you may indeed +know a great deal about him. About his life and about his--” + +Commandant O’Brien laid a hand on Valentin’s arm. “Drop that slanderous +rubbish, Valentin,” he said, “or there may be more swords yet.” + +But Valentin (under the steady, humble gaze of the priest) had already +recovered himself. “Well,” he said shortly, “people’s private opinions +can wait. You gentlemen are still bound by your promise to stay; you +must enforce it on yourselves--and on each other. Ivan here will tell +you anything more you want to know; I must get to business and write to +the authorities. We can’t keep this quiet any longer. I shall be writing +in my study if there is any more news.” + +“Is there any more news, Ivan?” asked Dr. Simon, as the chief of police +strode out of the room. + +“Only one more thing, I think, sir,” said Ivan, wrinkling up his grey +old face, “but that’s important, too, in its way. There’s that old +buffer you found on the lawn,” and he pointed without pretence of +reverence at the big black body with the yellow head. “We’ve found out +who he is, anyhow.” + +“Indeed!” cried the astonished doctor, “and who is he?” + +“His name was Arnold Becker,” said the under-detective, “though he went +by many aliases. He was a wandering sort of scamp, and is known to have +been in America; so that was where Brayne got his knife into him. We +didn’t have much to do with him ourselves, for he worked mostly in +Germany. We’ve communicated, of course, with the German police. But, +oddly enough, there was a twin brother of his, named Louis Becker, +whom we had a great deal to do with. In fact, we found it necessary to +guillotine him only yesterday. Well, it’s a rum thing, gentlemen, but +when I saw that fellow flat on the lawn I had the greatest jump of my +life. If I hadn’t seen Louis Becker guillotined with my own eyes, +I’d have sworn it was Louis Becker lying there in the grass. Then, of +course, I remembered his twin brother in Germany, and following up the +clue--” + +The explanatory Ivan stopped, for the excellent reason that nobody was +listening to him. The Commandant and the doctor were both staring at +Father Brown, who had sprung stiffly to his feet, and was holding his +temples tight like a man in sudden and violent pain. + +“Stop, stop, stop!” he cried; “stop talking a minute, for I see half. +Will God give me strength? Will my brain make the one jump and see all? +Heaven help me! I used to be fairly good at thinking. I could paraphrase +any page in Aquinas once. Will my head split--or will it see? I see +half--I only see half.” + +He buried his head in his hands, and stood in a sort of rigid torture +of thought or prayer, while the other three could only go on staring at +this last prodigy of their wild twelve hours. + +When Father Brown’s hands fell they showed a face quite fresh and +serious, like a child’s. He heaved a huge sigh, and said: “Let us get +this said and done with as quickly as possible. Look here, this will +be the quickest way to convince you all of the truth.” He turned to the +doctor. “Dr. Simon,” he said, “you have a strong head-piece, and I heard +you this morning asking the five hardest questions about this business. +Well, if you will ask them again, I will answer them.” + +Simon’s pince-nez dropped from his nose in his doubt and wonder, but +he answered at once. “Well, the first question, you know, is why a man +should kill another with a clumsy sabre at all when a man can kill with +a bodkin?” + +“A man cannot behead with a bodkin,” said Brown calmly, “and for this +murder beheading was absolutely necessary.” + +“Why?” asked O’Brien, with interest. + +“And the next question?” asked Father Brown. + +“Well, why didn’t the man cry out or anything?” asked the doctor; +“sabres in gardens are certainly unusual.” + +“Twigs,” said the priest gloomily, and turned to the window which looked +on the scene of death. “No one saw the point of the twigs. Why should +they lie on that lawn (look at it) so far from any tree? They were not +snapped off; they were chopped off. The murderer occupied his enemy +with some tricks with the sabre, showing how he could cut a branch in +mid-air, or what-not. Then, while his enemy bent down to see the result, +a silent slash, and the head fell.” + +“Well,” said the doctor slowly, “that seems plausible enough. But my +next two questions will stump anyone.” + +The priest still stood looking critically out of the window and waited. + +“You know how all the garden was sealed up like an air-tight chamber,” + went on the doctor. “Well, how did the strange man get into the garden?” + +Without turning round, the little priest answered: “There never was any +strange man in the garden.” + +There was a silence, and then a sudden cackle of almost childish +laughter relieved the strain. The absurdity of Brown’s remark moved Ivan +to open taunts. + +“Oh!” he cried; “then we didn’t lug a great fat corpse on to a sofa last +night? He hadn’t got into the garden, I suppose?” + +“Got into the garden?” repeated Brown reflectively. “No, not entirely.” + +“Hang it all,” cried Simon, “a man gets into a garden, or he doesn’t.” + +“Not necessarily,” said the priest, with a faint smile. “What is the +nest question, doctor?” + +“I fancy you’re ill,” exclaimed Dr. Simon sharply; “but I’ll ask the +next question if you like. How did Brayne get out of the garden?” + +“He didn’t get out of the garden,” said the priest, still looking out of +the window. + +“Didn’t get out of the garden?” exploded Simon. + +“Not completely,” said Father Brown. + +Simon shook his fists in a frenzy of French logic. “A man gets out of a +garden, or he doesn’t,” he cried. + +“Not always,” said Father Brown. + +Dr. Simon sprang to his feet impatiently. “I have no time to spare on +such senseless talk,” he cried angrily. “If you can’t understand a man +being on one side of a wall or the other, I won’t trouble you further.” + +“Doctor,” said the cleric very gently, “we have always got on very +pleasantly together. If only for the sake of old friendship, stop and +tell me your fifth question.” + +The impatient Simon sank into a chair by the door and said briefly: “The +head and shoulders were cut about in a queer way. It seemed to be done +after death.” + +“Yes,” said the motionless priest, “it was done so as to make you assume +exactly the one simple falsehood that you did assume. It was done to +make you take for granted that the head belonged to the body.” + +The borderland of the brain, where all the monsters are made, moved +horribly in the Gaelic O’Brien. He felt the chaotic presence of all +the horse-men and fish-women that man’s unnatural fancy has begotten. A +voice older than his first fathers seemed saying in his ear: “Keep out +of the monstrous garden where grows the tree with double fruit. Avoid +the evil garden where died the man with two heads.” Yet, while these +shameful symbolic shapes passed across the ancient mirror of his Irish +soul, his Frenchified intellect was quite alert, and was watching the +odd priest as closely and incredulously as all the rest. + +Father Brown had turned round at last, and stood against the window, +with his face in dense shadow; but even in that shadow they could see +it was pale as ashes. Nevertheless, he spoke quite sensibly, as if there +were no Gaelic souls on earth. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “you did not find the strange body of Becker in +the garden. You did not find any strange body in the garden. In face +of Dr. Simon’s rationalism, I still affirm that Becker was only partly +present. Look here!” (pointing to the black bulk of the mysterious +corpse) “you never saw that man in your lives. Did you ever see this +man?” + +He rapidly rolled away the bald, yellow head of the unknown, and put in +its place the white-maned head beside it. And there, complete, unified, +unmistakable, lay Julius K. Brayne. + +“The murderer,” went on Brown quietly, “hacked off his enemy’s head and +flung the sword far over the wall. But he was too clever to fling the +sword only. He flung the head over the wall also. Then he had only to +clap on another head to the corpse, and (as he insisted on a private +inquest) you all imagined a totally new man.” + +“Clap on another head!” said O’Brien staring. “What other head? Heads +don’t grow on garden bushes, do they?” + +“No,” said Father Brown huskily, and looking at his boots; “there +is only one place where they grow. They grow in the basket of the +guillotine, beside which the chief of police, Aristide Valentin, was +standing not an hour before the murder. Oh, my friends, hear me a minute +more before you tear me in pieces. Valentin is an honest man, if being +mad for an arguable cause is honesty. But did you never see in that +cold, grey eye of his that he is mad! He would do anything, anything, to +break what he calls the superstition of the Cross. He has fought for +it and starved for it, and now he has murdered for it. Brayne’s crazy +millions had hitherto been scattered among so many sects that they did +little to alter the balance of things. But Valentin heard a whisper that +Brayne, like so many scatter-brained sceptics, was drifting to us; and +that was quite a different thing. Brayne would pour supplies into the +impoverished and pugnacious Church of France; he would support six +Nationalist newspapers like _The Guillotine_. The battle was already +balanced on a point, and the fanatic took flame at the risk. He resolved +to destroy the millionaire, and he did it as one would expect the +greatest of detectives to commit his only crime. He abstracted the +severed head of Becker on some criminological excuse, and took it home +in his official box. He had that last argument with Brayne, that Lord +Galloway did not hear the end of; that failing, he led him out into the +sealed garden, talked about swordsmanship, used twigs and a sabre for +illustration, and--” + +Ivan of the Scar sprang up. “You lunatic,” he yelled; “you’ll go to my +master now, if I take you by--” + +“Why, I was going there,” said Brown heavily; “I must ask him to +confess, and all that.” + +Driving the unhappy Brown before them like a hostage or sacrifice, they +rushed together into the sudden stillness of Valentin’s study. + +The great detective sat at his desk apparently too occupied to hear +their turbulent entrance. They paused a moment, and then something in +the look of that upright and elegant back made the doctor run forward +suddenly. A touch and a glance showed him that there was a small box of +pills at Valentin’s elbow, and that Valentin was dead in his chair; and +on the blind face of the suicide was more than the pride of Cato. + + + + +The Queer Feet + + +If you meet a member of that select club, “The Twelve True Fishermen,” + entering the Vernon Hotel for the annual club dinner, you will observe, +as he takes off his overcoat, that his evening coat is green and not +black. If (supposing that you have the star-defying audacity to address +such a being) you ask him why, he will probably answer that he does it +to avoid being mistaken for a waiter. You will then retire crushed. But +you will leave behind you a mystery as yet unsolved and a tale worth +telling. + +If (to pursue the same vein of improbable conjecture) you were to meet +a mild, hard-working little priest, named Father Brown, and were to ask +him what he thought was the most singular luck of his life, he would +probably reply that upon the whole his best stroke was at the Vernon +Hotel, where he had averted a crime and, perhaps, saved a soul, merely +by listening to a few footsteps in a passage. He is perhaps a little +proud of this wild and wonderful guess of his, and it is possible that +he might refer to it. But since it is immeasurably unlikely that you +will ever rise high enough in the social world to find “The Twelve +True Fishermen,” or that you will ever sink low enough among slums and +criminals to find Father Brown, I fear you will never hear the story at +all unless you hear it from me. + +The Vernon Hotel at which The Twelve True Fishermen held their annual +dinners was an institution such as can only exist in an oligarchical +society which has almost gone mad on good manners. It was that +topsy-turvy product--an “exclusive” commercial enterprise. That is, it +was a thing which paid not by attracting people, but actually by turning +people away. In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunning +enough to be more fastidious than their customers. They positively +create difficulties so that their wealthy and weary clients may spend +money and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a fashionable +hotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, society +would meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it. If there +were an expensive restaurant which by a mere caprice of its proprietor +was only open on Thursday afternoon, it would be crowded on Thursday +afternoon. The Vernon Hotel stood, as if by accident, in the corner of a +square in Belgravia. It was a small hotel; and a very inconvenient +one. But its very inconveniences were considered as walls protecting a +particular class. One inconvenience, in particular, was held to be of +vital importance: the fact that practically only twenty-four people +could dine in the place at once. The only big dinner table was the +celebrated terrace table, which stood open to the air on a sort of +veranda overlooking one of the most exquisite old gardens in London. +Thus it happened that even the twenty-four seats at this table could +only be enjoyed in warm weather; and this making the enjoyment yet more +difficult made it yet more desired. The existing owner of the hotel was +a Jew named Lever; and he made nearly a million out of it, by making it +difficult to get into. Of course he combined with this limitation in the +scope of his enterprise the most careful polish in its performance. +The wines and cooking were really as good as any in Europe, and the +demeanour of the attendants exactly mirrored the fixed mood of the +English upper class. The proprietor knew all his waiters like the +fingers on his hand; there were only fifteen of them all told. It was +much easier to become a Member of Parliament than to become a waiter in +that hotel. Each waiter was trained in terrible silence and smoothness, +as if he were a gentleman’s servant. And, indeed, there was generally at +least one waiter to every gentleman who dined. + +The club of The Twelve True Fishermen would not have consented to dine +anywhere but in such a place, for it insisted on a luxurious privacy; +and would have been quite upset by the mere thought that any other club +was even dining in the same building. On the occasion of their annual +dinner the Fishermen were in the habit of exposing all their treasures, +as if they were in a private house, especially the celebrated set +of fish knives and forks which were, as it were, the insignia of the +society, each being exquisitely wrought in silver in the form of a fish, +and each loaded at the hilt with one large pearl. These were always +laid out for the fish course, and the fish course was always the most +magnificent in that magnificent repast. The society had a vast number +of ceremonies and observances, but it had no history and no object; that +was where it was so very aristocratic. You did not have to be anything +in order to be one of the Twelve Fishers; unless you were already a +certain sort of person, you never even heard of them. It had been in +existence twelve years. Its president was Mr. Audley. Its vice-president +was the Duke of Chester. + +If I have in any degree conveyed the atmosphere of this appalling hotel, +the reader may feel a natural wonder as to how I came to know anything +about it, and may even speculate as to how so ordinary a person as my +friend Father Brown came to find himself in that golden galley. As far +as that is concerned, my story is simple, or even vulgar. There is in +the world a very aged rioter and demagogue who breaks into the most +refined retreats with the dreadful information that all men are +brothers, and wherever this leveller went on his pale horse it was +Father Brown’s trade to follow. One of the waiters, an Italian, had +been struck down with a paralytic stroke that afternoon; and his Jewish +employer, marvelling mildly at such superstitions, had consented to send +for the nearest Popish priest. With what the waiter confessed to Father +Brown we are not concerned, for the excellent reason that that cleric +kept it to himself; but apparently it involved him in writing out a note +or statement for the conveying of some message or the righting of some +wrong. Father Brown, therefore, with a meek impudence which he would +have shown equally in Buckingham Palace, asked to be provided with a +room and writing materials. Mr. Lever was torn in two. He was a kind +man, and had also that bad imitation of kindness, the dislike of any +difficulty or scene. At the same time the presence of one unusual +stranger in his hotel that evening was like a speck of dirt on something +just cleaned. There was never any borderland or anteroom in the Vernon +Hotel, no people waiting in the hall, no customers coming in on chance. +There were fifteen waiters. There were twelve guests. It would be as +startling to find a new guest in the hotel that night as to find a +new brother taking breakfast or tea in one’s own family. Moreover, +the priest’s appearance was second-rate and his clothes muddy; a mere +glimpse of him afar off might precipitate a crisis in the club. Mr. +Lever at last hit on a plan to cover, since he might not obliterate, the +disgrace. When you enter (as you never will) the Vernon Hotel, you pass +down a short passage decorated with a few dingy but important pictures, +and come to the main vestibule and lounge which opens on your right +into passages leading to the public rooms, and on your left to a similar +passage pointing to the kitchens and offices of the hotel. Immediately +on your left hand is the corner of a glass office, which abuts upon +the lounge--a house within a house, so to speak, like the old hotel bar +which probably once occupied its place. + +In this office sat the representative of the proprietor (nobody in this +place ever appeared in person if he could help it), and just beyond the +office, on the way to the servants’ quarters, was the gentlemen’s cloak +room, the last boundary of the gentlemen’s domain. But between the +office and the cloak room was a small private room without other outlet, +sometimes used by the proprietor for delicate and important matters, +such as lending a duke a thousand pounds or declining to lend him +sixpence. It is a mark of the magnificent tolerance of Mr. Lever that +he permitted this holy place to be for about half an hour profaned by a +mere priest, scribbling away on a piece of paper. The story which Father +Brown was writing down was very likely a much better story than this +one, only it will never be known. I can merely state that it was very +nearly as long, and that the last two or three paragraphs of it were the +least exciting and absorbing. + +For it was by the time that he had reached these that the priest began a +little to allow his thoughts to wander and his animal senses, which were +commonly keen, to awaken. The time of darkness and dinner was drawing +on; his own forgotten little room was without a light, and perhaps the +gathering gloom, as occasionally happens, sharpened the sense of sound. +As Father Brown wrote the last and least essential part of his document, +he caught himself writing to the rhythm of a recurrent noise outside, +just as one sometimes thinks to the tune of a railway train. When he +became conscious of the thing he found what it was: only the ordinary +patter of feet passing the door, which in an hotel was no very unlikely +matter. Nevertheless, he stared at the darkened ceiling, and listened to +the sound. After he had listened for a few seconds dreamily, he got to +his feet and listened intently, with his head a little on one side. +Then he sat down again and buried his brow in his hands, now not merely +listening, but listening and thinking also. + +The footsteps outside at any given moment were such as one might hear in +any hotel; and yet, taken as a whole, there was something very strange +about them. There were no other footsteps. It was always a very silent +house, for the few familiar guests went at once to their own apartments, +and the well-trained waiters were told to be almost invisible until +they were wanted. One could not conceive any place where there was less +reason to apprehend anything irregular. But these footsteps were so +odd that one could not decide to call them regular or irregular. Father +Brown followed them with his finger on the edge of the table, like a man +trying to learn a tune on the piano. + +First, there came a long rush of rapid little steps, such as a light man +might make in winning a walking race. At a certain point they stopped +and changed to a sort of slow, swinging stamp, numbering not a quarter +of the steps, but occupying about the same time. The moment the last +echoing stamp had died away would come again the run or ripple of light, +hurrying feet, and then again the thud of the heavier walking. It was +certainly the same pair of boots, partly because (as has been said) +there were no other boots about, and partly because they had a small +but unmistakable creak in them. Father Brown had the kind of head that +cannot help asking questions; and on this apparently trivial question +his head almost split. He had seen men run in order to jump. He had seen +men run in order to slide. But why on earth should a man run in order +to walk? Or, again, why should he walk in order to run? Yet no other +description would cover the antics of this invisible pair of legs. The +man was either walking very fast down one-half of the corridor in order +to walk very slow down the other half; or he was walking very slow +at one end to have the rapture of walking fast at the other. Neither +suggestion seemed to make much sense. His brain was growing darker and +darker, like his room. + +Yet, as he began to think steadily, the very blackness of his cell +seemed to make his thoughts more vivid; he began to see as in a kind of +vision the fantastic feet capering along the corridor in unnatural or +symbolic attitudes. Was it a heathen religious dance? Or some entirely +new kind of scientific exercise? Father Brown began to ask himself with +more exactness what the steps suggested. Taking the slow step first: it +certainly was not the step of the proprietor. Men of his type walk +with a rapid waddle, or they sit still. It could not be any servant or +messenger waiting for directions. It did not sound like it. The poorer +orders (in an oligarchy) sometimes lurch about when they are slightly +drunk, but generally, and especially in such gorgeous scenes, they stand +or sit in constrained attitudes. No; that heavy yet springy step, with +a kind of careless emphasis, not specially noisy, yet not caring what +noise it made, belonged to only one of the animals of this earth. It was +a gentleman of western Europe, and probably one who had never worked for +his living. + +Just as he came to this solid certainty, the step changed to the quicker +one, and ran past the door as feverishly as a rat. The listener remarked +that though this step was much swifter it was also much more noiseless, +almost as if the man were walking on tiptoe. Yet it was not associated +in his mind with secrecy, but with something else--something that he +could not remember. He was maddened by one of those half-memories that +make a man feel half-witted. Surely he had heard that strange, swift +walking somewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a new idea in +his head, and walked to the door. His room had no direct outlet on the +passage, but let on one side into the glass office, and on the other +into the cloak room beyond. He tried the door into the office, and +found it locked. Then he looked at the window, now a square pane full of +purple cloud cleft by livid sunset, and for an instant he smelt evil as +a dog smells rats. + +The rational part of him (whether the wiser or not) regained its +supremacy. He remembered that the proprietor had told him that he should +lock the door, and would come later to release him. He told himself that +twenty things he had not thought of might explain the eccentric sounds +outside; he reminded himself that there was just enough light left to +finish his own proper work. Bringing his paper to the window so as to +catch the last stormy evening light, he resolutely plunged once more +into the almost completed record. He had written for about twenty +minutes, bending closer and closer to his paper in the lessening light; +then suddenly he sat upright. He had heard the strange feet once more. + +This time they had a third oddity. Previously the unknown man had +walked, with levity indeed and lightning quickness, but he had walked. +This time he ran. One could hear the swift, soft, bounding steps coming +along the corridor, like the pads of a fleeing and leaping panther. +Whoever was coming was a very strong, active man, in still yet tearing +excitement. Yet, when the sound had swept up to the office like a sort +of whispering whirlwind, it suddenly changed again to the old slow, +swaggering stamp. + +Father Brown flung down his paper, and, knowing the office door to +be locked, went at once into the cloak room on the other side. The +attendant of this place was temporarily absent, probably because the +only guests were at dinner and his office was a sinecure. After groping +through a grey forest of overcoats, he found that the dim cloak room +opened on the lighted corridor in the form of a sort of counter or +half-door, like most of the counters across which we have all handed +umbrellas and received tickets. There was a light immediately above +the semicircular arch of this opening. It threw little illumination on +Father Brown himself, who seemed a mere dark outline against the dim +sunset window behind him. But it threw an almost theatrical light on the +man who stood outside the cloak room in the corridor. + +He was an elegant man in very plain evening dress; tall, but with an air +of not taking up much room; one felt that he could have slid along like +a shadow where many smaller men would have been obvious and obstructive. +His face, now flung back in the lamplight, was swarthy and vivacious, +the face of a foreigner. His figure was good, his manners good humoured +and confident; a critic could only say that his black coat was a shade +below his figure and manners, and even bulged and bagged in an odd +way. The moment he caught sight of Brown’s black silhouette against the +sunset, he tossed down a scrap of paper with a number and called out +with amiable authority: “I want my hat and coat, please; I find I have +to go away at once.” + +Father Brown took the paper without a word, and obediently went to look +for the coat; it was not the first menial work he had done in his +life. He brought it and laid it on the counter; meanwhile, the strange +gentleman who had been feeling in his waistcoat pocket, said laughing: +“I haven’t got any silver; you can keep this.” And he threw down half a +sovereign, and caught up his coat. + +Father Brown’s figure remained quite dark and still; but in that instant +he had lost his head. His head was always most valuable when he had lost +it. In such moments he put two and two together and made four million. +Often the Catholic Church (which is wedded to common sense) did not +approve of it. Often he did not approve of it himself. But it was real +inspiration--important at rare crises--when whosoever shall lose his +head the same shall save it. + +“I think, sir,” he said civilly, “that you have some silver in your +pocket.” + +The tall gentleman stared. “Hang it,” he cried, “if I choose to give you +gold, why should you complain?” + +“Because silver is sometimes more valuable than gold,” said the priest +mildly; “that is, in large quantities.” + +The stranger looked at him curiously. Then he looked still more +curiously up the passage towards the main entrance. Then he looked back +at Brown again, and then he looked very carefully at the window beyond +Brown’s head, still coloured with the after-glow of the storm. Then he +seemed to make up his mind. He put one hand on the counter, vaulted +over as easily as an acrobat and towered above the priest, putting one +tremendous hand upon his collar. + +“Stand still,” he said, in a hacking whisper. “I don’t want to threaten +you, but--” + +“I do want to threaten you,” said Father Brown, in a voice like a +rolling drum, “I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and +the fire that is not quenched.” + +“You’re a rum sort of cloak-room clerk,” said the other. + +“I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,” said Brown, “and I am ready to hear +your confession.” + +The other stood gasping for a few moments, and then staggered back into +a chair. + +The first two courses of the dinner of The Twelve True Fishermen had +proceeded with placid success. I do not possess a copy of the menu; and +if I did it would not convey anything to anybody. It was written in +a sort of super-French employed by cooks, but quite unintelligible to +Frenchmen. There was a tradition in the club that the _hors d’œuvres_ +should be various and manifold to the point of madness. They were taken +seriously because they were avowedly useless extras, like the whole +dinner and the whole club. There was also a tradition that the soup +course should be light and unpretending--a sort of simple and austere +vigil for the feast of fish that was to come. The talk was that strange, +slight talk which governs the British Empire, which governs it in +secret, and yet would scarcely enlighten an ordinary Englishman even if +he could overhear it. Cabinet ministers on both sides were alluded to +by their Christian names with a sort of bored benignity. The Radical +Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom the whole Tory party was supposed to +be cursing for his extortions, was praised for his minor poetry, or his +saddle in the hunting field. The Tory leader, whom all Liberals +were supposed to hate as a tyrant, was discussed and, on the whole, +praised--as a Liberal. It seemed somehow that politicians were very +important. And yet, anything seemed important about them except their +politics. Mr. Audley, the chairman, was an amiable, elderly man who +still wore Gladstone collars; he was a kind of symbol of all that +phantasmal and yet fixed society. He had never done anything--not even +anything wrong. He was not fast; he was not even particularly rich. +He was simply in the thing; and there was an end of it. No party could +ignore him, and if he had wished to be in the Cabinet he certainly would +have been put there. The Duke of Chester, the vice-president, was a +young and rising politician. That is to say, he was a pleasant youth, +with flat, fair hair and a freckled face, with moderate intelligence and +enormous estates. In public his appearances were always successful and +his principle was simple enough. When he thought of a joke he made it, +and was called brilliant. When he could not think of a joke he said that +this was no time for trifling, and was called able. In private, in a +club of his own class, he was simply quite pleasantly frank and silly, +like a schoolboy. Mr. Audley, never having been in politics, treated +them a little more seriously. Sometimes he even embarrassed the company +by phrases suggesting that there was some difference between a Liberal +and a Conservative. He himself was a Conservative, even in private life. +He had a roll of grey hair over the back of his collar, like certain +old-fashioned statesmen, and seen from behind he looked like the man the +empire wants. Seen from the front he looked like a mild, self-indulgent +bachelor, with rooms in the Albany--which he was. + +As has been remarked, there were twenty-four seats at the terrace table, +and only twelve members of the club. Thus they could occupy the terrace +in the most luxurious style of all, being ranged along the inner side of +the table, with no one opposite, commanding an uninterrupted view of +the garden, the colours of which were still vivid, though evening was +closing in somewhat luridly for the time of year. The chairman sat in +the centre of the line, and the vice-president at the right-hand end +of it. When the twelve guests first trooped into their seats it was the +custom (for some unknown reason) for all the fifteen waiters to stand +lining the wall like troops presenting arms to the king, while the fat +proprietor stood and bowed to the club with radiant surprise, as if he +had never heard of them before. But before the first chink of knife and +fork this army of retainers had vanished, only the one or two required +to collect and distribute the plates darting about in deathly silence. +Mr. Lever, the proprietor, of course had disappeared in convulsions of +courtesy long before. It would be exaggerative, indeed irreverent, +to say that he ever positively appeared again. But when the important +course, the fish course, was being brought on, there was--how shall I +put it?--a vivid shadow, a projection of his personality, which told +that he was hovering near. The sacred fish course consisted (to the eyes +of the vulgar) in a sort of monstrous pudding, about the size and shape +of a wedding cake, in which some considerable number of interesting +fishes had finally lost the shapes which God had given to them. The +Twelve True Fishermen took up their celebrated fish knives and fish +forks, and approached it as gravely as if every inch of the pudding cost +as much as the silver fork it was eaten with. So it did, for all I know. +This course was dealt with in eager and devouring silence; and it was +only when his plate was nearly empty that the young duke made the ritual +remark: “They can’t do this anywhere but here.” + +“Nowhere,” said Mr. Audley, in a deep bass voice, turning to the speaker +and nodding his venerable head a number of times. “Nowhere, assuredly, +except here. It was represented to me that at the Café Anglais--” + +Here he was interrupted and even agitated for a moment by the removal +of his plate, but he recaptured the valuable thread of his thoughts. “It +was represented to me that the same could be done at the Café Anglais. +Nothing like it, sir,” he said, shaking his head ruthlessly, like a +hanging judge. “Nothing like it.” + +“Overrated place,” said a certain Colonel Pound, speaking (by the look +of him) for the first time for some months. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said the Duke of Chester, who was an optimist, “it’s +jolly good for some things. You can’t beat it at--” + +A waiter came swiftly along the room, and then stopped dead. His +stoppage was as silent as his tread; but all those vague and kindly +gentlemen were so used to the utter smoothness of the unseen machinery +which surrounded and supported their lives, that a waiter doing anything +unexpected was a start and a jar. They felt as you and I would feel if +the inanimate world disobeyed--if a chair ran away from us. + +The waiter stood staring a few seconds, while there deepened on every +face at table a strange shame which is wholly the product of our time. +It is the combination of modern humanitarianism with the horrible +modern abyss between the souls of the rich and poor. A genuine historic +aristocrat would have thrown things at the waiter, beginning with empty +bottles, and very probably ending with money. A genuine democrat would +have asked him, with comrade-like clearness of speech, what the devil he +was doing. But these modern plutocrats could not bear a poor man near +to them, either as a slave or as a friend. That something had gone wrong +with the servants was merely a dull, hot embarrassment. They did not +want to be brutal, and they dreaded the need to be benevolent. They +wanted the thing, whatever it was, to be over. It was over. The waiter, +after standing for some seconds rigid, like a cataleptic, turned round +and ran madly out of the room. + +When he reappeared in the room, or rather in the doorway, it was in +company with another waiter, with whom he whispered and gesticulated +with southern fierceness. Then the first waiter went away, leaving the +second waiter, and reappeared with a third waiter. By the time a fourth +waiter had joined this hurried synod, Mr. Audley felt it necessary to +break the silence in the interests of Tact. He used a very loud cough, +instead of a presidential hammer, and said: “Splendid work young +Moocher’s doing in Burmah. Now, no other nation in the world could +have--” + +A fifth waiter had sped towards him like an arrow, and was whispering in +his ear: “So sorry. Important! Might the proprietor speak to you?” + +The chairman turned in disorder, and with a dazed stare saw Mr. Lever +coming towards them with his lumbering quickness. The gait of the good +proprietor was indeed his usual gait, but his face was by no means +usual. Generally it was a genial copper-brown; now it was a sickly +yellow. + +“You will pardon me, Mr. Audley,” he said, with asthmatic +breathlessness. “I have great apprehensions. Your fish-plates, they are +cleared away with the knife and fork on them!” + +“Well, I hope so,” said the chairman, with some warmth. + +“You see him?” panted the excited hotel keeper; “you see the waiter who +took them away? You know him?” + +“Know the waiter?” answered Mr. Audley indignantly. “Certainly not!” + +Mr. Lever opened his hands with a gesture of agony. “I never send him,” + he said. “I know not when or why he come. I send my waiter to take away +the plates, and he find them already away.” + +Mr. Audley still looked rather too bewildered to be really the man the +empire wants; none of the company could say anything except the man of +wood--Colonel Pound--who seemed galvanised into an unnatural life. He +rose rigidly from his chair, leaving all the rest sitting, screwed his +eyeglass into his eye, and spoke in a raucous undertone as if he had +half-forgotten how to speak. “Do you mean,” he said, “that somebody has +stolen our silver fish service?” + +The proprietor repeated the open-handed gesture with even greater +helplessness and in a flash all the men at the table were on their feet. + +“Are all your waiters here?” demanded the colonel, in his low, harsh +accent. + +“Yes; they’re all here. I noticed it myself,” cried the young duke, +pushing his boyish face into the inmost ring. “Always count ’em as I +come in; they look so queer standing up against the wall.” + +“But surely one cannot exactly remember,” began Mr. Audley, with heavy +hesitation. + +“I remember exactly, I tell you,” cried the duke excitedly. “There never +have been more than fifteen waiters at this place, and there were no +more than fifteen tonight, I’ll swear; no more and no less.” + +The proprietor turned upon him, quaking in a kind of palsy of surprise. +“You say--you say,” he stammered, “that you see all my fifteen waiters?” + +“As usual,” assented the duke. “What is the matter with that!” + +“Nothing,” said Lever, with a deepening accent, “only you did not. For +one of zem is dead upstairs.” + +There was a shocking stillness for an instant in that room. It may be +(so supernatural is the word death) that each of those idle men looked +for a second at his soul, and saw it as a small dried pea. One of +them--the duke, I think--even said with the idiotic kindness of wealth: +“Is there anything we can do?” + +“He has had a priest,” said the Jew, not untouched. + +Then, as to the clang of doom, they awoke to their own position. For a +few weird seconds they had really felt as if the fifteenth waiter might +be the ghost of the dead man upstairs. They had been dumb under that +oppression, for ghosts were to them an embarrassment, like beggars. But +the remembrance of the silver broke the spell of the miraculous; broke +it abruptly and with a brutal reaction. The colonel flung over his chair +and strode to the door. “If there was a fifteenth man here, friends,” he +said, “that fifteenth fellow was a thief. Down at once to the front +and back doors and secure everything; then we’ll talk. The twenty-four +pearls of the club are worth recovering.” + +Mr. Audley seemed at first to hesitate about whether it was gentlemanly +to be in such a hurry about anything; but, seeing the duke dash down the +stairs with youthful energy, he followed with a more mature motion. + +At the same instant a sixth waiter ran into the room, and declared that +he had found the pile of fish plates on a sideboard, with no trace of +the silver. + +The crowd of diners and attendants that tumbled helter-skelter down the +passages divided into two groups. Most of the Fishermen followed the +proprietor to the front room to demand news of any exit. Colonel Pound, +with the chairman, the vice-president, and one or two others darted down +the corridor leading to the servants’ quarters, as the more likely line +of escape. As they did so they passed the dim alcove or cavern of +the cloak room, and saw a short, black-coated figure, presumably an +attendant, standing a little way back in the shadow of it. + +“Hallo, there!” called out the duke. “Have you seen anyone pass?” + +The short figure did not answer the question directly, but merely said: +“Perhaps I have got what you are looking for, gentlemen.” + +They paused, wavering and wondering, while he quietly went to the back +of the cloak room, and came back with both hands full of shining silver, +which he laid out on the counter as calmly as a salesman. It took the +form of a dozen quaintly shaped forks and knives. + +“You--you--” began the colonel, quite thrown off his balance at last. +Then he peered into the dim little room and saw two things: first, that +the short, black-clad man was dressed like a clergyman; and, second, +that the window of the room behind him was burst, as if someone had +passed violently through. “Valuable things to deposit in a cloak room, +aren’t they?” remarked the clergyman, with cheerful composure. + +“Did--did you steal those things?” stammered Mr. Audley, with staring +eyes. + +“If I did,” said the cleric pleasantly, “at least I am bringing them +back again.” + +“But you didn’t,” said Colonel Pound, still staring at the broken +window. + +“To make a clean breast of it, I didn’t,” said the other, with some +humour. And he seated himself quite gravely on a stool. “But you know +who did,” said the, colonel. + +“I don’t know his real name,” said the priest placidly, “but I know +something of his fighting weight, and a great deal about his spiritual +difficulties. I formed the physical estimate when he was trying to +throttle me, and the moral estimate when he repented.” + +“Oh, I say--repented!” cried young Chester, with a sort of crow of +laughter. + +Father Brown got to his feet, putting his hands behind him. “Odd, isn’t +it,” he said, “that a thief and a vagabond should repent, when so many +who are rich and secure remain hard and frivolous, and without fruit for +God or man? But there, if you will excuse me, you trespass a little upon +my province. If you doubt the penitence as a practical fact, there are +your knives and forks. You are The Twelve True Fishers, and there are +all your silver fish. But He has made me a fisher of men.” + +“Did you catch this man?” asked the colonel, frowning. + +Father Brown looked him full in his frowning face. “Yes,” he said, “I +caught him, with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long +enough to let him wander to the ends of the world, and still to bring +him back with a twitch upon the thread.” + +There was a long silence. All the other men present drifted away +to carry the recovered silver to their comrades, or to consult the +proprietor about the queer condition of affairs. But the grim-faced +colonel still sat sideways on the counter, swinging his long, lank legs +and biting his dark moustache. + +At last he said quietly to the priest: “He must have been a clever +fellow, but I think I know a cleverer.” + +“He was a clever fellow,” answered the other, “but I am not quite sure +of what other you mean.” + +“I mean you,” said the colonel, with a short laugh. “I don’t want to get +the fellow jailed; make yourself easy about that. But I’d give a good +many silver forks to know exactly how you fell into this affair, and how +you got the stuff out of him. I reckon you’re the most up-to-date devil +of the present company.” + +Father Brown seemed rather to like the saturnine candour of the soldier. +“Well,” he said, smiling, “I mustn’t tell you anything of the man’s +identity, or his own story, of course; but there’s no particular reason +why I shouldn’t tell you of the mere outside facts which I found out for +myself.” + +He hopped over the barrier with unexpected activity, and sat beside +Colonel Pound, kicking his short legs like a little boy on a gate. He +began to tell the story as easily as if he were telling it to an old +friend by a Christmas fire. + +“You see, colonel,” he said, “I was shut up in that small room there +doing some writing, when I heard a pair of feet in this passage doing a +dance that was as queer as the dance of death. First came quick, funny +little steps, like a man walking on tiptoe for a wager; then came slow, +careless, creaking steps, as of a big man walking about with a cigar. +But they were both made by the same feet, I swear, and they came in +rotation; first the run and then the walk, and then the run again. I +wondered at first idly and then wildly why a man should act these two +parts at once. One walk I knew; it was just like yours, colonel. It +was the walk of a well-fed gentleman waiting for something, who strolls +about rather because he is physically alert than because he is mentally +impatient. I knew that I knew the other walk, too, but I could not +remember what it was. What wild creature had I met on my travels that +tore along on tiptoe in that extraordinary style? Then I heard a clink +of plates somewhere; and the answer stood up as plain as St. Peter’s. It +was the walk of a waiter--that walk with the body slanted forward, the +eyes looking down, the ball of the toe spurning away the ground, the +coat tails and napkin flying. Then I thought for a minute and a half +more. And I believe I saw the manner of the crime, as clearly as if I +were going to commit it.” + +Colonel Pound looked at him keenly, but the speaker’s mild grey eyes +were fixed upon the ceiling with almost empty wistfulness. + +“A crime,” he said slowly, “is like any other work of art. Don’t look +surprised; crimes are by no means the only works of art that come from +an infernal workshop. But every work of art, divine or diabolic, has +one indispensable mark--I mean, that the centre of it is simple, however +much the fulfilment may be complicated. Thus, in _Hamlet_, let us say, +the grotesqueness of the grave-digger, the flowers of the mad girl, the +fantastic finery of Osric, the pallor of the ghost and the grin of +the skull are all oddities in a sort of tangled wreath round one plain +tragic figure of a man in black. Well, this also,” he said, getting +slowly down from his seat with a smile, “this also is the plain tragedy +of a man in black. Yes,” he went on, seeing the colonel look up in some +wonder, “the whole of this tale turns on a black coat. In this, as in +_Hamlet_, there are the rococo excrescences--yourselves, let us say. There +is the dead waiter, who was there when he could not be there. There is +the invisible hand that swept your table clear of silver and melted +into air. But every clever crime is founded ultimately on some one quite +simple fact--some fact that is not itself mysterious. The mystification +comes in covering it up, in leading men’s thoughts away from it. This +large and subtle and (in the ordinary course) most profitable crime, was +built on the plain fact that a gentleman’s evening dress is the same as +a waiter’s. All the rest was acting, and thundering good acting, too.” + +“Still,” said the colonel, getting up and frowning at his boots, “I am +not sure that I understand.” + +“Colonel,” said Father Brown, “I tell you that this archangel of +impudence who stole your forks walked up and down this passage twenty +times in the blaze of all the lamps, in the glare of all the eyes. He +did not go and hide in dim corners where suspicion might have searched +for him. He kept constantly on the move in the lighted corridors, and +everywhere that he went he seemed to be there by right. Don’t ask me +what he was like; you have seen him yourself six or seven times tonight. +You were waiting with all the other grand people in the reception room +at the end of the passage there, with the terrace just beyond. Whenever +he came among you gentlemen, he came in the lightning style of a waiter, +with bent head, flapping napkin and flying feet. He shot out on to the +terrace, did something to the table cloth, and shot back again towards +the office and the waiters’ quarters. By the time he had come under the +eye of the office clerk and the waiters he had become another man in +every inch of his body, in every instinctive gesture. He strolled among +the servants with the absent-minded insolence which they have all seen +in their patrons. It was no new thing to them that a swell from the +dinner party should pace all parts of the house like an animal at the +Zoo; they know that nothing marks the Smart Set more than a habit of +walking where one chooses. When he was magnificently weary of walking +down that particular passage he would wheel round and pace back past +the office; in the shadow of the arch just beyond he was altered as by +a blast of magic, and went hurrying forward again among the Twelve +Fishermen, an obsequious attendant. Why should the gentlemen look at +a chance waiter? Why should the waiters suspect a first-rate walking +gentleman? Once or twice he played the coolest tricks. In the +proprietor’s private quarters he called out breezily for a syphon of +soda water, saying he was thirsty. He said genially that he would carry +it himself, and he did; he carried it quickly and correctly through the +thick of you, a waiter with an obvious errand. Of course, it could not +have been kept up long, but it only had to be kept up till the end of +the fish course. + +“His worst moment was when the waiters stood in a row; but even then he +contrived to lean against the wall just round the corner in such a way +that for that important instant the waiters thought him a gentleman, +while the gentlemen thought him a waiter. The rest went like winking. If +any waiter caught him away from the table, that waiter caught a languid +aristocrat. He had only to time himself two minutes before the fish was +cleared, become a swift servant, and clear it himself. He put the plates +down on a sideboard, stuffed the silver in his breast pocket, giving it +a bulgy look, and ran like a hare (I heard him coming) till he came to +the cloak room. There he had only to be a plutocrat again--a plutocrat +called away suddenly on business. He had only to give his ticket to +the cloak-room attendant, and go out again elegantly as he had come in. +Only--only I happened to be the cloak-room attendant.” + +“What did you do to him?” cried the colonel, with unusual intensity. +“What did he tell you?” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the priest immovably, “that is where the story +ends.” + +“And the interesting story begins,” muttered Pound. “I think I +understand his professional trick. But I don’t seem to have got hold of +yours.” + +“I must be going,” said Father Brown. + +They walked together along the passage to the entrance hall, where they +saw the fresh, freckled face of the Duke of Chester, who was bounding +buoyantly along towards them. + +“Come along, Pound,” he cried breathlessly. “I’ve been looking for you +everywhere. The dinner’s going again in spanking style, and old Audley +has got to make a speech in honour of the forks being saved. We want to +start some new ceremony, don’t you know, to commemorate the occasion. I +say, you really got the goods back, what do you suggest?” + +“Why,” said the colonel, eyeing him with a certain sardonic approval, “I +should suggest that henceforward we wear green coats, instead of +black. One never knows what mistakes may arise when one looks so like a +waiter.” + +“Oh, hang it all!” said the young man, “a gentleman never looks like a +waiter.” + +“Nor a waiter like a gentleman, I suppose,” said Colonel Pound, with the +same lowering laughter on his face. “Reverend sir, your friend must have +been very smart to act the gentleman.” + +Father Brown buttoned up his commonplace overcoat to the neck, for the +night was stormy, and took his commonplace umbrella from the stand. + +“Yes,” he said; “it must be very hard work to be a gentleman; but, do +you know, I have sometimes thought that it may be almost as laborious to +be a waiter.” + +And saying “Good evening,” he pushed open the heavy doors of that palace +of pleasures. The golden gates closed behind him, and he went at a brisk +walk through the damp, dark streets in search of a penny omnibus. + + + + +The Flying Stars + + +“The most beautiful crime I ever committed,” Flambeau would say in his +highly moral old age, “was also, by a singular coincidence, my last. +It was committed at Christmas. As an artist I had always attempted to +provide crimes suitable to the special season or landscapes in which I +found myself, choosing this or that terrace or garden for a catastrophe, +as if for a statuary group. Thus squires should be swindled in long +rooms panelled with oak; while Jews, on the other hand, should rather +find themselves unexpectedly penniless among the lights and screens of +the Café Riche. Thus, in England, if I wished to relieve a dean of his +riches (which is not so easy as you might suppose), I wished to frame +him, if I make myself clear, in the green lawns and grey towers of some +cathedral town. Similarly, in France, when I had got money out of a rich +and wicked peasant (which is almost impossible), it gratified me to get +his indignant head relieved against a grey line of clipped poplars, +and those solemn plains of Gaul over which broods the mighty spirit of +Millet. + +“Well, my last crime was a Christmas crime, a cheery, cosy, English +middle-class crime; a crime of Charles Dickens. I did it in a good old +middle-class house near Putney, a house with a crescent of carriage +drive, a house with a stable by the side of it, a house with the name +on the two outer gates, a house with a monkey tree. Enough, you know the +species. I really think my imitation of Dickens’s style was dexterous +and literary. It seems almost a pity I repented the same evening.” + +Flambeau would then proceed to tell the story from the inside; and +even from the inside it was odd. Seen from the outside it was perfectly +incomprehensible, and it is from the outside that the stranger must +study it. From this standpoint the drama may be said to have begun when +the front doors of the house with the stable opened on the garden with +the monkey tree, and a young girl came out with bread to feed the birds +on the afternoon of Boxing Day. She had a pretty face, with brave brown +eyes; but her figure was beyond conjecture, for she was so wrapped up in +brown furs that it was hard to say which was hair and which was fur. But +for the attractive face she might have been a small toddling bear. + +The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already a ruby +light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with +the ghosts of the dead roses. On one side of the house stood the stable, +on the other an alley or cloister of laurels led to the larger garden +behind. The young lady, having scattered bread for the birds (for +the fourth or fifth time that day, because the dog ate it), passed +unobtrusively down the lane of laurels and into a glimmering plantation +of evergreens behind. Here she gave an exclamation of wonder, real or +ritual, and looking up at the high garden wall above her, beheld it +fantastically bestridden by a somewhat fantastic figure. + +“Oh, don’t jump, Mr. Crook,” she called out in some alarm; “it’s much +too high.” + +The individual riding the party wall like an aerial horse was a tall, +angular young man, with dark hair sticking up like a hair brush, +intelligent and even distinguished lineaments, but a sallow and almost +alien complexion. This showed the more plainly because he wore an +aggressive red tie, the only part of his costume of which he seemed to +take any care. Perhaps it was a symbol. He took no notice of the girl’s +alarmed adjuration, but leapt like a grasshopper to the ground beside +her, where he might very well have broken his legs. + +“I think I was meant to be a burglar,” he said placidly, “and I have no +doubt I should have been if I hadn’t happened to be born in that nice +house next door. I can’t see any harm in it, anyhow.” + +“How can you say such things!” she remonstrated. + +“Well,” said the young man, “if you’re born on the wrong side of the +wall, I can’t see that it’s wrong to climb over it.” + +“I never know what you will say or do next,” she said. + +“I don’t often know myself,” replied Mr. Crook; “but then I am on the +right side of the wall now.” + +“And which is the right side of the wall?” asked the young lady, +smiling. + +“Whichever side you are on,” said the young man named Crook. + +As they went together through the laurels towards the front garden +a motor horn sounded thrice, coming nearer and nearer, and a car of +splendid speed, great elegance, and a pale green colour swept up to the +front doors like a bird and stood throbbing. + +“Hullo, hullo!” said the young man with the red tie, “here’s somebody +born on the right side, anyhow. I didn’t know, Miss Adams, that your +Santa Claus was so modern as this.” + +“Oh, that’s my godfather, Sir Leopold Fischer. He always comes on Boxing +Day.” + +Then, after an innocent pause, which unconsciously betrayed some lack of +enthusiasm, Ruby Adams added: + +“He is very kind.” + +John Crook, journalist, had heard of that eminent City magnate; and +it was not his fault if the City magnate had not heard of him; for in +certain articles in _The Clarion_ or _The New Age_ Sir Leopold had been +dealt with austerely. But he said nothing and grimly watched the +unloading of the motor-car, which was rather a long process. A large, +neat chauffeur in green got out from the front, and a small, neat +manservant in grey got out from the back, and between them they +deposited Sir Leopold on the doorstep and began to unpack him, like some +very carefully protected parcel. Rugs enough to stock a bazaar, furs +of all the beasts of the forest, and scarves of all the colours of +the rainbow were unwrapped one by one, till they revealed something +resembling the human form; the form of a friendly, but foreign-looking +old gentleman, with a grey goat-like beard and a beaming smile, who +rubbed his big fur gloves together. + +Long before this revelation was complete the two big doors of the porch +had opened in the middle, and Colonel Adams (father of the furry young +lady) had come out himself to invite his eminent guest inside. He was a +tall, sunburnt, and very silent man, who wore a red smoking-cap like a +fez, making him look like one of the English Sirdars or Pashas in Egypt. +With him was his brother-in-law, lately come from Canada, a big and +rather boisterous young gentleman-farmer, with a yellow beard, by name +James Blount. With him also was the more insignificant figure of the +priest from the neighbouring Roman Church; for the colonel’s late wife +had been a Catholic, and the children, as is common in such cases, had +been trained to follow her. Everything seemed undistinguished about +the priest, even down to his name, which was Brown; yet the colonel had +always found something companionable about him, and frequently asked him +to such family gatherings. + +In the large entrance hall of the house there was ample room even for +Sir Leopold and the removal of his wraps. Porch and vestibule, indeed, +were unduly large in proportion to the house, and formed, as it were, a +big room with the front door at one end, and the bottom of the staircase +at the other. In front of the large hall fire, over which hung the +colonel’s sword, the process was completed and the company, including +the saturnine Crook, presented to Sir Leopold Fischer. That venerable +financier, however, still seemed struggling with portions of his +well-lined attire, and at length produced from a very interior tail-coat +pocket, a black oval case which he radiantly explained to be his +Christmas present for his god-daughter. With an unaffected vain-glory +that had something disarming about it he held out the case before them +all; it flew open at a touch and half-blinded them. It was just as if a +crystal fountain had spurted in their eyes. In a nest of orange velvet +lay like three eggs, three white and vivid diamonds that seemed to set +the very air on fire all round them. Fischer stood beaming benevolently +and drinking deep of the astonishment and ecstasy of the girl, the grim +admiration and gruff thanks of the colonel, the wonder of the whole +group. + +“I’ll put ’em back now, my dear,” said Fischer, returning the case to +the tails of his coat. “I had to be careful of ’em coming down. They’re +the three great African diamonds called ‘The Flying Stars,’ because +they’ve been stolen so often. All the big criminals are on the track; +but even the rough men about in the streets and hotels could hardly have +kept their hands off them. I might have lost them on the road here. It +was quite possible.” + +“Quite natural, I should say,” growled the man in the red tie. “I +shouldn’t blame ’em if they had taken ’em. When they ask for bread, and +you don’t even give them a stone, I think they might take the stone for +themselves.” + +“I won’t have you talking like that,” cried the girl, who was in a +curious glow. “You’ve only talked like that since you became a horrid +what’s-his-name. You know what I mean. What do you call a man who wants +to embrace the chimney-sweep?” + +“A saint,” said Father Brown. + +“I think,” said Sir Leopold, with a supercilious smile, “that Ruby means +a Socialist.” + +“A radical does not mean a man who lives on radishes,” remarked Crook, +with some impatience; “and a Conservative does not mean a man who +preserves jam. Neither, I assure you, does a Socialist mean a man who +desires a social evening with the chimney-sweep. A Socialist means a +man who wants all the chimneys swept and all the chimney-sweeps paid for +it.” + +“But who won’t allow you,” put in the priest in a low voice, “to own +your own soot.” + +Crook looked at him with an eye of interest and even respect. “Does one +want to own soot?” he asked. + +“One might,” answered Brown, with speculation in his eye. “I’ve heard +that gardeners use it. And I once made six children happy at Christmas +when the conjuror didn’t come, entirely with soot--applied externally.” + +“Oh, splendid,” cried Ruby. “Oh, I wish you’d do it to this company.” + +The boisterous Canadian, Mr. Blount, was lifting his loud voice in +applause, and the astonished financier his (in some considerable +deprecation), when a knock sounded at the double front doors. The priest +opened them, and they showed again the front garden of evergreens, +monkey-tree and all, now gathering gloom against a gorgeous violet +sunset. The scene thus framed was so coloured and quaint, like a back +scene in a play, that they forgot a moment the insignificant figure +standing in the door. He was dusty-looking and in a frayed coat, +evidently a common messenger. “Any of you gentlemen Mr. Blount?” he +asked, and held forward a letter doubtfully. Mr. Blount started, and +stopped in his shout of assent. Ripping up the envelope with evident +astonishment he read it; his face clouded a little, and then cleared, +and he turned to his brother-in-law and host. + +“I’m sick at being such a nuisance, colonel,” he said, with the cheery +colonial conventions; “but would it upset you if an old acquaintance +called on me here tonight on business? In point of fact it’s Florian, +that famous French acrobat and comic actor; I knew him years ago out +West (he was a French-Canadian by birth), and he seems to have business +for me, though I hardly guess what.” + +“Of course, of course,” replied the colonel carelessly--“My dear chap, +any friend of yours. No doubt he will prove an acquisition.” + +“He’ll black his face, if that’s what you mean,” cried Blount, laughing. +“I don’t doubt he’d black everyone else’s eyes. I don’t care; I’m not +refined. I like the jolly old pantomime where a man sits on his top +hat.” + +“Not on mine, please,” said Sir Leopold Fischer, with dignity. + +“Well, well,” observed Crook, airily, “don’t let’s quarrel. There are +lower jokes than sitting on a top hat.” + +Dislike of the red-tied youth, born of his predatory opinions and +evident intimacy with the pretty godchild, led Fischer to say, in his +most sarcastic, magisterial manner: “No doubt you have found something +much lower than sitting on a top hat. What is it, pray?” + +“Letting a top hat sit on you, for instance,” said the Socialist. + +“Now, now, now,” cried the Canadian farmer with his barbarian +benevolence, “don’t let’s spoil a jolly evening. What I say is, let’s +do something for the company tonight. Not blacking faces or sitting on +hats, if you don’t like those--but something of the sort. Why couldn’t +we have a proper old English pantomime--clown, columbine, and so on. I +saw one when I left England at twelve years old, and it’s blazed in my +brain like a bonfire ever since. I came back to the old country +only last year, and I find the thing’s extinct. Nothing but a lot of +snivelling fairy plays. I want a hot poker and a policeman made into +sausages, and they give me princesses moralising by moonlight, Blue +Birds, or something. Blue Beard’s more in my line, and him I like best +when he turned into the pantaloon.” + +“I’m all for making a policeman into sausages,” said John Crook. “It’s a +better definition of Socialism than some recently given. But surely the +get-up would be too big a business.” + +“Not a scrap,” cried Blount, quite carried away. “A harlequinade’s the +quickest thing we can do, for two reasons. First, one can gag to any +degree; and, second, all the objects are household things--tables and +towel-horses and washing baskets, and things like that.” + +“That’s true,” admitted Crook, nodding eagerly and walking about. +“But I’m afraid I can’t have my policeman’s uniform? Haven’t killed a +policeman lately.” + +Blount frowned thoughtfully a space, and then smote his thigh. “Yes, +we can!” he cried. “I’ve got Florian’s address here, and he knows every +costumier in London. I’ll phone him to bring a police dress when he +comes.” And he went bounding away to the telephone. + +“Oh, it’s glorious, godfather,” cried Ruby, almost dancing. “I’ll be +columbine and you shall be pantaloon.” + +The millionaire held himself stiff with a sort of heathen solemnity. “I +think, my dear,” he said, “you must get someone else for pantaloon.” + +“I will be pantaloon, if you like,” said Colonel Adams, taking his cigar +out of his mouth, and speaking for the first and last time. + +“You ought to have a statue,” cried the Canadian, as he came back, +radiant, from the telephone. “There, we are all fitted. Mr. Crook shall +be clown; he’s a journalist and knows all the oldest jokes. I can +be harlequin, that only wants long legs and jumping about. My friend +Florian ’phones he’s bringing the police costume; he’s changing on the +way. We can act it in this very hall, the audience sitting on those +broad stairs opposite, one row above another. These front doors can be +the back scene, either open or shut. Shut, you see an English interior. +Open, a moonlit garden. It all goes by magic.” And snatching a chance +piece of billiard chalk from his pocket, he ran it across the hall +floor, half-way between the front door and the staircase, to mark the +line of the footlights. + +How even such a banquet of bosh was got ready in the time remained +a riddle. But they went at it with that mixture of recklessness and +industry that lives when youth is in a house; and youth was in that +house that night, though not all may have isolated the two faces and +hearts from which it flamed. As always happens, the invention grew +wilder and wilder through the very tameness of the bourgeois conventions +from which it had to create. The columbine looked charming in an +outstanding skirt that strangely resembled the large lamp-shade in the +drawing-room. The clown and pantaloon made themselves white with flour +from the cook, and red with rouge from some other domestic, who remained +(like all true Christian benefactors) anonymous. The harlequin, already +clad in silver paper out of cigar boxes, was, with difficulty, prevented +from smashing the old Victorian lustre chandeliers, that he might cover +himself with resplendent crystals. In fact he would certainly have done +so, had not Ruby unearthed some old pantomime paste jewels she had worn +at a fancy dress party as the Queen of Diamonds. Indeed, her uncle, +James Blount, was getting almost out of hand in his excitement; he was +like a schoolboy. He put a paper donkey’s head unexpectedly on Father +Brown, who bore it patiently, and even found some private manner of +moving his ears. He even essayed to put the paper donkey’s tail to the +coat-tails of Sir Leopold Fischer. This, however, was frowned down. +“Uncle is too absurd,” cried Ruby to Crook, round whose shoulders she +had seriously placed a string of sausages. “Why is he so wild?” + +“He is harlequin to your columbine,” said Crook. “I am only the clown +who makes the old jokes.” + +“I wish you were the harlequin,” she said, and left the string of +sausages swinging. + +Father Brown, though he knew every detail done behind the scenes, +and had even evoked applause by his transformation of a pillow into a +pantomime baby, went round to the front and sat among the audience +with all the solemn expectation of a child at his first matinee. The +spectators were few, relations, one or two local friends, and the +servants; Sir Leopold sat in the front seat, his full and still +fur-collared figure largely obscuring the view of the little cleric +behind him; but it has never been settled by artistic authorities +whether the cleric lost much. The pantomime was utterly chaotic, yet not +contemptible; there ran through it a rage of improvisation which came +chiefly from Crook the clown. Commonly he was a clever man, and he was +inspired tonight with a wild omniscience, a folly wiser than the world, +that which comes to a young man who has seen for an instant a particular +expression on a particular face. He was supposed to be the clown, but +he was really almost everything else, the author (so far as there was an +author), the prompter, the scene-painter, the scene-shifter, and, above +all, the orchestra. At abrupt intervals in the outrageous performance +he would hurl himself in full costume at the piano and bang out some +popular music equally absurd and appropriate. + +The climax of this, as of all else, was the moment when the two front +doors at the back of the scene flew open, showing the lovely moonlit +garden, but showing more prominently the famous professional guest; the +great Florian, dressed up as a policeman. The clown at the piano played +the constabulary chorus in the “Pirates of Penzance,” but it was drowned +in the deafening applause, for every gesture of the great comic actor +was an admirable though restrained version of the carriage and manner +of the police. The harlequin leapt upon him and hit him over the helmet; +the pianist playing “Where did you get that hat?” he faced about in +admirably simulated astonishment, and then the leaping harlequin hit him +again (the pianist suggesting a few bars of “Then we had another one”). +Then the harlequin rushed right into the arms of the policeman and fell +on top of him, amid a roar of applause. Then it was that the strange +actor gave that celebrated imitation of a dead man, of which the fame +still lingers round Putney. It was almost impossible to believe that a +living person could appear so limp. + +The athletic harlequin swung him about like a sack or twisted or tossed +him like an Indian club; all the time to the most maddeningly ludicrous +tunes from the piano. When the harlequin heaved the comic constable +heavily off the floor the clown played “I arise from dreams of thee.” + When he shuffled him across his back, “With my bundle on my shoulder,” + and when the harlequin finally let fall the policeman with a most +convincing thud, the lunatic at the instrument struck into a jingling +measure with some words which are still believed to have been, “I sent a +letter to my love and on the way I dropped it.” + +At about this limit of mental anarchy Father Brown’s view was obscured +altogether; for the City magnate in front of him rose to his full height +and thrust his hands savagely into all his pockets. Then he sat down +nervously, still fumbling, and then stood up again. For an instant it +seemed seriously likely that he would stride across the footlights; then +he turned a glare at the clown playing the piano; and then he burst in +silence out of the room. + +The priest had only watched for a few more minutes the absurd but not +inelegant dance of the amateur harlequin over his splendidly unconscious +foe. With real though rude art, the harlequin danced slowly backwards +out of the door into the garden, which was full of moonlight and +stillness. The vamped dress of silver paper and paste, which had been +too glaring in the footlights, looked more and more magical and silvery +as it danced away under a brilliant moon. The audience was closing in +with a cataract of applause, when Brown felt his arm abruptly touched, +and he was asked in a whisper to come into the colonel’s study. + +He followed his summoner with increasing doubt, which was not dispelled +by a solemn comicality in the scene of the study. There sat Colonel +Adams, still unaffectedly dressed as a pantaloon, with the knobbed +whalebone nodding above his brow, but with his poor old eyes sad enough +to have sobered a Saturnalia. Sir Leopold Fischer was leaning against +the mantelpiece and heaving with all the importance of panic. + +“This is a very painful matter, Father Brown,” said Adams. “The truth +is, those diamonds we all saw this afternoon seem to have vanished from +my friend’s tail-coat pocket. And as you--” + +“As I,” supplemented Father Brown, with a broad grin, “was sitting just +behind him--” + +“Nothing of the sort shall be suggested,” said Colonel Adams, with a +firm look at Fischer, which rather implied that some such thing had been +suggested. “I only ask you to give me the assistance that any gentleman +might give.” + +“Which is turning out his pockets,” said Father Brown, and proceeded to +do so, displaying seven and sixpence, a return ticket, a small silver +crucifix, a small breviary, and a stick of chocolate. + +The colonel looked at him long, and then said, “Do you know, I should +like to see the inside of your head more than the inside of your +pockets. My daughter is one of your people, I know; well, she has +lately--” and he stopped. + +“She has lately,” cried out old Fischer, “opened her father’s house to +a cut-throat Socialist, who says openly he would steal anything from a +richer man. This is the end of it. Here is the richer man--and none the +richer.” + +“If you want the inside of my head you can have it,” said Brown rather +wearily. “What it’s worth you can say afterwards. But the first thing I +find in that disused pocket is this: that men who mean to steal diamonds +don’t talk Socialism. They are more likely,” he added demurely, “to +denounce it.” + +Both the others shifted sharply and the priest went on: + +“You see, we know these people, more or less. That Socialist would no +more steal a diamond than a Pyramid. We ought to look at once to the one +man we don’t know. The fellow acting the policeman--Florian. Where is he +exactly at this minute, I wonder.” + +The pantaloon sprang erect and strode out of the room. An interlude +ensued, during which the millionaire stared at the priest, and the +priest at his breviary; then the pantaloon returned and said, with +staccato gravity, “The policeman is still lying on the stage. The +curtain has gone up and down six times; he is still lying there.” + +Father Brown dropped his book and stood staring with a look of blank +mental ruin. Very slowly a light began to creep in his grey eyes, and +then he made the scarcely obvious answer. + +“Please forgive me, colonel, but when did your wife die?” + +“Wife!” replied the staring soldier, “she died this year two months. Her +brother James arrived just a week too late to see her.” + +The little priest bounded like a rabbit shot. “Come on!” he cried in +quite unusual excitement. “Come on! We’ve got to go and look at that +policeman!” + +They rushed on to the now curtained stage, breaking rudely past the +columbine and clown (who seemed whispering quite contentedly), and +Father Brown bent over the prostrate comic policeman. + +“Chloroform,” he said as he rose; “I only guessed it just now.” + +There was a startled stillness, and then the colonel said slowly, +“Please say seriously what all this means.” + +Father Brown suddenly shouted with laughter, then stopped, and +only struggled with it for instants during the rest of his speech. +“Gentlemen,” he gasped, “there’s not much time to talk. I must run after +the criminal. But this great French actor who played the policeman--this +clever corpse the harlequin waltzed with and dandled and threw about--he +was--” His voice again failed him, and he turned his back to run. + +“He was?” called Fischer inquiringly. + +“A real policeman,” said Father Brown, and ran away into the dark. + +There were hollows and bowers at the extreme end of that leafy garden, +in which the laurels and other immortal shrubs showed against sapphire +sky and silver moon, even in that midwinter, warm colours as of the +south. The green gaiety of the waving laurels, the rich purple indigo +of the night, the moon like a monstrous crystal, make an almost +irresponsible romantic picture; and among the top branches of the garden +trees a strange figure is climbing, who looks not so much romantic as +impossible. He sparkles from head to heel, as if clad in ten million +moons; the real moon catches him at every movement and sets a new inch +of him on fire. But he swings, flashing and successful, from the short +tree in this garden to the tall, rambling tree in the other, and only +stops there because a shade has slid under the smaller tree and has +unmistakably called up to him. + +“Well, Flambeau,” says the voice, “you really look like a Flying Star; +but that always means a Falling Star at last.” + +The silver, sparkling figure above seems to lean forward in the laurels +and, confident of escape, listens to the little figure below. + +“You never did anything better, Flambeau. It was clever to come from +Canada (with a Paris ticket, I suppose) just a week after Mrs. Adams +died, when no one was in a mood to ask questions. It was cleverer to +have marked down the Flying Stars and the very day of Fischer’s coming. +But there’s no cleverness, but mere genius, in what followed. Stealing +the stones, I suppose, was nothing to you. You could have done it by +sleight of hand in a hundred other ways besides that pretence of putting +a paper donkey’s tail to Fischer’s coat. But in the rest you eclipsed +yourself.” + +The silvery figure among the green leaves seems to linger as if +hypnotised, though his escape is easy behind him; he is staring at the +man below. + +“Oh, yes,” says the man below, “I know all about it. I know you not +only forced the pantomime, but put it to a double use. You were going +to steal the stones quietly; news came by an accomplice that you were +already suspected, and a capable police officer was coming to rout you +up that very night. A common thief would have been thankful for the +warning and fled; but you are a poet. You already had the clever notion +of hiding the jewels in a blaze of false stage jewellery. Now, you saw +that if the dress were a harlequin’s the appearance of a policeman +would be quite in keeping. The worthy officer started from Putney police +station to find you, and walked into the queerest trap ever set in this +world. When the front door opened he walked straight on to the stage of +a Christmas pantomime, where he could be kicked, clubbed, stunned and +drugged by the dancing harlequin, amid roars of laughter from all +the most respectable people in Putney. Oh, you will never do anything +better. And now, by the way, you might give me back those diamonds.” + +The green branch on which the glittering figure swung, rustled as if in +astonishment; but the voice went on: + +“I want you to give them back, Flambeau, and I want you to give up this +life. There is still youth and honour and humour in you; don’t fancy +they will last in that trade. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but +no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes +down and down. The kind man drinks and turns cruel; the frank man kills +and lies about it. Many a man I’ve known started like you to be an +honest outlaw, a merry robber of the rich, and ended stamped into slime. +Maurice Blum started out as an anarchist of principle, a father of the +poor; he ended a greasy spy and tale-bearer that both sides used and +despised. Harry Burke started his free money movement sincerely enough; +now he’s sponging on a half-starved sister for endless brandies and +sodas. Lord Amber went into wild society in a sort of chivalry; now he’s +paying blackmail to the lowest vultures in London. Captain Barillon +was the great gentleman-apache before your time; he died in a madhouse, +screaming with fear of the “narks” and receivers that had betrayed +him and hunted him down. I know the woods look very free behind you, +Flambeau; I know that in a flash you could melt into them like a monkey. +But some day you will be an old grey monkey, Flambeau. You will sit up +in your free forest cold at heart and close to death, and the tree-tops +will be very bare.” + +Everything continued still, as if the small man below held the other in +the tree in some long invisible leash; and he went on: + +“Your downward steps have begun. You used to boast of doing nothing +mean, but you are doing something mean tonight. You are leaving +suspicion on an honest boy with a good deal against him already; you are +separating him from the woman he loves and who loves him. But you will +do meaner things than that before you die.” + +Three flashing diamonds fell from the tree to the turf. The small man +stooped to pick them up, and when he looked up again the green cage of +the tree was emptied of its silver bird. + +The restoration of the gems (accidentally picked up by Father Brown, of +all people) ended the evening in uproarious triumph; and Sir Leopold, in +his height of good humour, even told the priest that though he himself +had broader views, he could respect those whose creed required them to +be cloistered and ignorant of this world. + + + + +The Invisible Man + + +In the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shop +at the corner, a confectioner’s, glowed like the butt of a cigar. One +should rather say, perhaps, like the butt of a firework, for the light +was of many colours and some complexity, broken up by many mirrors and +dancing on many gilt and gaily-coloured cakes and sweetmeats. Against +this one fiery glass were glued the noses of many gutter-snipes, for +the chocolates were all wrapped in those red and gold and green metallic +colours which are almost better than chocolate itself; and the huge +white wedding-cake in the window was somehow at once remote and +satisfying, just as if the whole North Pole were good to eat. +Such rainbow provocations could naturally collect the youth of the +neighbourhood up to the ages of ten or twelve. But this corner was also +attractive to youth at a later stage; and a young man, not less than +twenty-four, was staring into the same shop window. To him, also, +the shop was of fiery charm, but this attraction was not wholly to be +explained by chocolates; which, however, he was far from despising. + +He was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face but +a listless manner. He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio of +black-and-white sketches, which he had sold with more or less success +to publishers ever since his uncle (who was an admiral) had disinherited +him for Socialism, because of a lecture which he had delivered against +that economic theory. His name was John Turnbull Angus. + +Entering at last, he walked through the confectioner’s shop to the back +room, which was a sort of pastry-cook restaurant, merely raising his hat +to the young lady who was serving there. She was a dark, elegant, alert +girl in black, with a high colour and very quick, dark eyes; and after +the ordinary interval she followed him into the inner room to take his +order. + +His order was evidently a usual one. “I want, please,” he said with +precision, “one halfpenny bun and a small cup of black coffee.” An +instant before the girl could turn away he added, “Also, I want you to +marry me.” + +The young lady of the shop stiffened suddenly and said, “Those are jokes +I don’t allow.” + +The red-haired young man lifted grey eyes of an unexpected gravity. + +“Really and truly,” he said, “it’s as serious--as serious as the +halfpenny bun. It is expensive, like the bun; one pays for it. It is +indigestible, like the bun. It hurts.” + +The dark young lady had never taken her dark eyes off him, but seemed +to be studying him with almost tragic exactitude. At the end of her +scrutiny she had something like the shadow of a smile, and she sat down +in a chair. + +“Don’t you think,” observed Angus, absently, “that it’s rather cruel to +eat these halfpenny buns? They might grow up into penny buns. I shall +give up these brutal sports when we are married.” + +The dark young lady rose from her chair and walked to the window, +evidently in a state of strong but not unsympathetic cogitation. When at +last she swung round again with an air of resolution she was bewildered +to observe that the young man was carefully laying out on the table +various objects from the shop-window. They included a pyramid of highly +coloured sweets, several plates of sandwiches, and the two decanters +containing that mysterious port and sherry which are peculiar to +pastry-cooks. In the middle of this neat arrangement he had carefully +let down the enormous load of white sugared cake which had been the huge +ornament of the window. + +“What on earth are you doing?” she asked. + +“Duty, my dear Laura,” he began. + +“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, stop a minute,” she cried, “and don’t talk to +me in that way. I mean, what is all that?” + +“A ceremonial meal, Miss Hope.” + +“And what is that?” she asked impatiently, pointing to the mountain of +sugar. + +“The wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus,” he said. + +The girl marched to that article, removed it with some clatter, and put +it back in the shop window; she then returned, and, putting her elegant +elbows on the table, regarded the young man not unfavourably but with +considerable exasperation. + +“You don’t give me any time to think,” she said. + +“I’m not such a fool,” he answered; “that’s my Christian humility.” + +She was still looking at him; but she had grown considerably graver +behind the smile. + +“Mr. Angus,” she said steadily, “before there is a minute more of this +nonsense I must tell you something about myself as shortly as I can.’” + +“Delighted,” replied Angus gravely. “You might tell me something about +myself, too, while you are about it.” + +“Oh, do hold your tongue and listen,” she said. “It’s nothing that I’m +ashamed of, and it isn’t even anything that I’m specially sorry about. +But what would you say if there were something that is no business of +mine and yet is my nightmare?” + +“In that case,” said the man seriously, “I should suggest that you bring +back the cake.” + +“Well, you must listen to the story first,” said Laura, persistently. +“To begin with, I must tell you that my father owned the inn called the +‘Red Fish’ at Ludbury, and I used to serve people in the bar.” + +“I have often wondered,” he said, “why there was a kind of a Christian +air about this one confectioner’s shop.” + +“Ludbury is a sleepy, grassy little hole in the Eastern Counties, and +the only kind of people who ever came to the ‘Red Fish’ were occasional +commercial travellers, and for the rest, the most awful people you can +see, only you’ve never seen them. I mean little, loungy men, who had +just enough to live on and had nothing to do but lean about in bar-rooms +and bet on horses, in bad clothes that were just too good for them. +Even these wretched young rotters were not very common at our house; but +there were two of them that were a lot too common--common in every sort +of way. They both lived on money of their own, and were wearisomely idle +and over-dressed. But yet I was a bit sorry for them, because I half +believe they slunk into our little empty bar because each of them had a +slight deformity; the sort of thing that some yokels laugh at. It wasn’t +exactly a deformity either; it was more an oddity. One of them was +a surprisingly small man, something like a dwarf, or at least like a +jockey. He was not at all jockeyish to look at, though; he had a round +black head and a well-trimmed black beard, bright eyes like a bird’s; he +jingled money in his pockets; he jangled a great gold watch chain; and +he never turned up except dressed just too much like a gentleman to +be one. He was no fool though, though a futile idler; he was curiously +clever at all kinds of things that couldn’t be the slightest use; a sort +of impromptu conjuring; making fifteen matches set fire to each other +like a regular firework; or cutting a banana or some such thing into a +dancing doll. His name was Isidore Smythe; and I can see him still, with +his little dark face, just coming up to the counter, making a jumping +kangaroo out of five cigars. + +“The other fellow was more silent and more ordinary; but somehow he +alarmed me much more than poor little Smythe. He was very tall and +slight, and light-haired; his nose had a high bridge, and he might +almost have been handsome in a spectral sort of way; but he had one of +the most appalling squints I have ever seen or heard of. When he looked +straight at you, you didn’t know where you were yourself, let alone what +he was looking at. I fancy this sort of disfigurement embittered the +poor chap a little; for while Smythe was ready to show off his monkey +tricks anywhere, James Welkin (that was the squinting man’s name) never +did anything except soak in our bar parlour, and go for great walks +by himself in the flat, grey country all round. All the same, I think +Smythe, too, was a little sensitive about being so small, though he +carried it off more smartly. And so it was that I was really puzzled, as +well as startled, and very sorry, when they both offered to marry me in +the same week. + +“Well, I did what I’ve since thought was perhaps a silly thing. But, +after all, these freaks were my friends in a way; and I had a horror of +their thinking I refused them for the real reason, which was that they +were so impossibly ugly. So I made up some gas of another sort, about +never meaning to marry anyone who hadn’t carved his way in the world. I +said it was a point of principle with me not to live on money that +was just inherited like theirs. Two days after I had talked in this +well-meaning sort of way, the whole trouble began. The first thing I +heard was that both of them had gone off to seek their fortunes, as if +they were in some silly fairy tale. + +“Well, I’ve never seen either of them from that day to this. But I’ve +had two letters from the little man called Smythe, and really they were +rather exciting.” + +“Ever heard of the other man?” asked Angus. + +“No, he never wrote,” said the girl, after an instant’s hesitation. +“Smythe’s first letter was simply to say that he had started out walking +with Welkin to London; but Welkin was such a good walker that the little +man dropped out of it, and took a rest by the roadside. He happened to +be picked up by some travelling show, and, partly because he was nearly +a dwarf, and partly because he was really a clever little wretch, he +got on quite well in the show business, and was soon sent up to the +Aquarium, to do some tricks that I forget. That was his first letter. +His second was much more of a startler, and I only got it last week.” + +The man called Angus emptied his coffee-cup and regarded her with mild +and patient eyes. Her own mouth took a slight twist of laughter as +she resumed, “I suppose you’ve seen on the hoardings all about this +‘Smythe’s Silent Service’? Or you must be the only person that hasn’t. +Oh, I don’t know much about it, it’s some clockwork invention for doing +all the housework by machinery. You know the sort of thing: ‘Press a +Button--A Butler who Never Drinks.’ ‘Turn a Handle--Ten Housemaids who +Never Flirt.’ You must have seen the advertisements. Well, whatever +these machines are, they are making pots of money; and they are making +it all for that little imp whom I knew down in Ludbury. I can’t help +feeling pleased the poor little chap has fallen on his feet; but the +plain fact is, I’m in terror of his turning up any minute and telling me +he’s carved his way in the world--as he certainly has.” + +“And the other man?” repeated Angus with a sort of obstinate quietude. + +Laura Hope got to her feet suddenly. “My friend,” she said, “I think +you are a witch. Yes, you are quite right. I have not seen a line of the +other man’s writing; and I have no more notion than the dead of what or +where he is. But it is of him that I am frightened. It is he who is all +about my path. It is he who has half driven me mad. Indeed, I think he +has driven me mad; for I have felt him where he could not have been, and +I have heard his voice when he could not have spoken.” + +“Well, my dear,” said the young man, cheerfully, “if he were Satan +himself, he is done for now you have told somebody. One goes mad all +alone, old girl. But when was it you fancied you felt and heard our +squinting friend?” + +“I heard James Welkin laugh as plainly as I hear you speak,” said the +girl, steadily. “There was nobody there, for I stood just outside the +shop at the corner, and could see down both streets at once. I had +forgotten how he laughed, though his laugh was as odd as his squint. I +had not thought of him for nearly a year. But it’s a solemn truth that a +few seconds later the first letter came from his rival.” + +“Did you ever make the spectre speak or squeak, or anything?” asked +Angus, with some interest. + +Laura suddenly shuddered, and then said, with an unshaken voice, “Yes. +Just when I had finished reading the second letter from Isidore Smythe +announcing his success. Just then, I heard Welkin say, ‘He shan’t have +you, though.’ It was quite plain, as if he were in the room. It is +awful, I think I must be mad.” + +“If you really were mad,” said the young man, “you would think you must +be sane. But certainly there seems to me to be something a little rum +about this unseen gentleman. Two heads are better than one--I spare you +allusions to any other organs and really, if you would allow me, as +a sturdy, practical man, to bring back the wedding-cake out of the +window--” + +Even as he spoke, there was a sort of steely shriek in the street +outside, and a small motor, driven at devilish speed, shot up to the +door of the shop and stuck there. In the same flash of time a small man +in a shiny top hat stood stamping in the outer room. + +Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental +hygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of +the inner room and confronting the new-comer. A glance at him was quite +sufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love. This +very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carried +insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervous +fingers, could be none other than the man just described to him: Isidore +Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; Isidore +Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting +housemaids of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctively +understanding each other’s air of possession, looked at each other with +that curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry. + +Mr. Smythe, however, made no allusion to the ultimate ground of their +antagonism, but said simply and explosively, “Has Miss Hope seen that +thing on the window?” + +“On the window?” repeated the staring Angus. + +“There’s no time to explain other things,” said the small millionaire +shortly. “There’s some tomfoolery going on here that has to be +investigated.” + +He pointed his polished walking-stick at the window, recently depleted +by the bridal preparations of Mr. Angus; and that gentleman was +astonished to see along the front of the glass a long strip of paper +pasted, which had certainly not been on the window when he looked +through it some time before. Following the energetic Smythe outside into +the street, he found that some yard and a half of stamp paper had been +carefully gummed along the glass outside, and on this was written in +straggly characters, “If you marry Smythe, he will die.” + +“Laura,” said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, “you’re not +mad.” + +“It’s the writing of that fellow Welkin,” said Smythe gruffly. “I +haven’t seen him for years, but he’s always bothering me. Five times in +the last fortnight he’s had threatening letters left at my flat, and I +can’t even find out who leaves them, let alone if it is Welkin himself. +The porter of the flats swears that no suspicious characters have been +seen, and here he has pasted up a sort of dado on a public shop window, +while the people in the shop--” + +“Quite so,” said Angus modestly, “while the people in the shop were +having tea. Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sense +in dealing so directly with the matter. We can talk about other things +afterwards. The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there was +no paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutes +ago. On the other hand, he’s too far off to be chased, as we don’t even +know the direction. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you’ll put +this at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private rather +than public. I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in +business five minutes from here in your car. His name’s Flambeau, and +though his youth was a bit stormy, he’s a strictly honest man now, and +his brains are worth money. He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead.” + +“That is odd,” said the little man, arching his black eyebrows. “I live, +myself, in Himylaya Mansions, round the corner. Perhaps you might care +to come with me; I can go to my rooms and sort out these queer Welkin +documents, while you run round and get your friend the detective.” + +“You are very good,” said Angus politely. “Well, the sooner we act the +better.” + +Both men, with a queer kind of impromptu fairness, took the same sort of +formal farewell of the lady, and both jumped into the brisk little +car. As Smythe took the handles and they turned the great corner of the +street, Angus was amused to see a gigantesque poster of “Smythe’s +Silent Service,” with a picture of a huge headless iron doll, carrying a +saucepan with the legend, “A Cook Who is Never Cross.” + +“I use them in my own flat,” said the little black-bearded man, +laughing, “partly for advertisements, and partly for real convenience. +Honestly, and all above board, those big clockwork dolls of mine do +bring your coals or claret or a timetable quicker than any live servants +I’ve ever known, if you know which knob to press. But I’ll never deny, +between ourselves, that such servants have their disadvantages, too.” + +“Indeed?” said Angus; “is there something they can’t do?” + +“Yes,” replied Smythe coolly; “they can’t tell me who left those +threatening letters at my flat.” + +The man’s motor was small and swift like himself; in fact, like his +domestic service, it was of his own invention. If he was an advertising +quack, he was one who believed in his own wares. The sense of something +tiny and flying was accentuated as they swept up long white curves of +road in the dead but open daylight of evening. Soon the white curves +came sharper and dizzier; they were upon ascending spirals, as they say +in the modern religions. For, indeed, they were cresting a corner of +London which is almost as precipitous as Edinburgh, if not quite so +picturesque. Terrace rose above terrace, and the special tower of flats +they sought, rose above them all to almost Egyptian height, gilt by +the level sunset. The change, as they turned the corner and entered the +crescent known as Himylaya Mansions, was as abrupt as the opening of a +window; for they found that pile of flats sitting above London as above +a green sea of slate. Opposite to the mansions, on the other side of the +gravel crescent, was a bushy enclosure more like a steep hedge or dyke +than a garden, and some way below that ran a strip of artificial water, +a sort of canal, like the moat of that embowered fortress. As the car +swept round the crescent it passed, at one corner, the stray stall of +a man selling chestnuts; and right away at the other end of the curve, +Angus could see a dim blue policeman walking slowly. These were the only +human shapes in that high suburban solitude; but he had an irrational +sense that they expressed the speechless poetry of London. He felt as if +they were figures in a story. + +The little car shot up to the right house like a bullet, and shot out +its owner like a bomb shell. He was immediately inquiring of a tall +commissionaire in shining braid, and a short porter in shirt sleeves, +whether anybody or anything had been seeking his apartments. He was +assured that nobody and nothing had passed these officials since his +last inquiries; whereupon he and the slightly bewildered Angus were shot +up in the lift like a rocket, till they reached the top floor. + +“Just come in for a minute,” said the breathless Smythe. “I want to show +you those Welkin letters. Then you might run round the corner and fetch +your friend.” He pressed a button concealed in the wall, and the door +opened of itself. + +It opened on a long, commodious ante-room, of which the only arresting +features, ordinarily speaking, were the rows of tall half-human +mechanical figures that stood up on both sides like tailors’ dummies. +Like tailors’ dummies they were headless; and like tailors’ dummies +they had a handsome unnecessary humpiness in the shoulders, and a +pigeon-breasted protuberance of chest; but barring this, they were not +much more like a human figure than any automatic machine at a station +that is about the human height. They had two great hooks like arms, for +carrying trays; and they were painted pea-green, or vermilion, or +black for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were only +automatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them. On +this occasion, at least, nobody did. For between the two rows of +these domestic dummies lay something more interesting than most of the +mechanics of the world. It was a white, tattered scrap of paper scrawled +with red ink; and the agile inventor had snatched it up almost as soon +as the door flew open. He handed it to Angus without a word. The red ink +on it actually was not dry, and the message ran, “If you have been to +see her today, I shall kill you.” + +There was a short silence, and then Isidore Smythe said quietly, “Would +you like a little whiskey? I rather feel as if I should.” + +“Thank you; I should like a little Flambeau,” said Angus, gloomily. +“This business seems to me to be getting rather grave. I’m going round +at once to fetch him.” + +“Right you are,” said the other, with admirable cheerfulness. “Bring him +round here as quick as you can.” + +But as Angus closed the front door behind him he saw Smythe push back a +button, and one of the clockwork images glided from its place and slid +along a groove in the floor carrying a tray with syphon and decanter. +There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little man +alone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the door +closed. + +Six steps down from Smythe’s landing the man in shirt sleeves was doing +something with a pail. Angus stopped to extract a promise, fortified +with a prospective bribe, that he would remain in that place until the +return with the detective, and would keep count of any kind of stranger +coming up those stairs. Dashing down to the front hall he then laid +similar charges of vigilance on the commissionaire at the front door, +from whom he learned the simplifying circumstances that there was no +back door. Not content with this, he captured the floating policeman +and induced him to stand opposite the entrance and watch it; and finally +paused an instant for a pennyworth of chestnuts, and an inquiry as to +the probable length of the merchant’s stay in the neighbourhood. + +The chestnut seller, turning up the collar of his coat, told him he +should probably be moving shortly, as he thought it was going to snow. +Indeed, the evening was growing grey and bitter, but Angus, with all his +eloquence, proceeded to nail the chestnut man to his post. + +“Keep yourself warm on your own chestnuts,” he said earnestly. “Eat +up your whole stock; I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a +sovereign if you’ll wait here till I come back, and then tell me +whether any man, woman, or child has gone into that house where the +commissionaire is standing.” + +He then walked away smartly, with a last look at the besieged tower. + +“I’ve made a ring round that room, anyhow,” he said. “They can’t all +four of them be Mr. Welkin’s accomplices.” + +Lucknow Mansions were, so to speak, on a lower platform of that hill +of houses, of which Himylaya Mansions might be called the peak. Mr. +Flambeau’s semi-official flat was on the ground floor, and presented +in every way a marked contrast to the American machinery and cold +hotel-like luxury of the flat of the Silent Service. Flambeau, who was +a friend of Angus, received him in a rococo artistic den behind his +office, of which the ornaments were sabres, harquebuses, Eastern +curiosities, flasks of Italian wine, savage cooking-pots, a plumy +Persian cat, and a small dusty-looking Roman Catholic priest, who looked +particularly out of place. + +“This is my friend Father Brown,” said Flambeau. “I’ve often wanted you +to meet him. Splendid weather, this; a little cold for Southerners like +me.” + +“Yes, I think it will keep clear,” said Angus, sitting down on a +violet-striped Eastern ottoman. + +“No,” said the priest quietly, “it has begun to snow.” + +And, indeed, as he spoke, the first few flakes, foreseen by the man of +chestnuts, began to drift across the darkening windowpane. + +“Well,” said Angus heavily. “I’m afraid I’ve come on business, and +rather jumpy business at that. The fact is, Flambeau, within a stone’s +throw of your house is a fellow who badly wants your help; he’s +perpetually being haunted and threatened by an invisible enemy--a +scoundrel whom nobody has even seen.” As Angus proceeded to tell the +whole tale of Smythe and Welkin, beginning with Laura’s story, and +going on with his own, the supernatural laugh at the corner of two empty +streets, the strange distinct words spoken in an empty room, Flambeau +grew more and more vividly concerned, and the little priest seemed to be +left out of it, like a piece of furniture. When it came to the scribbled +stamp-paper pasted on the window, Flambeau rose, seeming to fill the +room with his huge shoulders. + +“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I think you had better tell me the rest +on the nearest road to this man’s house. It strikes me, somehow, that +there is no time to be lost.” + +“Delighted,” said Angus, rising also, “though he’s safe enough for the +present, for I’ve set four men to watch the only hole to his burrow.” + +They turned out into the street, the small priest trundling after them +with the docility of a small dog. He merely said, in a cheerful way, +like one making conversation, “How quick the snow gets thick on the +ground.” + +As they threaded the steep side streets already powdered with silver, +Angus finished his story; and by the time they reached the crescent with +the towering flats, he had leisure to turn his attention to the four +sentinels. The chestnut seller, both before and after receiving a +sovereign, swore stubbornly that he had watched the door and seen no +visitor enter. The policeman was even more emphatic. He said he had had +experience of crooks of all kinds, in top hats and in rags; he wasn’t so +green as to expect suspicious characters to look suspicious; he looked +out for anybody, and, so help him, there had been nobody. And when all +three men gathered round the gilded commissionaire, who still stood +smiling astride of the porch, the verdict was more final still. + +“I’ve got a right to ask any man, duke or dustman, what he wants in +these flats,” said the genial and gold-laced giant, “and I’ll swear +there’s been nobody to ask since this gentleman went away.” + +The unimportant Father Brown, who stood back, looking modestly at the +pavement, here ventured to say meekly, “Has nobody been up and down +stairs, then, since the snow began to fall? It began while we were all +round at Flambeau’s.” + +“Nobody’s been in here, sir, you can take it from me,” said the +official, with beaming authority. + +“Then I wonder what that is?” said the priest, and stared at the ground +blankly like a fish. + +The others all looked down also; and Flambeau used a fierce exclamation +and a French gesture. For it was unquestionably true that down the +middle of the entrance guarded by the man in gold lace, actually between +the arrogant, stretched legs of that colossus, ran a stringy pattern of +grey footprints stamped upon the white snow. + +“God!” cried Angus involuntarily, “the Invisible Man!” + +Without another word he turned and dashed up the stairs, with Flambeau +following; but Father Brown still stood looking about him in the +snow-clad street as if he had lost interest in his query. + +Flambeau was plainly in a mood to break down the door with his big +shoulders; but the Scotchman, with more reason, if less intuition, +fumbled about on the frame of the door till he found the invisible +button; and the door swung slowly open. + +It showed substantially the same serried interior; the hall had grown +darker, though it was still struck here and there with the last crimson +shafts of sunset, and one or two of the headless machines had been moved +from their places for this or that purpose, and stood here and there +about the twilit place. The green and red of their coats were all +darkened in the dusk; and their likeness to human shapes slightly +increased by their very shapelessness. But in the middle of them all, +exactly where the paper with the red ink had lain, there lay something +that looked like red ink spilt out of its bottle. But it was not red +ink. + +With a French combination of reason and violence Flambeau simply said +“Murder!” and, plunging into the flat, had explored, every corner and +cupboard of it in five minutes. But if he expected to find a corpse he +found none. Isidore Smythe was not in the place, either dead or alive. +After the most tearing search the two men met each other in the outer +hall, with streaming faces and staring eyes. “My friend,” said Flambeau, +talking French in his excitement, “not only is your murderer invisible, +but he makes invisible also the murdered man.” + +Angus looked round at the dim room full of dummies, and in some Celtic +corner of his Scotch soul a shudder started. One of the life-size dolls +stood immediately overshadowing the blood stain, summoned, perhaps, +by the slain man an instant before he fell. One of the high-shouldered +hooks that served the thing for arms, was a little lifted, and Angus had +suddenly the horrid fancy that poor Smythe’s own iron child had struck +him down. Matter had rebelled, and these machines had killed their +master. But even so, what had they done with him? + +“Eaten him?” said the nightmare at his ear; and he sickened for an +instant at the idea of rent, human remains absorbed and crushed into all +that acephalous clockwork. + +He recovered his mental health by an emphatic effort, and said to +Flambeau, “Well, there it is. The poor fellow has evaporated like a +cloud and left a red streak on the floor. The tale does not belong to +this world.” + +“There is only one thing to be done,” said Flambeau, “whether it belongs +to this world or the other. I must go down and talk to my friend.” + +They descended, passing the man with the pail, who again asseverated +that he had let no intruder pass, down to the commissionaire and the +hovering chestnut man, who rigidly reasserted their own watchfulness. +But when Angus looked round for his fourth confirmation he could not see +it, and called out with some nervousness, “Where is the policeman?” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Father Brown; “that is my fault. I just sent +him down the road to investigate something--that I just thought worth +investigating.” + +“Well, we want him back pretty soon,” said Angus abruptly, “for the +wretched man upstairs has not only been murdered, but wiped out.” + +“How?” asked the priest. + +“Father,” said Flambeau, after a pause, “upon my soul I believe it is +more in your department than mine. No friend or foe has entered the +house, but Smythe is gone, as if stolen by the fairies. If that is not +supernatural, I--” + +As he spoke they were all checked by an unusual sight; the big blue +policeman came round the corner of the crescent, running. He came +straight up to Brown. + +“You’re right, sir,” he panted, “they’ve just found poor Mr. Smythe’s +body in the canal down below.” + +Angus put his hand wildly to his head. “Did he run down and drown +himself?” he asked. + +“He never came down, I’ll swear,” said the constable, “and he wasn’t +drowned either, for he died of a great stab over the heart.” + +“And yet you saw no one enter?” said Flambeau in a grave voice. + +“Let us walk down the road a little,” said the priest. + +As they reached the other end of the crescent he observed abruptly, +“Stupid of me! I forgot to ask the policeman something. I wonder if they +found a light brown sack.” + +“Why a light brown sack?” asked Angus, astonished. + +“Because if it was any other coloured sack, the case must begin over +again,” said Father Brown; “but if it was a light brown sack, why, the +case is finished.” + +“I am pleased to hear it,” said Angus with hearty irony. “It hasn’t +begun, so far as I am concerned.” + +“You must tell us all about it,” said Flambeau with a strange heavy +simplicity, like a child. + +Unconsciously they were walking with quickening steps down the long +sweep of road on the other side of the high crescent, Father Brown +leading briskly, though in silence. At last he said with an almost +touching vagueness, “Well, I’m afraid you’ll think it so prosy. We +always begin at the abstract end of things, and you can’t begin this +story anywhere else. + +“Have you ever noticed this--that people never answer what you say? They +answer what you mean--or what they think you mean. Suppose one lady says +to another in a country house, ‘Is anybody staying with you?’ the lady +doesn’t answer ‘Yes; the butler, the three footmen, the parlourmaid, and +so on,’ though the parlourmaid may be in the room, or the butler behind +her chair. She says ‘There is nobody staying with us,’ meaning nobody of +the sort you mean. But suppose a doctor inquiring into an epidemic asks, +‘Who is staying in the house?’ then the lady will remember the butler, +the parlourmaid, and the rest. All language is used like that; you never +get a question answered literally, even when you get it answered truly. +When those four quite honest men said that no man had gone into the +Mansions, they did not really mean that no man had gone into them. They +meant no man whom they could suspect of being your man. A man did go +into the house, and did come out of it, but they never noticed him.” + +“An invisible man?” inquired Angus, raising his red eyebrows. “A +mentally invisible man,” said Father Brown. + +A minute or two after he resumed in the same unassuming voice, like a +man thinking his way. “Of course you can’t think of such a man, until +you do think of him. That’s where his cleverness comes in. But I came +to think of him through two or three little things in the tale Mr. Angus +told us. First, there was the fact that this Welkin went for long walks. +And then there was the vast lot of stamp paper on the window. And then, +most of all, there were the two things the young lady said--things that +couldn’t be true. Don’t get annoyed,” he added hastily, noting a sudden +movement of the Scotchman’s head; “she thought they were true. A person +can’t be quite alone in a street a second before she receives a letter. +She can’t be quite alone in a street when she starts reading a letter +just received. There must be somebody pretty near her; he must be +mentally invisible.” + +“Why must there be somebody near her?” asked Angus. + +“Because,” said Father Brown, “barring carrier-pigeons, somebody must +have brought her the letter.” + +“Do you really mean to say,” asked Flambeau, with energy, “that Welkin +carried his rival’s letters to his lady?” + +“Yes,” said the priest. “Welkin carried his rival’s letters to his lady. +You see, he had to.” + +“Oh, I can’t stand much more of this,” exploded Flambeau. “Who is this +fellow? What does he look like? What is the usual get-up of a mentally +invisible man?” + +“He is dressed rather handsomely in red, blue and gold,” replied the +priest promptly with precision, “and in this striking, and even showy, +costume he entered Himylaya Mansions under eight human eyes; he killed +Smythe in cold blood, and came down into the street again carrying the +dead body in his arms--” + +“Reverend sir,” cried Angus, standing still, “are you raving mad, or am +I?” + +“You are not mad,” said Brown, “only a little unobservant. You have not +noticed such a man as this, for example.” + +He took three quick strides forward, and put his hand on the shoulder of +an ordinary passing postman who had bustled by them unnoticed under the +shade of the trees. + +“Nobody ever notices postmen somehow,” he said thoughtfully; “yet they +have passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a small +corpse can be stowed quite easily.” + +The postman, instead of turning naturally, had ducked and tumbled +against the garden fence. He was a lean fair-bearded man of very +ordinary appearance, but as he turned an alarmed face over his shoulder, +all three men were fixed with an almost fiendish squint. + + * * * * * + +Flambeau went back to his sabres, purple rugs and Persian cat, having +many things to attend to. John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady at +the shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremely +comfortable. But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the +stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other +will never be known. + + + + +The Honour of Israel Gow + + +A stormy evening of olive and silver was closing in, as Father Brown, +wrapped in a grey Scotch plaid, came to the end of a grey Scotch valley +and beheld the strange castle of Glengyle. It stopped one end of the +glen or hollow like a blind alley; and it looked like the end of the +world. Rising in steep roofs and spires of seagreen slate in the manner +of the old French-Scotch chateaux, it reminded an Englishman of the +sinister steeple-hats of witches in fairy tales; and the pine woods +that rocked round the green turrets looked, by comparison, as black +as numberless flocks of ravens. This note of a dreamy, almost a sleepy +devilry, was no mere fancy from the landscape. For there did rest on +the place one of those clouds of pride and madness and mysterious sorrow +which lie more heavily on the noble houses of Scotland than on any other +of the children of men. For Scotland has a double dose of the poison +called heredity; the sense of blood in the aristocrat, and the sense of +doom in the Calvinist. + +The priest had snatched a day from his business at Glasgow to meet his +friend Flambeau, the amateur detective, who was at Glengyle Castle with +another more formal officer investigating the life and death of the late +Earl of Glengyle. That mysterious person was the last representative +of a race whose valour, insanity, and violent cunning had made them +terrible even among the sinister nobility of their nation in the +sixteenth century. None were deeper in that labyrinthine ambition, in +chamber within chamber of that palace of lies that was built up around +Mary Queen of Scots. + +The rhyme in the country-side attested the motive and the result of +their machinations candidly: + + As green sap to the simmer trees + Is red gold to the Ogilvies. + +For many centuries there had never been a decent lord in Glengyle +Castle; and with the Victorian era one would have thought that all +eccentricities were exhausted. The last Glengyle, however, satisfied his +tribal tradition by doing the only thing that was left for him to do; he +disappeared. I do not mean that he went abroad; by all accounts he was +still in the castle, if he was anywhere. But though his name was in the +church register and the big red Peerage, nobody ever saw him under the +sun. + +If anyone saw him it was a solitary man-servant, something between a +groom and a gardener. He was so deaf that the more business-like +assumed him to be dumb; while the more penetrating declared him to be +half-witted. A gaunt, red-haired labourer, with a dogged jaw and chin, +but quite blank blue eyes, he went by the name of Israel Gow, and was +the one silent servant on that deserted estate. But the energy with +which he dug potatoes, and the regularity with which he disappeared +into the kitchen gave people an impression that he was providing for the +meals of a superior, and that the strange earl was still concealed in +the castle. If society needed any further proof that he was there, the +servant persistently asserted that he was not at home. One morning the +provost and the minister (for the Glengyles were Presbyterian) were +summoned to the castle. There they found that the gardener, groom and +cook had added to his many professions that of an undertaker, and had +nailed up his noble master in a coffin. With how much or how little +further inquiry this odd fact was passed, did not as yet very plainly +appear; for the thing had never been legally investigated till Flambeau +had gone north two or three days before. By then the body of Lord +Glengyle (if it was the body) had lain for some time in the little +churchyard on the hill. + +As Father Brown passed through the dim garden and came under the +shadow of the chateau, the clouds were thick and the whole air damp +and thundery. Against the last stripe of the green-gold sunset he saw +a black human silhouette; a man in a chimney-pot hat, with a big spade +over his shoulder. The combination was queerly suggestive of a sexton; +but when Brown remembered the deaf servant who dug potatoes, he thought +it natural enough. He knew something of the Scotch peasant; he knew the +respectability which might well feel it necessary to wear “blacks” for +an official inquiry; he knew also the economy that would not lose an +hour’s digging for that. Even the man’s start and suspicious stare as +the priest went by were consonant enough with the vigilance and jealousy +of such a type. + +The great door was opened by Flambeau himself, who had with him a lean +man with iron-grey hair and papers in his hand: Inspector Craven from +Scotland Yard. The entrance hall was mostly stripped and empty; but the +pale, sneering faces of one or two of the wicked Ogilvies looked down +out of black periwigs and blackening canvas. + +Following them into an inner room, Father Brown found that the allies +had been seated at a long oak table, of which their end was covered with +scribbled papers, flanked with whisky and cigars. Through the whole of +its remaining length it was occupied by detached objects arranged at +intervals; objects about as inexplicable as any objects could be. One +looked like a small heap of glittering broken glass. Another looked like +a high heap of brown dust. A third appeared to be a plain stick of wood. + +“You seem to have a sort of geological museum here,” he said, as he sat +down, jerking his head briefly in the direction of the brown dust and +the crystalline fragments. + +“Not a geological museum,” replied Flambeau; “say a psychological +museum.” + +“Oh, for the Lord’s sake,” cried the police detective laughing, “don’t +let’s begin with such long words.” + +“Don’t you know what psychology means?” asked Flambeau with friendly +surprise. “Psychology means being off your chump.” + +“Still I hardly follow,” replied the official. + +“Well,” said Flambeau, with decision, “I mean that we’ve only found out +one thing about Lord Glengyle. He was a maniac.” + +The black silhouette of Gow with his top hat and spade passed the +window, dimly outlined against the darkening sky. Father Brown stared +passively at it and answered: + +“I can understand there must have been something odd about the man, or +he wouldn’t have buried himself alive--nor been in such a hurry to bury +himself dead. But what makes you think it was lunacy?” + +“Well,” said Flambeau, “you just listen to the list of things Mr. Craven +has found in the house.” + +“We must get a candle,” said Craven, suddenly. “A storm is getting up, +and it’s too dark to read.” + +“Have you found any candles,” asked Brown smiling, “among your +oddities?” + +Flambeau raised a grave face, and fixed his dark eyes on his friend. + +“That is curious, too,” he said. “Twenty-five candles, and not a trace +of a candlestick.” + +In the rapidly darkening room and rapidly rising wind, Brown went along +the table to where a bundle of wax candles lay among the other scrappy +exhibits. As he did so he bent accidentally over the heap of red-brown +dust; and a sharp sneeze cracked the silence. + +“Hullo!” he said, “snuff!” + +He took one of the candles, lit it carefully, came back and stuck it in +the neck of the whisky bottle. The unrestful night air, blowing through +the crazy window, waved the long flame like a banner. And on every side +of the castle they could hear the miles and miles of black pine wood +seething like a black sea around a rock. + +“I will read the inventory,” began Craven gravely, picking up one of +the papers, “the inventory of what we found loose and unexplained in the +castle. You are to understand that the place generally was dismantled +and neglected; but one or two rooms had plainly been inhabited in a +simple but not squalid style by somebody; somebody who was not the +servant Gow. The list is as follows: + +“First item. A very considerable hoard of precious stones, nearly +all diamonds, and all of them loose, without any setting whatever. Of +course, it is natural that the Ogilvies should have family jewels; but +those are exactly the jewels that are almost always set in particular +articles of ornament. The Ogilvies would seem to have kept theirs loose +in their pockets, like coppers. + +“Second item. Heaps and heaps of loose snuff, not kept in a horn, or +even a pouch, but lying in heaps on the mantelpieces, on the sideboard, +on the piano, anywhere. It looks as if the old gentleman would not take +the trouble to look in a pocket or lift a lid. + +“Third item. Here and there about the house curious little heaps of +minute pieces of metal, some like steel springs and some in the form of +microscopic wheels. As if they had gutted some mechanical toy. + +“Fourth item. The wax candles, which have to be stuck in bottle necks +because there is nothing else to stick them in. Now I wish you to note +how very much queerer all this is than anything we anticipated. For the +central riddle we are prepared; we have all seen at a glance that there +was something wrong about the last earl. We have come here to find out +whether he really lived here, whether he really died here, whether that +red-haired scarecrow who did his burying had anything to do with his +dying. But suppose the worst in all this, the most lurid or melodramatic +solution you like. Suppose the servant really killed the master, or +suppose the master isn’t really dead, or suppose the master is dressed +up as the servant, or suppose the servant is buried for the master; +invent what Wilkie Collins’ tragedy you like, and you still have not +explained a candle without a candlestick, or why an elderly gentleman of +good family should habitually spill snuff on the piano. The core of +the tale we could imagine; it is the fringes that are mysterious. By no +stretch of fancy can the human mind connect together snuff and diamonds +and wax and loose clockwork.” + +“I think I see the connection,” said the priest. “This Glengyle was +mad against the French Revolution. He was an enthusiast for the ancien +regime, and was trying to re-enact literally the family life of the last +Bourbons. He had snuff because it was the eighteenth century luxury; +wax candles, because they were the eighteenth century lighting; the +mechanical bits of iron represent the locksmith hobby of Louis XVI; the +diamonds are for the Diamond Necklace of Marie Antoinette.” + +Both the other men were staring at him with round eyes. “What a +perfectly extraordinary notion!” cried Flambeau. “Do you really think +that is the truth?” + +“I am perfectly sure it isn’t,” answered Father Brown, “only you said +that nobody could connect snuff and diamonds and clockwork and candles. +I give you that connection off-hand. The real truth, I am very sure, +lies deeper.” + +He paused a moment and listened to the wailing of the wind in the +turrets. Then he said, “The late Earl of Glengyle was a thief. He lived +a second and darker life as a desperate housebreaker. He did not have +any candlesticks because he only used these candles cut short in the +little lantern he carried. The snuff he employed as the fiercest French +criminals have used pepper: to fling it suddenly in dense masses in +the face of a captor or pursuer. But the final proof is in the curious +coincidence of the diamonds and the small steel wheels. Surely that +makes everything plain to you? Diamonds and small steel wheels are the +only two instruments with which you can cut out a pane of glass.” + +The bough of a broken pine tree lashed heavily in the blast against the +windowpane behind them, as if in parody of a burglar, but they did not +turn round. Their eyes were fastened on Father Brown. + +“Diamonds and small wheels,” repeated Craven ruminating. “Is that all +that makes you think it the true explanation?” + +“I don’t think it the true explanation,” replied the priest placidly; +“but you said that nobody could connect the four things. The true +tale, of course, is something much more humdrum. Glengyle had found, +or thought he had found, precious stones on his estate. Somebody had +bamboozled him with those loose brilliants, saying they were found in +the castle caverns. The little wheels are some diamond-cutting affair. +He had to do the thing very roughly and in a small way, with the help of +a few shepherds or rude fellows on these hills. Snuff is the one great +luxury of such Scotch shepherds; it’s the one thing with which you can +bribe them. They didn’t have candlesticks because they didn’t want them; +they held the candles in their hands when they explored the caves.” + +“Is that all?” asked Flambeau after a long pause. “Have we got to the +dull truth at last?” + +“Oh, no,” said Father Brown. + +As the wind died in the most distant pine woods with a long hoot as of +mockery Father Brown, with an utterly impassive face, went on: + +“I only suggested that because you said one could not plausibly +connect snuff with clockwork or candles with bright stones. Ten false +philosophies will fit the universe; ten false theories will fit Glengyle +Castle. But we want the real explanation of the castle and the universe. +But are there no other exhibits?” + +Craven laughed, and Flambeau rose smiling to his feet and strolled down +the long table. + +“Items five, six, seven, etc.,” he said, “and certainly more varied than +instructive. A curious collection, not of lead pencils, but of the lead +out of lead pencils. A senseless stick of bamboo, with the top rather +splintered. It might be the instrument of the crime. Only, there isn’t +any crime. The only other things are a few old missals and little +Catholic pictures, which the Ogilvies kept, I suppose, from the Middle +Ages--their family pride being stronger than their Puritanism. We +only put them in the museum because they seem curiously cut about and +defaced.” + +The heady tempest without drove a dreadful wrack of clouds across +Glengyle and threw the long room into darkness as Father Brown picked up +the little illuminated pages to examine them. He spoke before the drift +of darkness had passed; but it was the voice of an utterly new man. + +“Mr. Craven,” said he, talking like a man ten years younger, “you have +got a legal warrant, haven’t you, to go up and examine that grave? +The sooner we do it the better, and get to the bottom of this horrible +affair. If I were you I should start now.” + +“Now,” repeated the astonished detective, “and why now?” + +“Because this is serious,” answered Brown; “this is not spilt snuff or +loose pebbles, that might be there for a hundred reasons. There is only +one reason I know of for this being done; and the reason goes down to +the roots of the world. These religious pictures are not just dirtied +or torn or scrawled over, which might be done in idleness or bigotry, by +children or by Protestants. These have been treated very carefully--and +very queerly. In every place where the great ornamented name of God +comes in the old illuminations it has been elaborately taken out. The +only other thing that has been removed is the halo round the head of the +Child Jesus. Therefore, I say, let us get our warrant and our spade and +our hatchet, and go up and break open that coffin.” + +“What do you mean?” demanded the London officer. + +“I mean,” answered the little priest, and his voice seemed to rise +slightly in the roar of the gale. “I mean that the great devil of the +universe may be sitting on the top tower of this castle at this moment, +as big as a hundred elephants, and roaring like the Apocalypse. There is +black magic somewhere at the bottom of this.” + +“Black magic,” repeated Flambeau in a low voice, for he was too +enlightened a man not to know of such things; “but what can these other +things mean?” + +“Oh, something damnable, I suppose,” replied Brown impatiently. “How +should I know? How can I guess all their mazes down below? Perhaps you +can make a torture out of snuff and bamboo. Perhaps lunatics lust after +wax and steel filings. Perhaps there is a maddening drug made of lead +pencils! Our shortest cut to the mystery is up the hill to the grave.” + +His comrades hardly knew that they had obeyed and followed him till a +blast of the night wind nearly flung them on their faces in the garden. +Nevertheless they had obeyed him like automata; for Craven found +a hatchet in his hand, and the warrant in his pocket; Flambeau was +carrying the heavy spade of the strange gardener; Father Brown was +carrying the little gilt book from which had been torn the name of God. + +The path up the hill to the churchyard was crooked but short; only under +that stress of wind it seemed laborious and long. Far as the eye could +see, farther and farther as they mounted the slope, were seas beyond +seas of pines, now all aslope one way under the wind. And that universal +gesture seemed as vain as it was vast, as vain as if that wind were +whistling about some unpeopled and purposeless planet. Through all that +infinite growth of grey-blue forests sang, shrill and high, that ancient +sorrow that is in the heart of all heathen things. One could fancy that +the voices from the under world of unfathomable foliage were cries of +the lost and wandering pagan gods: gods who had gone roaming in that +irrational forest, and who will never find their way back to heaven. + +“You see,” said Father Brown in low but easy tone, “Scotch people before +Scotland existed were a curious lot. In fact, they’re a curious lot +still. But in the prehistoric times I fancy they really worshipped +demons. That,” he added genially, “is why they jumped at the Puritan +theology.” + +“My friend,” said Flambeau, turning in a kind of fury, “what does all +that snuff mean?” + +“My friend,” replied Brown, with equal seriousness, “there is one mark +of all genuine religions: materialism. Now, devil-worship is a perfectly +genuine religion.” + +They had come up on the grassy scalp of the hill, one of the few bald +spots that stood clear of the crashing and roaring pine forest. A mean +enclosure, partly timber and partly wire, rattled in the tempest to tell +them the border of the graveyard. But by the time Inspector Craven had +come to the corner of the grave, and Flambeau had planted his spade +point downwards and leaned on it, they were both almost as shaken as the +shaky wood and wire. At the foot of the grave grew great tall +thistles, grey and silver in their decay. Once or twice, when a ball +of thistledown broke under the breeze and flew past him, Craven jumped +slightly as if it had been an arrow. + +Flambeau drove the blade of his spade through the whistling grass into +the wet clay below. Then he seemed to stop and lean on it as on a staff. + +“Go on,” said the priest very gently. “We are only trying to find the +truth. What are you afraid of?” + +“I am afraid of finding it,” said Flambeau. + +The London detective spoke suddenly in a high crowing voice that was +meant to be conversational and cheery. “I wonder why he really did hide +himself like that. Something nasty, I suppose; was he a leper?” + +“Something worse than that,” said Flambeau. + +“And what do you imagine,” asked the other, “would be worse than a +leper?” + +“I don’t imagine it,” said Flambeau. + +He dug for some dreadful minutes in silence, and then said in a choked +voice, “I’m afraid of his not being the right shape.” + +“Nor was that piece of paper, you know,” said Father Brown quietly, “and +we survived even that piece of paper.” + +Flambeau dug on with a blind energy. But the tempest had shouldered away +the choking grey clouds that clung to the hills like smoke and revealed +grey fields of faint starlight before he cleared the shape of a rude +timber coffin, and somehow tipped it up upon the turf. Craven stepped +forward with his axe; a thistle-top touched him, and he flinched. Then +he took a firmer stride, and hacked and wrenched with an energy like +Flambeau’s till the lid was torn off, and all that was there lay +glimmering in the grey starlight. + +“Bones,” said Craven; and then he added, “but it is a man,” as if that +were something unexpected. + +“Is he,” asked Flambeau in a voice that went oddly up and down, “is he +all right?” + +“Seems so,” said the officer huskily, bending over the obscure and +decaying skeleton in the box. “Wait a minute.” + +A vast heave went over Flambeau’s huge figure. “And now I come to think +of it,” he cried, “why in the name of madness shouldn’t he be all right? +What is it gets hold of a man on these cursed cold mountains? I think +it’s the black, brainless repetition; all these forests, and over all +an ancient horror of unconsciousness. It’s like the dream of an atheist. +Pine-trees and more pine-trees and millions more pine-trees--” + +“God!” cried the man by the coffin, “but he hasn’t got a head.” + +While the others stood rigid the priest, for the first time, showed a +leap of startled concern. + +“No head!” he repeated. “No head?” as if he had almost expected some +other deficiency. + +Half-witted visions of a headless baby born to Glengyle, of a headless +youth hiding himself in the castle, of a headless man pacing those +ancient halls or that gorgeous garden, passed in panorama through their +minds. But even in that stiffened instant the tale took no root in them +and seemed to have no reason in it. They stood listening to the loud +woods and the shrieking sky quite foolishly, like exhausted animals. +Thought seemed to be something enormous that had suddenly slipped out of +their grasp. + +“There are three headless men,” said Father Brown, “standing round this +open grave.” + +The pale detective from London opened his mouth to speak, and left it +open like a yokel, while a long scream of wind tore the sky; then he +looked at the axe in his hands as if it did not belong to him, and +dropped it. + +“Father,” said Flambeau in that infantile and heavy voice he used very +seldom, “what are we to do?” + +His friend’s reply came with the pent promptitude of a gun going off. + +“Sleep!” cried Father Brown. “Sleep. We have come to the end of the +ways. Do you know what sleep is? Do you know that every man who sleeps +believes in God? It is a sacrament; for it is an act of faith and it is +a food. And we need a sacrament, if only a natural one. Something has +fallen on us that falls very seldom on men; perhaps the worst thing that +can fall on them.” + +Craven’s parted lips came together to say, “What do you mean?” + +The priest had turned his face to the castle as he answered: “We have +found the truth; and the truth makes no sense.” + +He went down the path in front of them with a plunging and reckless +step very rare with him, and when they reached the castle again he threw +himself upon sleep with the simplicity of a dog. + +Despite his mystic praise of slumber, Father Brown was up earlier than +anyone else except the silent gardener; and was found smoking a big +pipe and watching that expert at his speechless labours in the kitchen +garden. Towards daybreak the rocking storm had ended in roaring rains, +and the day came with a curious freshness. The gardener seemed even +to have been conversing, but at sight of the detectives he planted +his spade sullenly in a bed and, saying something about his breakfast, +shifted along the lines of cabbages and shut himself in the kitchen. +“He’s a valuable man, that,” said Father Brown. “He does the potatoes +amazingly. Still,” he added, with a dispassionate charity, “he has his +faults; which of us hasn’t? He doesn’t dig this bank quite regularly. +There, for instance,” and he stamped suddenly on one spot. “I’m really +very doubtful about that potato.” + +“And why?” asked Craven, amused with the little man’s hobby. + +“I’m doubtful about it,” said the other, “because old Gow was doubtful +about it himself. He put his spade in methodically in every place but +just this. There must be a mighty fine potato just here.” + +Flambeau pulled up the spade and impetuously drove it into the place. +He turned up, under a load of soil, something that did not look like a +potato, but rather like a monstrous, over-domed mushroom. But it struck +the spade with a cold click; it rolled over like a ball, and grinned up +at them. + +“The Earl of Glengyle,” said Brown sadly, and looked down heavily at the +skull. + +Then, after a momentary meditation, he plucked the spade from Flambeau, +and, saying “We must hide it again,” clamped the skull down in the +earth. Then he leaned his little body and huge head on the great handle +of the spade, that stood up stiffly in the earth, and his eyes were +empty and his forehead full of wrinkles. “If one could only conceive,” + he muttered, “the meaning of this last monstrosity.” And leaning on +the large spade handle, he buried his brows in his hands, as men do in +church. + +All the corners of the sky were brightening into blue and silver; the +birds were chattering in the tiny garden trees; so loud it seemed as if +the trees themselves were talking. But the three men were silent enough. + +“Well, I give it all up,” said Flambeau at last boisterously. “My brain +and this world don’t fit each other; and there’s an end of it. Snuff, +spoilt Prayer Books, and the insides of musical boxes--what--” + +Brown threw up his bothered brow and rapped on the spade handle with an +intolerance quite unusual with him. “Oh, tut, tut, tut, tut!” he +cried. “All that is as plain as a pikestaff. I understood the snuff +and clockwork, and so on, when I first opened my eyes this morning. And +since then I’ve had it out with old Gow, the gardener, who is neither so +deaf nor so stupid as he pretends. There’s nothing amiss about the loose +items. I was wrong about the torn mass-book, too; there’s no harm in +that. But it’s this last business. Desecrating graves and stealing dead +men’s heads--surely there’s harm in that? Surely there’s black magic +still in that? That doesn’t fit in to the quite simple story of the +snuff and the candles.” And, striding about again, he smoked moodily. + +“My friend,” said Flambeau, with a grim humour, “you must be careful +with me and remember I was once a criminal. The great advantage of that +estate was that I always made up the story myself, and acted it as quick +as I chose. This detective business of waiting about is too much for my +French impatience. All my life, for good or evil, I have done things at +the instant; I always fought duels the next morning; I always paid bills +on the nail; I never even put off a visit to the dentist--” + +Father Brown’s pipe fell out of his mouth and broke into three pieces +on the gravel path. He stood rolling his eyes, the exact picture of +an idiot. “Lord, what a turnip I am!” he kept saying. “Lord, what a +turnip!” Then, in a somewhat groggy kind of way, he began to laugh. + +“The dentist!” he repeated. “Six hours in the spiritual abyss, and all +because I never thought of the dentist! Such a simple, such a beautiful +and peaceful thought! Friends, we have passed a night in hell; but now +the sun is risen, the birds are singing, and the radiant form of the +dentist consoles the world.” + +“I will get some sense out of this,” cried Flambeau, striding forward, +“if I use the tortures of the Inquisition.” + +Father Brown repressed what appeared to be a momentary disposition to +dance on the now sunlit lawn and cried quite piteously, like a child, +“Oh, let me be silly a little. You don’t know how unhappy I have been. +And now I know that there has been no deep sin in this business at all. +Only a little lunacy, perhaps--and who minds that?” + +He spun round once more, then faced them with gravity. + +“This is not a story of crime,” he said; “rather it is the story of a +strange and crooked honesty. We are dealing with the one man on earth, +perhaps, who has taken no more than his due. It is a study in the savage +living logic that has been the religion of this race. + +“That old local rhyme about the house of Glengyle-- + + As green sap to the simmer trees + Is red gold to the Ogilvies-- + +was literal as well as metaphorical. It did not merely mean that the +Glengyles sought for wealth; it was also true that they literally +gathered gold; they had a huge collection of ornaments and utensils in +that metal. They were, in fact, misers whose mania took that turn. +In the light of that fact, run through all the things we found in the +castle. Diamonds without their gold rings; candles without their gold +candlesticks; snuff without the gold snuff-boxes; pencil-leads without +the gold pencil-cases; a walking stick without its gold top; clockwork +without the gold clocks--or rather watches. And, mad as it sounds, +because the halos and the name of God in the old missals were of real +gold; these also were taken away.” + +The garden seemed to brighten, the grass to grow gayer in the +strengthening sun, as the crazy truth was told. Flambeau lit a cigarette +as his friend went on. + +“Were taken away,” continued Father Brown; “were taken away--but not +stolen. Thieves would never have left this mystery. Thieves would have +taken the gold snuff-boxes, snuff and all; the gold pencil-cases, lead +and all. We have to deal with a man with a peculiar conscience, but +certainly a conscience. I found that mad moralist this morning in the +kitchen garden yonder, and I heard the whole story. + +“The late Archibald Ogilvie was the nearest approach to a good man +ever born at Glengyle. But his bitter virtue took the turn of the +misanthrope; he moped over the dishonesty of his ancestors, from which, +somehow, he generalised a dishonesty of all men. More especially he +distrusted philanthropy or free-giving; and he swore if he could +find one man who took his exact rights he should have all the gold of +Glengyle. Having delivered this defiance to humanity he shut himself +up, without the smallest expectation of its being answered. One day, +however, a deaf and seemingly senseless lad from a distant village +brought him a belated telegram; and Glengyle, in his acrid pleasantry, +gave him a new farthing. At least he thought he had done so, but when +he turned over his change he found the new farthing still there and a +sovereign gone. The accident offered him vistas of sneering speculation. +Either way, the boy would show the greasy greed of the species. Either +he would vanish, a thief stealing a coin; or he would sneak back with +it virtuously, a snob seeking a reward. In the middle of that night Lord +Glengyle was knocked up out of his bed--for he lived alone--and forced +to open the door to the deaf idiot. The idiot brought with him, not +the sovereign, but exactly nineteen shillings and eleven-pence +three-farthings in change. + +“Then the wild exactitude of this action took hold of the mad lord’s +brain like fire. He swore he was Diogenes, that had long sought an +honest man, and at last had found one. He made a new will, which I have +seen. He took the literal youth into his huge, neglected house, and +trained him up as his solitary servant and--after an odd manner--his +heir. And whatever that queer creature understands, he understood +absolutely his lord’s two fixed ideas: first, that the letter of right +is everything; and second, that he himself was to have the gold of +Glengyle. So far, that is all; and that is simple. He has stripped the +house of gold, and taken not a grain that was not gold; not so much as +a grain of snuff. He lifted the gold leaf off an old illumination, fully +satisfied that he left the rest unspoilt. All that I understood; but I +could not understand this skull business. I was really uneasy about that +human head buried among the potatoes. It distressed me--till Flambeau +said the word. + +“It will be all right. He will put the skull back in the grave, when he +has taken the gold out of the tooth.” + +And, indeed, when Flambeau crossed the hill that morning, he saw that +strange being, the just miser, digging at the desecrated grave, the +plaid round his throat thrashing out in the mountain wind; the sober top +hat on his head. + + + + +The Wrong Shape + + +Certain of the great roads going north out of London continue far into +the country a sort of attenuated and interrupted spectre of a street, +with great gaps in the building, but preserving the line. Here will be a +group of shops, followed by a fenced field or paddock, and then a famous +public-house, and then perhaps a market garden or a nursery garden, and +then one large private house, and then another field and another inn, +and so on. If anyone walks along one of these roads he will pass a house +which will probably catch his eye, though he may not be able to explain +its attraction. It is a long, low house, running parallel with the road, +painted mostly white and pale green, with a veranda and sun-blinds, and +porches capped with those quaint sort of cupolas like wooden umbrellas +that one sees in some old-fashioned houses. In fact, it is an +old-fashioned house, very English and very suburban in the good old +wealthy Clapham sense. And yet the house has a look of having been built +chiefly for the hot weather. Looking at its white paint and sun-blinds +one thinks vaguely of pugarees and even of palm trees. I cannot trace +the feeling to its root; perhaps the place was built by an Anglo-Indian. + +Anyone passing this house, I say, would be namelessly fascinated by it; +would feel that it was a place about which some story was to be told. +And he would have been right, as you shall shortly hear. For this is the +story--the story of the strange things that did really happen in it in +the Whitsuntide of the year 18--: + +Anyone passing the house on the Thursday before Whit-Sunday at about +half-past four p.m. would have seen the front door open, and Father +Brown, of the small church of St. Mungo, come out smoking a large pipe +in company with a very tall French friend of his called Flambeau, who +was smoking a very small cigarette. These persons may or may not be of +interest to the reader, but the truth is that they were not the only +interesting things that were displayed when the front door of the +white-and-green house was opened. There are further peculiarities about +this house, which must be described to start with, not only that the +reader may understand this tragic tale, but also that he may realise +what it was that the opening of the door revealed. + +The whole house was built upon the plan of a T, but a T with a very long +cross piece and a very short tail piece. The long cross piece was the +frontage that ran along in face of the street, with the front door +in the middle; it was two stories high, and contained nearly all +the important rooms. The short tail piece, which ran out at the back +immediately opposite the front door, was one story high, and consisted +only of two long rooms, the one leading into the other. The first of +these two rooms was the study in which the celebrated Mr. Quinton wrote +his wild Oriental poems and romances. The farther room was a glass +conservatory full of tropical blossoms of quite unique and almost +monstrous beauty, and on such afternoons as these glowing with gorgeous +sunlight. Thus when the hall door was open, many a passer-by literally +stopped to stare and gasp; for he looked down a perspective of rich +apartments to something really like a transformation scene in a fairy +play: purple clouds and golden suns and crimson stars that were at once +scorchingly vivid and yet transparent and far away. + +Leonard Quinton, the poet, had himself most carefully arranged this +effect; and it is doubtful whether he so perfectly expressed his +personality in any of his poems. For he was a man who drank and bathed +in colours, who indulged his lust for colour somewhat to the neglect +of form--even of good form. This it was that had turned his genius +so wholly to eastern art and imagery; to those bewildering carpets +or blinding embroideries in which all the colours seem fallen into a +fortunate chaos, having nothing to typify or to teach. He had attempted, +not perhaps with complete artistic success, but with acknowledged +imagination and invention, to compose epics and love stories reflecting +the riot of violent and even cruel colour; tales of tropical heavens +of burning gold or blood-red copper; of eastern heroes who rode with +twelve-turbaned mitres upon elephants painted purple or peacock green; +of gigantic jewels that a hundred negroes could not carry, but which +burned with ancient and strange-hued fires. + +In short (to put the matter from the more common point of view), he +dealt much in eastern heavens, rather worse than most western hells; in +eastern monarchs, whom we might possibly call maniacs; and in eastern +jewels which a Bond Street jeweller (if the hundred staggering negroes +brought them into his shop) might possibly not regard as genuine. +Quinton was a genius, if a morbid one; and even his morbidity appeared +more in his life than in his work. In temperament he was weak and +waspish, and his health had suffered heavily from oriental experiments +with opium. His wife--a handsome, hard-working, and, indeed, over-worked +woman objected to the opium, but objected much more to a live Indian +hermit in white and yellow robes, whom her husband insisted on +entertaining for months together, a Virgil to guide his spirit through +the heavens and the hells of the east. + +It was out of this artistic household that Father Brown and his friend +stepped on to the door-step; and to judge from their faces, they stepped +out of it with much relief. Flambeau had known Quinton in wild student +days in Paris, and they had renewed the acquaintance for a week-end; but +apart from Flambeau’s more responsible developments of late, he did not +get on well with the poet now. Choking oneself with opium and writing +little erotic verses on vellum was not his notion of how a gentleman +should go to the devil. As the two paused on the door-step, before +taking a turn in the garden, the front garden gate was thrown open with +violence, and a young man with a billycock hat on the back of his head +tumbled up the steps in his eagerness. He was a dissipated-looking youth +with a gorgeous red necktie all awry, as if he had slept in it, and he +kept fidgeting and lashing about with one of those little jointed canes. + +“I say,” he said breathlessly, “I want to see old Quinton. I must see +him. Has he gone?” + +“Mr. Quinton is in, I believe,” said Father Brown, cleaning his pipe, +“but I do not know if you can see him. The doctor is with him at +present.” + +The young man, who seemed not to be perfectly sober, stumbled into the +hall; and at the same moment the doctor came out of Quinton’s study, +shutting the door and beginning to put on his gloves. + +“See Mr. Quinton?” said the doctor coolly. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. In +fact, you mustn’t on any account. Nobody must see him; I’ve just given +him his sleeping draught.” + +“No, but look here, old chap,” said the youth in the red tie, trying +affectionately to capture the doctor by the lapels of his coat. “Look +here. I’m simply sewn up, I tell you. I--” + +“It’s no good, Mr. Atkinson,” said the doctor, forcing him to fall back; +“when you can alter the effects of a drug I’ll alter my decision,” and, +settling on his hat, he stepped out into the sunlight with the other +two. He was a bull-necked, good-tempered little man with a small +moustache, inexpressibly ordinary, yet giving an impression of capacity. + +The young man in the billycock, who did not seem to be gifted with any +tact in dealing with people beyond the general idea of clutching hold of +their coats, stood outside the door, as dazed as if he had been thrown +out bodily, and silently watched the other three walk away together +through the garden. + +“That was a sound, spanking lie I told just now,” remarked the medical +man, laughing. “In point of fact, poor Quinton doesn’t have his sleeping +draught for nearly half an hour. But I’m not going to have him bothered +with that little beast, who only wants to borrow money that he wouldn’t +pay back if he could. He’s a dirty little scamp, though he is Mrs. +Quinton’s brother, and she’s as fine a woman as ever walked.” + +“Yes,” said Father Brown. “She’s a good woman.” + +“So I propose to hang about the garden till the creature has cleared +off,” went on the doctor, “and then I’ll go in to Quinton with the +medicine. Atkinson can’t get in, because I locked the door.” + +“In that case, Dr. Harris,” said Flambeau, “we might as well walk round +at the back by the end of the conservatory. There’s no entrance to it +that way, but it’s worth seeing, even from the outside.” + +“Yes, and I might get a squint at my patient,” laughed the doctor, “for +he prefers to lie on an ottoman right at the end of the conservatory +amid all those blood-red poinsettias; it would give me the creeps. But +what are you doing?” + +Father Brown had stopped for a moment, and picked up out of the long +grass, where it had almost been wholly hidden, a queer, crooked Oriental +knife, inlaid exquisitely in coloured stones and metals. + +“What is this?” asked Father Brown, regarding it with some disfavour. + +“Oh, Quinton’s, I suppose,” said Dr. Harris carelessly; “he has all +sorts of Chinese knickknacks about the place. Or perhaps it belongs to +that mild Hindoo of his whom he keeps on a string.” + +“What Hindoo?” asked Father Brown, still staring at the dagger in his +hand. + +“Oh, some Indian conjuror,” said the doctor lightly; “a fraud, of +course.” + +“You don’t believe in magic?” asked Father Brown, without looking up. + +“O crickey! magic!” said the doctor. + +“It’s very beautiful,” said the priest in a low, dreaming voice; “the +colours are very beautiful. But it’s the wrong shape.” + +“What for?” asked Flambeau, staring. + +“For anything. It’s the wrong shape in the abstract. Don’t you ever feel +that about Eastern art? The colours are intoxicatingly lovely; but the +shapes are mean and bad--deliberately mean and bad. I have seen wicked +things in a Turkey carpet.” + +“Mon Dieu!” cried Flambeau, laughing. + +“They are letters and symbols in a language I don’t know; but I know +they stand for evil words,” went on the priest, his voice growing lower +and lower. “The lines go wrong on purpose--like serpents doubling to +escape.” + +“What the devil are you talking about?” said the doctor with a loud +laugh. + +Flambeau spoke quietly to him in answer. “The Father sometimes gets this +mystic’s cloud on him,” he said; “but I give you fair warning that I +have never known him to have it except when there was some evil quite +near.” + +“Oh, rats!” said the scientist. + +“Why, look at it,” cried Father Brown, holding out the crooked knife at +arm’s length, as if it were some glittering snake. “Don’t you see it is +the wrong shape? Don’t you see that it has no hearty and plain purpose? +It does not point like a spear. It does not sweep like a scythe. It does +not look like a weapon. It looks like an instrument of torture.” + +“Well, as you don’t seem to like it,” said the jolly Harris, “it had +better be taken back to its owner. Haven’t we come to the end of this +confounded conservatory yet? This house is the wrong shape, if you +like.” + +“You don’t understand,” said Father Brown, shaking his head. “The shape +of this house is quaint--it is even laughable. But there is nothing +wrong about it.” + +As they spoke they came round the curve of glass that ended the +conservatory, an uninterrupted curve, for there was neither door nor +window by which to enter at that end. The glass, however, was clear, and +the sun still bright, though beginning to set; and they could see not +only the flamboyant blossoms inside, but the frail figure of the poet +in a brown velvet coat lying languidly on the sofa, having, apparently, +fallen half asleep over a book. He was a pale, slight man, with loose, +chestnut hair and a fringe of beard that was the paradox of his face, +for the beard made him look less manly. These traits were well known +to all three of them; but even had it not been so, it may be doubted +whether they would have looked at Quinton just then. Their eyes were +riveted on another object. + +Exactly in their path, immediately outside the round end of the glass +building, was standing a tall man, whose drapery fell to his feet in +faultless white, and whose bare, brown skull, face, and neck gleamed in +the setting sun like splendid bronze. He was looking through the glass +at the sleeper, and he was more motionless than a mountain. + +“Who is that?” cried Father Brown, stepping back with a hissing intake +of his breath. + +“Oh, it is only that Hindoo humbug,” growled Harris; “but I don’t know +what the deuce he’s doing here.” + +“It looks like hypnotism,” said Flambeau, biting his black moustache. + +“Why are you unmedical fellows always talking bosh about hypnotism?” + cried the doctor. “It looks a deal more like burglary.” + +“Well, we will speak to it, at any rate,” said Flambeau, who was always +for action. One long stride took him to the place where the Indian +stood. Bowing from his great height, which overtopped even the +Oriental’s, he said with placid impudence: + +“Good evening, sir. Do you want anything?” + +Quite slowly, like a great ship turning into a harbour, the great yellow +face turned, and looked at last over its white shoulder. They were +startled to see that its yellow eyelids were quite sealed, as in sleep. +“Thank you,” said the face in excellent English. “I want nothing.” Then, +half opening the lids, so as to show a slit of opalescent eyeball, +he repeated, “I want nothing.” Then he opened his eyes wide with a +startling stare, said, “I want nothing,” and went rustling away into the +rapidly darkening garden. + +“The Christian is more modest,” muttered Father Brown; “he wants +something.” + +“What on earth was he doing?” asked Flambeau, knitting his black brows +and lowering his voice. + +“I should like to talk to you later,” said Father Brown. + +The sunlight was still a reality, but it was the red light of evening, +and the bulk of the garden trees and bushes grew blacker and blacker +against it. They turned round the end of the conservatory, and walked in +silence down the other side to get round to the front door. As they went +they seemed to wake something, as one startles a bird, in the deeper +corner between the study and the main building; and again they saw the +white-robed fakir slide out of the shadow, and slip round towards the +front door. To their surprise, however, he had not been alone. +They found themselves abruptly pulled up and forced to banish their +bewilderment by the appearance of Mrs. Quinton, with her heavy golden +hair and square pale face, advancing on them out of the twilight. She +looked a little stern, but was entirely courteous. + +“Good evening, Dr. Harris,” was all she said. + +“Good evening, Mrs. Quinton,” said the little doctor heartily. “I am +just going to give your husband his sleeping draught.” + +“Yes,” she said in a clear voice. “I think it is quite time.” And she +smiled at them, and went sweeping into the house. + +“That woman’s over-driven,” said Father Brown; “that’s the kind of woman +that does her duty for twenty years, and then does something dreadful.” + +The little doctor looked at him for the first time with an eye of +interest. “Did you ever study medicine?” he asked. + +“You have to know something of the mind as well as the body,” answered +the priest; “we have to know something of the body as well as the mind.” + +“Well,” said the doctor, “I think I’ll go and give Quinton his stuff.” + +They had turned the corner of the front façade, and were approaching the +front doorway. As they turned into it they saw the man in the white robe +for the third time. He came so straight towards the front door that +it seemed quite incredible that he had not just come out of the study +opposite to it. Yet they knew that the study door was locked. + +Father Brown and Flambeau, however, kept this weird contradiction to +themselves, and Dr. Harris was not a man to waste his thoughts on the +impossible. He permitted the omnipresent Asiatic to make his exit, and +then stepped briskly into the hall. There he found a figure which he had +already forgotten. The inane Atkinson was still hanging about, humming +and poking things with his knobby cane. The doctor’s face had a spasm of +disgust and decision, and he whispered rapidly to his companion: “I must +lock the door again, or this rat will get in. But I shall be out again +in two minutes.” + +He rapidly unlocked the door and locked it again behind him, just +balking a blundering charge from the young man in the billycock. The +young man threw himself impatiently on a hall chair. Flambeau looked at +a Persian illumination on the wall; Father Brown, who seemed in a sort +of daze, dully eyed the door. In about four minutes the door was opened +again. Atkinson was quicker this time. He sprang forward, held the door +open for an instant, and called out: “Oh, I say, Quinton, I want--” + +From the other end of the study came the clear voice of Quinton, in +something between a yawn and a yell of weary laughter. + +“Oh, I know what you want. Take it, and leave me in peace. I’m writing a +song about peacocks.” + +Before the door closed half a sovereign came flying through the +aperture; and Atkinson, stumbling forward, caught it with singular +dexterity. + +“So that’s settled,” said the doctor, and, locking the door savagely, he +led the way out into the garden. + +“Poor Leonard can get a little peace now,” he added to Father Brown; +“he’s locked in all by himself for an hour or two.” + +“Yes,” answered the priest; “and his voice sounded jolly enough when we +left him.” Then he looked gravely round the garden, and saw the loose +figure of Atkinson standing and jingling the half-sovereign in his +pocket, and beyond, in the purple twilight, the figure of the Indian +sitting bolt upright upon a bank of grass with his face turned towards +the setting sun. Then he said abruptly: “Where is Mrs. Quinton!” + +“She has gone up to her room,” said the doctor. “That is her shadow on +the blind.” + +Father Brown looked up, and frowningly scrutinised a dark outline at the +gas-lit window. + +“Yes,” he said, “that is her shadow,” and he walked a yard or two and +threw himself upon a garden seat. + +Flambeau sat down beside him; but the doctor was one of those energetic +people who live naturally on their legs. He walked away, smoking, into +the twilight, and the two friends were left together. + +“My father,” said Flambeau in French, “what is the matter with you?” + +Father Brown was silent and motionless for half a minute, then he said: +“Superstition is irreligious, but there is something in the air of this +place. I think it’s that Indian--at least, partly.” + +He sank into silence, and watched the distant outline of the Indian, who +still sat rigid as if in prayer. At first sight he seemed motionless, +but as Father Brown watched him he saw that the man swayed ever so +slightly with a rhythmic movement, just as the dark tree-tops swayed +ever so slightly in the wind that was creeping up the dim garden paths +and shuffling the fallen leaves a little. + +The landscape was growing rapidly dark, as if for a storm, but they +could still see all the figures in their various places. Atkinson was +leaning against a tree with a listless face; Quinton’s wife was still +at her window; the doctor had gone strolling round the end of the +conservatory; they could see his cigar like a will-o’-the-wisp; and the +fakir still sat rigid and yet rocking, while the trees above him began +to rock and almost to roar. Storm was certainly coming. + +“When that Indian spoke to us,” went on Brown in a conversational +undertone, “I had a sort of vision, a vision of him and all his +universe. Yet he only said the same thing three times. When first he +said ‘I want nothing,’ it meant only that he was impenetrable, that Asia +does not give itself away. Then he said again, ‘I want nothing,’ and +I knew that he meant that he was sufficient to himself, like a cosmos, +that he needed no God, neither admitted any sins. And when he said the +third time, ‘I want nothing,’ he said it with blazing eyes. And I knew +that he meant literally what he said; that nothing was his desire and +his home; that he was weary for nothing as for wine; that annihilation, +the mere destruction of everything or anything--” + +Two drops of rain fell; and for some reason Flambeau started and looked +up, as if they had stung him. And the same instant the doctor down by +the end of the conservatory began running towards them, calling out +something as he ran. + +As he came among them like a bombshell the restless Atkinson happened to +be taking a turn nearer to the house front; and the doctor clutched him +by the collar in a convulsive grip. “Foul play!” he cried; “what have +you been doing to him, you dog?” + +The priest had sprung erect, and had the voice of steel of a soldier in +command. + +“No fighting,” he cried coolly; “we are enough to hold anyone we want +to. What is the matter, doctor?” + +“Things are not right with Quinton,” said the doctor, quite white. “I +could just see him through the glass, and I don’t like the way he’s +lying. It’s not as I left him, anyhow.” + +“Let us go in to him,” said Father Brown shortly. “You can leave Mr. +Atkinson alone. I have had him in sight since we heard Quinton’s voice.” + +“I will stop here and watch him,” said Flambeau hurriedly. “You go in +and see.” + +The doctor and the priest flew to the study door, unlocked it, and fell +into the room. In doing so they nearly fell over the large mahogany +table in the centre at which the poet usually wrote; for the place was +lit only by a small fire kept for the invalid. In the middle of this +table lay a single sheet of paper, evidently left there on purpose. The +doctor snatched it up, glanced at it, handed it to Father Brown, and +crying, “Good God, look at that!” plunged toward the glass room beyond, +where the terrible tropic flowers still seemed to keep a crimson memory +of the sunset. + +Father Brown read the words three times before he put down the paper. +The words were: “I die by my own hand; yet I die murdered!” They were +in the quite inimitable, not to say illegible, handwriting of Leonard +Quinton. + +Then Father Brown, still keeping the paper in his hand, strode towards +the conservatory, only to meet his medical friend coming back with a +face of assurance and collapse. “He’s done it,” said Harris. + +They went together through the gorgeous unnatural beauty of cactus +and azalea and found Leonard Quinton, poet and romancer, with his head +hanging downward off his ottoman and his red curls sweeping the ground. +Into his left side was thrust the queer dagger that they had picked up +in the garden, and his limp hand still rested on the hilt. + +Outside the storm had come at one stride, like the night in Coleridge, +and garden and glass roof were darkened with driving rain. Father Brown +seemed to be studying the paper more than the corpse; he held it close +to his eyes; and seemed trying to read it in the twilight. Then he held +it up against the faint light, and, as he did so, lightning stared at +them for an instant so white that the paper looked black against it. + +Darkness full of thunder followed, and after the thunder Father Brown’s +voice said out of the dark: “Doctor, this paper is the wrong shape.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Doctor Harris, with a frowning stare. + +“It isn’t square,” answered Brown. “It has a sort of edge snipped off at +the corner. What does it mean?” + +“How the deuce should I know?” growled the doctor. “Shall we move this +poor chap, do you think? He’s quite dead.” + +“No,” answered the priest; “we must leave him as he lies and send for +the police.” But he was still scrutinising the paper. + +As they went back through the study he stopped by the table and picked +up a small pair of nail scissors. “Ah,” he said, with a sort of relief, +“this is what he did it with. But yet--” And he knitted his brows. + +“Oh, stop fooling with that scrap of paper,” said the doctor +emphatically. “It was a fad of his. He had hundreds of them. He cut all +his paper like that,” as he pointed to a stack of sermon paper still +unused on another and smaller table. Father Brown went up to it and held +up a sheet. It was the same irregular shape. + +“Quite so,” he said. “And here I see the corners that were snipped off.” + And to the indignation of his colleague he began to count them. + +“That’s all right,” he said, with an apologetic smile. “Twenty-three +sheets cut and twenty-two corners cut off them. And as I see you are +impatient we will rejoin the others.” + +“Who is to tell his wife?” asked Dr. Harris. “Will you go and tell her +now, while I send a servant for the police?” + +“As you will,” said Father Brown indifferently. And he went out to the +hall door. + +Here also he found a drama, though of a more grotesque sort. It showed +nothing less than his big friend Flambeau in an attitude to which he +had long been unaccustomed, while upon the pathway at the bottom of the +steps was sprawling with his boots in the air the amiable Atkinson, his +billycock hat and walking cane sent flying in opposite directions along +the path. Atkinson had at length wearied of Flambeau’s almost paternal +custody, and had endeavoured to knock him down, which was by no means a +smooth game to play with the Roi des Apaches, even after that monarch’s +abdication. + +Flambeau was about to leap upon his enemy and secure him once more, when +the priest patted him easily on the shoulder. + +“Make it up with Mr. Atkinson, my friend,” he said. “Beg a mutual pardon +and say ‘Good night.’ We need not detain him any longer.” Then, as +Atkinson rose somewhat doubtfully and gathered his hat and stick and +went towards the garden gate, Father Brown said in a more serious voice: +“Where is that Indian?” + +They all three (for the doctor had joined them) turned involuntarily +towards the dim grassy bank amid the tossing trees purple with twilight, +where they had last seen the brown man swaying in his strange prayers. +The Indian was gone. + +“Confound him,” cried the doctor, stamping furiously. “Now I know that +it was that nigger that did it.” + +“I thought you didn’t believe in magic,” said Father Brown quietly. + +“No more I did,” said the doctor, rolling his eyes. “I only know that +I loathed that yellow devil when I thought he was a sham wizard. And I +shall loathe him more if I come to think he was a real one.” + +“Well, his having escaped is nothing,” said Flambeau. “For we could +have proved nothing and done nothing against him. One hardly goes to +the parish constable with a story of suicide imposed by witchcraft or +auto-suggestion.” + +Meanwhile Father Brown had made his way into the house, and now went to +break the news to the wife of the dead man. + +When he came out again he looked a little pale and tragic, but what +passed between them in that interview was never known, even when all was +known. + +Flambeau, who was talking quietly with the doctor, was surprised to see +his friend reappear so soon at his elbow; but Brown took no notice, and +merely drew the doctor apart. “You have sent for the police, haven’t +you?” he asked. + +“Yes,” answered Harris. “They ought to be here in ten minutes.” + +“Will you do me a favour?” said the priest quietly. “The truth is, I +make a collection of these curious stories, which often contain, as in +the case of our Hindoo friend, elements which can hardly be put into a +police report. Now, I want you to write out a report of this case for +my private use. Yours is a clever trade,” he said, looking the doctor +gravely and steadily in the face. “I sometimes think that you know some +details of this matter which you have not thought fit to mention. Mine +is a confidential trade like yours, and I will treat anything you write +for me in strict confidence. But write the whole.” + +The doctor, who had been listening thoughtfully with his head a little +on one side, looked the priest in the face for an instant, and said: +“All right,” and went into the study, closing the door behind him. + +“Flambeau,” said Father Brown, “there is a long seat there under the +veranda, where we can smoke out of the rain. You are my only friend in +the world, and I want to talk to you. Or, perhaps, be silent with you.” + +They established themselves comfortably in the veranda seat; Father +Brown, against his common habit, accepted a good cigar and smoked it +steadily in silence, while the rain shrieked and rattled on the roof of +the veranda. + +“My friend,” he said at length, “this is a very queer case. A very queer +case.” + +“I should think it was,” said Flambeau, with something like a shudder. + +“You call it queer, and I call it queer,” said the other, “and yet +we mean quite opposite things. The modern mind always mixes up two +different ideas: mystery in the sense of what is marvellous, and mystery +in the sense of what is complicated. That is half its difficulty about +miracles. A miracle is startling; but it is simple. It is simple because +it is a miracle. It is power coming directly from God (or the devil) +instead of indirectly through nature or human wills. Now, you mean that +this business is marvellous because it is miraculous, because it is +witchcraft worked by a wicked Indian. Understand, I do not say that +it was not spiritual or diabolic. Heaven and hell only know by what +surrounding influences strange sins come into the lives of men. But for +the present my point is this: If it was pure magic, as you think, +then it is marvellous; but it is not mysterious--that is, it is not +complicated. The quality of a miracle is mysterious, but its manner +is simple. Now, the manner of this business has been the reverse of +simple.” + +The storm that had slackened for a little seemed to be swelling again, +and there came heavy movements as of faint thunder. Father Brown let +fall the ash of his cigar and went on: + +“There has been in this incident,” he said, “a twisted, ugly, complex +quality that does not belong to the straight bolts either of heaven +or hell. As one knows the crooked track of a snail, I know the crooked +track of a man.” + +The white lightning opened its enormous eye in one wink, the sky shut up +again, and the priest went on: + +“Of all these crooked things, the crookedest was the shape of that piece +of paper. It was crookeder than the dagger that killed him.” + +“You mean the paper on which Quinton confessed his suicide,” said +Flambeau. + +“I mean the paper on which Quinton wrote, ‘I die by my own hand,’” + answered Father Brown. “The shape of that paper, my friend, was the +wrong shape; the wrong shape, if ever I have seen it in this wicked +world.” + +“It only had a corner snipped off,” said Flambeau, “and I understand +that all Quinton’s paper was cut that way.” + +“It was a very odd way,” said the other, “and a very bad way, to my +taste and fancy. Look here, Flambeau, this Quinton--God receive his +soul!--was perhaps a bit of a cur in some ways, but he really was an +artist, with the pencil as well as the pen. His handwriting, though hard +to read, was bold and beautiful. I can’t prove what I say; I can’t prove +anything. But I tell you with the full force of conviction that he could +never have cut that mean little piece off a sheet of paper. If he had +wanted to cut down paper for some purpose of fitting in, or binding +up, or what not, he would have made quite a different slash with the +scissors. Do you remember the shape? It was a mean shape. It was a wrong +shape. Like this. Don’t you remember?” + +And he waved his burning cigar before him in the darkness, making +irregular squares so rapidly that Flambeau really seemed to see them as +fiery hieroglyphics upon the darkness--hieroglyphics such as his friend +had spoken of, which are undecipherable, yet can have no good meaning. + +“But,” said Flambeau, as the priest put his cigar in his mouth again +and leaned back, staring at the roof, “suppose somebody else did use the +scissors. Why should somebody else, cutting pieces off his sermon paper, +make Quinton commit suicide?” + +Father Brown was still leaning back and staring at the roof, but he took +his cigar out of his mouth and said: “Quinton never did commit suicide.” + +Flambeau stared at him. “Why, confound it all,” he cried, “then why did +he confess to suicide?” + +The priest leant forward again, settled his elbows on his knees, looked +at the ground, and said, in a low, distinct voice: “He never did confess +to suicide.” + +Flambeau laid his cigar down. “You mean,” he said, “that the writing was +forged?” + +“No,” said Father Brown. “Quinton wrote it all right.” + +“Well, there you are,” said the aggravated Flambeau; “Quinton wrote, ‘I +die by my own hand,’ with his own hand on a plain piece of paper.” + +“Of the wrong shape,” said the priest calmly. + +“Oh, the shape be damned!” cried Flambeau. “What has the shape to do +with it?” + +“There were twenty-three snipped papers,” resumed Brown unmoved, “and +only twenty-two pieces snipped off. Therefore one of the pieces had +been destroyed, probably that from the written paper. Does that suggest +anything to you?” + +A light dawned on Flambeau’s face, and he said: “There was something +else written by Quinton, some other words. ‘They will tell you I die by +my own hand,’ or ‘Do not believe that--’” + +“Hotter, as the children say,” said his friend. “But the piece was +hardly half an inch across; there was no room for one word, let alone +five. Can you think of anything hardly bigger than a comma which the man +with hell in his heart had to tear away as a testimony against him?” + +“I can think of nothing,” said Flambeau at last. + +“What about quotation marks?” said the priest, and flung his cigar far +into the darkness like a shooting star. + +All words had left the other man’s mouth, and Father Brown said, like +one going back to fundamentals: + +“Leonard Quinton was a romancer, and was writing an Oriental romance +about wizardry and hypnotism. He--” + +At this moment the door opened briskly behind them, and the doctor came +out with his hat on. He put a long envelope into the priest’s hands. + +“That’s the document you wanted,” he said, “and I must be getting home. +Good night.” + +“Good night,” said Father Brown, as the doctor walked briskly to the +gate. He had left the front door open, so that a shaft of gaslight fell +upon them. In the light of this Brown opened the envelope and read the +following words: + + + + DEAR FATHER BROWN,--Vicisti Galilee. Otherwise, damn your + eyes, which are very penetrating ones. Can it be possible that + there is something in all that stuff of yours after all? + + + I am a man who has ever since boyhood believed in Nature and + in all natural functions and instincts, whether men called them + moral or immoral. Long before I became a doctor, when I was a + schoolboy keeping mice and spiders, I believed that to be a good + animal is the best thing in the world. But just now I am shaken; + I have believed in Nature; but it seems as if Nature could betray + a man. Can there be anything in your bosh? I am really getting + morbid. + + + I loved Quinton’s wife. What was there wrong in that? Nature + told me to, and it’s love that makes the world go round. I also + thought quite sincerely that she would be happier with a clean + animal like me than with that tormenting little lunatic. What was + there wrong in that? I was only facing facts, like a man of + science. She would have been happier. + + + According to my own creed I was quite free to kill Quinton, + which was the best thing for everybody, even himself. But as a + healthy animal I had no notion of killing myself. I resolved, + therefore, that I would never do it until I saw a chance that + would leave me scot free. I saw that chance this morning. + + + I have been three times, all told, into Quinton’s study today. + The first time I went in he would talk about nothing but the weird + tale, called “The Cure of a Saint,” which he was writing, which + was all about how some Indian hermit made an English colonel kill + himself by thinking about him. He showed me the last sheets, and + even read me the last paragraph, which was something like this: + “The conqueror of the Punjab, a mere yellow skeleton, but still + gigantic, managed to lift himself on his elbow and gasp in his + nephew’s ear: ‘I die by my own hand, yet I die murdered!’” It so + happened by one chance out of a hundred, that those last words + were written at the top of a new sheet of paper. I left the room, + and went out into the garden intoxicated with a frightful + opportunity. + + + We walked round the house; and two more things happened in my + favour. You suspected an Indian, and you found a dagger which the + Indian might most probably use. Taking the opportunity to stuff + it in my pocket I went back to Quinton’s study, locked the door, + and gave him his sleeping draught. He was against answering + Atkinson at all, but I urged him to call out and quiet the fellow, + because I wanted a clear proof that Quinton was alive when I left + the room for the second time. Quinton lay down in the conservatory, + and I came through the study. I am a quick man with my hands, and + in a minute and a half I had done what I wanted to do. I had + emptied all the first part of Quinton’s romance into the fireplace, + where it burnt to ashes. Then I saw that the quotation marks + wouldn’t do, so I snipped them off, and to make it seem likelier, + snipped the whole quire to match. Then I came out with the + knowledge that Quinton’s confession of suicide lay on the front + table, while Quinton lay alive but asleep in the conservatory + beyond. + + + The last act was a desperate one; you can guess it: I pretended + to have seen Quinton dead and rushed to his room. I delayed you + with the paper, and, being a quick man with my hands, killed + Quinton while you were looking at his confession of suicide. He + was half-asleep, being drugged, and I put his own hand on the + knife and drove it into his body. The knife was of so queer a + shape that no one but an operator could have calculated the angle + that would reach his heart. I wonder if you noticed this. + + + When I had done it, the extraordinary thing happened. Nature + deserted me. I felt ill. I felt just as if I had done something + wrong. I think my brain is breaking up; I feel some sort of + desperate pleasure in thinking I have told the thing to somebody; + that I shall not have to be alone with it if I marry and have + children. What is the matter with me?... Madness... or can one + have remorse, just as if one were in Byron’s poems! I cannot + write any more. + + James Erskine Harris. + + +Father Brown carefully folded up the letter, and put it in his breast +pocket just as there came a loud peal at the gate bell, and the wet +waterproofs of several policemen gleamed in the road outside. + + + + +The Sins of Prince Saradine + + +When Flambeau took his month’s holiday from his office in Westminster +he took it in a small sailing-boat, so small that it passed much of its +time as a rowing-boat. He took it, moreover, in little rivers in the +Eastern counties, rivers so small that the boat looked like a magic +boat, sailing on land through meadows and cornfields. The vessel was +just comfortable for two people; there was room only for necessities, +and Flambeau had stocked it with such things as his special philosophy +considered necessary. They reduced themselves, apparently, to four +essentials: tins of salmon, if he should want to eat; loaded revolvers, +if he should want to fight; a bottle of brandy, presumably in case he +should faint; and a priest, presumably in case he should die. With this +light luggage he crawled down the little Norfolk rivers, intending to +reach the Broads at last, but meanwhile delighting in the overhanging +gardens and meadows, the mirrored mansions or villages, lingering to +fish in the pools and corners, and in some sense hugging the shore. + +Like a true philosopher, Flambeau had no aim in his holiday; but, like a +true philosopher, he had an excuse. He had a sort of half purpose, which +he took just so seriously that its success would crown the holiday, but +just so lightly that its failure would not spoil it. Years ago, when he +had been a king of thieves and the most famous figure in Paris, he had +often received wild communications of approval, denunciation, or even +love; but one had, somehow, stuck in his memory. It consisted simply of +a visiting-card, in an envelope with an English postmark. On the back of +the card was written in French and in green ink: “If you ever retire and +become respectable, come and see me. I want to meet you, for I have met +all the other great men of my time. That trick of yours of getting one +detective to arrest the other was the most splendid scene in French +history.” On the front of the card was engraved in the formal fashion, +“Prince Saradine, Reed House, Reed Island, Norfolk.” + +He had not troubled much about the prince then, beyond ascertaining that +he had been a brilliant and fashionable figure in southern Italy. In his +youth, it was said, he had eloped with a married woman of high rank; the +escapade was scarcely startling in his social world, but it had clung to +men’s minds because of an additional tragedy: the alleged suicide of the +insulted husband, who appeared to have flung himself over a precipice in +Sicily. The prince then lived in Vienna for a time, but his more recent +years seemed to have been passed in perpetual and restless travel. But +when Flambeau, like the prince himself, had left European celebrity +and settled in England, it occurred to him that he might pay a surprise +visit to this eminent exile in the Norfolk Broads. Whether he should +find the place he had no idea; and, indeed, it was sufficiently small +and forgotten. But, as things fell out, he found it much sooner than he +expected. + +They had moored their boat one night under a bank veiled in high grasses +and short pollarded trees. Sleep, after heavy sculling, had come to them +early, and by a corresponding accident they awoke before it was light. +To speak more strictly, they awoke before it was daylight; for a large +lemon moon was only just setting in the forest of high grass above their +heads, and the sky was of a vivid violet-blue, nocturnal but bright. +Both men had simultaneously a reminiscence of childhood, of the elfin +and adventurous time when tall weeds close over us like woods. Standing +up thus against the large low moon, the daisies really seemed to +be giant daisies, the dandelions to be giant dandelions. Somehow it +reminded them of the dado of a nursery wall-paper. The drop of the +river-bed sufficed to sink them under the roots of all shrubs and +flowers and make them gaze upwards at the grass. “By Jove!” said +Flambeau, “it’s like being in fairyland.” + +Father Brown sat bolt upright in the boat and crossed himself. His +movement was so abrupt that his friend asked him, with a mild stare, +what was the matter. + +“The people who wrote the mediaeval ballads,” answered the priest, “knew +more about fairies than you do. It isn’t only nice things that happen in +fairyland.” + +“Oh, bosh!” said Flambeau. “Only nice things could happen under such an +innocent moon. I am for pushing on now and seeing what does really come. +We may die and rot before we ever see again such a moon or such a mood.” + +“All right,” said Father Brown. “I never said it was always wrong to +enter fairyland. I only said it was always dangerous.” + +They pushed slowly up the brightening river; the glowing violet of the +sky and the pale gold of the moon grew fainter and fainter, and faded +into that vast colourless cosmos that precedes the colours of the dawn. +When the first faint stripes of red and gold and grey split the horizon +from end to end they were broken by the black bulk of a town or village +which sat on the river just ahead of them. It was already an easy +twilight, in which all things were visible, when they came under the +hanging roofs and bridges of this riverside hamlet. The houses, with +their long, low, stooping roofs, seemed to come down to drink at the +river, like huge grey and red cattle. The broadening and whitening +dawn had already turned to working daylight before they saw any living +creature on the wharves and bridges of that silent town. Eventually they +saw a very placid and prosperous man in his shirt sleeves, with a face +as round as the recently sunken moon, and rays of red whisker around the +low arc of it, who was leaning on a post above the sluggish tide. By +an impulse not to be analysed, Flambeau rose to his full height in the +swaying boat and shouted at the man to ask if he knew Reed Island or +Reed House. The prosperous man’s smile grew slightly more expansive, +and he simply pointed up the river towards the next bend of it. Flambeau +went ahead without further speech. + +The boat took many such grassy corners and followed many such reedy and +silent reaches of river; but before the search had become monotonous +they had swung round a specially sharp angle and come into the silence +of a sort of pool or lake, the sight of which instinctively arrested +them. For in the middle of this wider piece of water, fringed on every +side with rushes, lay a long, low islet, along which ran a long, low +house or bungalow built of bamboo or some kind of tough tropic cane. +The upstanding rods of bamboo which made the walls were pale yellow, the +sloping rods that made the roof were of darker red or brown, otherwise +the long house was a thing of repetition and monotony. The early morning +breeze rustled the reeds round the island and sang in the strange ribbed +house as in a giant pan-pipe. + +“By George!” cried Flambeau; “here is the place, after all! Here is Reed +Island, if ever there was one. Here is Reed House, if it is anywhere. I +believe that fat man with whiskers was a fairy.” + +“Perhaps,” remarked Father Brown impartially. “If he was, he was a bad +fairy.” + +But even as he spoke the impetuous Flambeau had run his boat ashore in +the rattling reeds, and they stood in the long, quaint islet beside the +odd and silent house. + +The house stood with its back, as it were, to the river and the only +landing-stage; the main entrance was on the other side, and looked down +the long island garden. The visitors approached it, therefore, by a +small path running round nearly three sides of the house, close under +the low eaves. Through three different windows on three different sides +they looked in on the same long, well-lit room, panelled in light wood, +with a large number of looking-glasses, and laid out as for an elegant +lunch. The front door, when they came round to it at last, was flanked +by two turquoise-blue flower pots. It was opened by a butler of the +drearier type--long, lean, grey and listless--who murmured that Prince +Saradine was from home at present, but was expected hourly; the house +being kept ready for him and his guests. The exhibition of the card with +the scrawl of green ink awoke a flicker of life in the parchment face of +the depressed retainer, and it was with a certain shaky courtesy that +he suggested that the strangers should remain. “His Highness may be here +any minute,” he said, “and would be distressed to have just missed any +gentleman he had invited. We have orders always to keep a little cold +lunch for him and his friends, and I am sure he would wish it to be +offered.” + +Moved with curiosity to this minor adventure, Flambeau assented +gracefully, and followed the old man, who ushered him ceremoniously into +the long, lightly panelled room. There was nothing very notable about +it, except the rather unusual alternation of many long, low windows with +many long, low oblongs of looking-glass, which gave a singular air +of lightness and unsubstantialness to the place. It was somehow like +lunching out of doors. One or two pictures of a quiet kind hung in the +corners, one a large grey photograph of a very young man in uniform, +another a red chalk sketch of two long-haired boys. Asked by Flambeau +whether the soldierly person was the prince, the butler answered shortly +in the negative; it was the prince’s younger brother, Captain Stephen +Saradine, he said. And with that the old man seemed to dry up suddenly +and lose all taste for conversation. + +After lunch had tailed off with exquisite coffee and liqueurs, +the guests were introduced to the garden, the library, and the +housekeeper--a dark, handsome lady, of no little majesty, and rather +like a plutonic Madonna. It appeared that she and the butler were +the only survivors of the prince’s original foreign menage the other +servants now in the house being new and collected in Norfolk by the +housekeeper. This latter lady went by the name of Mrs. Anthony, but +she spoke with a slight Italian accent, and Flambeau did not doubt that +Anthony was a Norfolk version of some more Latin name. Mr. Paul, +the butler, also had a faintly foreign air, but he was in tongue and +training English, as are many of the most polished men-servants of the +cosmopolitan nobility. + +Pretty and unique as it was, the place had about it a curious luminous +sadness. Hours passed in it like days. The long, well-windowed rooms +were full of daylight, but it seemed a dead daylight. And through all +other incidental noises, the sound of talk, the clink of glasses, or the +passing feet of servants, they could hear on all sides of the house the +melancholy noise of the river. + +“We have taken a wrong turning, and come to a wrong place,” said Father +Brown, looking out of the window at the grey-green sedges and the silver +flood. “Never mind; one can sometimes do good by being the right person +in the wrong place.” + +Father Brown, though commonly a silent, was an oddly sympathetic little +man, and in those few but endless hours he unconsciously sank deeper +into the secrets of Reed House than his professional friend. He had that +knack of friendly silence which is so essential to gossip; and saying +scarcely a word, he probably obtained from his new acquaintances all +that in any case they would have told. The butler indeed was naturally +uncommunicative. He betrayed a sullen and almost animal affection +for his master; who, he said, had been very badly treated. The chief +offender seemed to be his highness’s brother, whose name alone would +lengthen the old man’s lantern jaws and pucker his parrot nose into a +sneer. Captain Stephen was a ne’er-do-well, apparently, and had drained +his benevolent brother of hundreds and thousands; forced him to fly from +fashionable life and live quietly in this retreat. That was all Paul, +the butler, would say, and Paul was obviously a partisan. + +The Italian housekeeper was somewhat more communicative, being, as Brown +fancied, somewhat less content. Her tone about her master was faintly +acid; though not without a certain awe. Flambeau and his friend were +standing in the room of the looking-glasses examining the red sketch +of the two boys, when the housekeeper swept in swiftly on some domestic +errand. It was a peculiarity of this glittering, glass-panelled place +that anyone entering was reflected in four or five mirrors at once; and +Father Brown, without turning round, stopped in the middle of a sentence +of family criticism. But Flambeau, who had his face close up to the +picture, was already saying in a loud voice, “The brothers Saradine, I +suppose. They both look innocent enough. It would be hard to say which +is the good brother and which the bad.” Then, realising the lady’s +presence, he turned the conversation with some triviality, and strolled +out into the garden. But Father Brown still gazed steadily at the red +crayon sketch; and Mrs. Anthony still gazed steadily at Father Brown. + +She had large and tragic brown eyes, and her olive face glowed darkly +with a curious and painful wonder--as of one doubtful of a stranger’s +identity or purpose. Whether the little priest’s coat and creed touched +some southern memories of confession, or whether she fancied he knew +more than he did, she said to him in a low voice as to a fellow plotter, +“He is right enough in one way, your friend. He says it would be hard +to pick out the good and bad brothers. Oh, it would be hard, it would be +mighty hard, to pick out the good one.” + +“I don’t understand you,” said Father Brown, and began to move away. + +The woman took a step nearer to him, with thunderous brows and a sort of +savage stoop, like a bull lowering his horns. + +“There isn’t a good one,” she hissed. “There was badness enough in the +captain taking all that money, but I don’t think there was much goodness +in the prince giving it. The captain’s not the only one with something +against him.” + +A light dawned on the cleric’s averted face, and his mouth formed +silently the word “blackmail.” Even as he did so the woman turned an +abrupt white face over her shoulder and almost fell. The door had opened +soundlessly and the pale Paul stood like a ghost in the doorway. By +the weird trick of the reflecting walls, it seemed as if five Pauls had +entered by five doors simultaneously. + +“His Highness,” he said, “has just arrived.” + +In the same flash the figure of a man had passed outside the first +window, crossing the sunlit pane like a lighted stage. An instant +later he passed at the second window and the many mirrors repainted in +successive frames the same eagle profile and marching figure. He was +erect and alert, but his hair was white and his complexion of an odd +ivory yellow. He had that short, curved Roman nose which generally +goes with long, lean cheeks and chin, but these were partly masked by +moustache and imperial. The moustache was much darker than the beard, +giving an effect slightly theatrical, and he was dressed up to the same +dashing part, having a white top hat, an orchid in his coat, a yellow +waistcoat and yellow gloves which he flapped and swung as he walked. +When he came round to the front door they heard the stiff Paul open it, +and heard the new arrival say cheerfully, “Well, you see I have come.” + The stiff Mr. Paul bowed and answered in his inaudible manner; for a +few minutes their conversation could not be heard. Then the butler said, +“Everything is at your disposal;” and the glove-flapping Prince Saradine +came gaily into the room to greet them. They beheld once more that +spectral scene--five princes entering a room with five doors. + +The prince put the white hat and yellow gloves on the table and offered +his hand quite cordially. + +“Delighted to see you here, Mr. Flambeau,” he said. “Knowing you very +well by reputation, if that’s not an indiscreet remark.” + +“Not at all,” answered Flambeau, laughing. “I am not sensitive. Very few +reputations are gained by unsullied virtue.” + +The prince flashed a sharp look at him to see if the retort had any +personal point; then he laughed also and offered chairs to everyone, +including himself. + +“Pleasant little place, this, I think,” he said with a detached air. +“Not much to do, I fear; but the fishing is really good.” + +The priest, who was staring at him with the grave stare of a baby, was +haunted by some fancy that escaped definition. He looked at the grey, +carefully curled hair, yellow white visage, and slim, somewhat foppish +figure. These were not unnatural, though perhaps a shade prononcé, like +the outfit of a figure behind the footlights. The nameless interest +lay in something else, in the very framework of the face; Brown was +tormented with a half memory of having seen it somewhere before. The +man looked like some old friend of his dressed up. Then he suddenly +remembered the mirrors, and put his fancy down to some psychological +effect of that multiplication of human masks. + +Prince Saradine distributed his social attentions between his guests +with great gaiety and tact. Finding the detective of a sporting turn and +eager to employ his holiday, he guided Flambeau and Flambeau’s boat down +to the best fishing spot in the stream, and was back in his own canoe +in twenty minutes to join Father Brown in the library and plunge equally +politely into the priest’s more philosophic pleasures. He seemed to know +a great deal both about the fishing and the books, though of these not +the most edifying; he spoke five or six languages, though chiefly the +slang of each. He had evidently lived in varied cities and very motley +societies, for some of his cheerfullest stories were about gambling +hells and opium dens, Australian bushrangers or Italian brigands. Father +Brown knew that the once-celebrated Saradine had spent his last few +years in almost ceaseless travel, but he had not guessed that the +travels were so disreputable or so amusing. + +Indeed, with all his dignity of a man of the world, Prince Saradine +radiated to such sensitive observers as the priest, a certain atmosphere +of the restless and even the unreliable. His face was fastidious, but +his eye was wild; he had little nervous tricks, like a man shaken by +drink or drugs, and he neither had, nor professed to have, his hand +on the helm of household affairs. All these were left to the two old +servants, especially to the butler, who was plainly the central pillar +of the house. Mr. Paul, indeed, was not so much a butler as a sort of +steward or, even, chamberlain; he dined privately, but with almost +as much pomp as his master; he was feared by all the servants; and he +consulted with the prince decorously, but somewhat unbendingly--rather +as if he were the prince’s solicitor. The sombre housekeeper was a mere +shadow in comparison; indeed, she seemed to efface herself and wait only +on the butler, and Brown heard no more of those volcanic whispers which +had half told him of the younger brother who blackmailed the elder. +Whether the prince was really being thus bled by the absent captain, +he could not be certain, but there was something insecure and secretive +about Saradine that made the tale by no means incredible. + +When they went once more into the long hall with the windows and the +mirrors, yellow evening was dropping over the waters and the willowy +banks; and a bittern sounded in the distance like an elf upon his +dwarfish drum. The same singular sentiment of some sad and evil +fairyland crossed the priest’s mind again like a little grey cloud. “I +wish Flambeau were back,” he muttered. + +“Do you believe in doom?” asked the restless Prince Saradine suddenly. + +“No,” answered his guest. “I believe in Doomsday.” + +The prince turned from the window and stared at him in a singular +manner, his face in shadow against the sunset. “What do you mean?” he +asked. + +“I mean that we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry,” answered +Father Brown. “The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; +they mean something somewhere else. Somewhere else retribution will come +on the real offender. Here it often seems to fall on the wrong person.” + +The prince made an inexplicable noise like an animal; in his shadowed +face the eyes were shining queerly. A new and shrewd thought exploded +silently in the other’s mind. Was there another meaning in Saradine’s +blend of brilliancy and abruptness? Was the prince--Was he perfectly +sane? He was repeating, “The wrong person--the wrong person,” many more +times than was natural in a social exclamation. + +Then Father Brown awoke tardily to a second truth. In the mirrors before +him he could see the silent door standing open, and the silent Mr. Paul +standing in it, with his usual pallid impassiveness. + +“I thought it better to announce at once,” he said, with the same stiff +respectfulness as of an old family lawyer, “a boat rowed by six men +has come to the landing-stage, and there’s a gentleman sitting in the +stern.” + +“A boat!” repeated the prince; “a gentleman?” and he rose to his feet. + +There was a startled silence punctuated only by the odd noise of the +bird in the sedge; and then, before anyone could speak again, a new +face and figure passed in profile round the three sunlit windows, as +the prince had passed an hour or two before. But except for the accident +that both outlines were aquiline, they had little in common. Instead +of the new white topper of Saradine, was a black one of antiquated or +foreign shape; under it was a young and very solemn face, clean shaven, +blue about its resolute chin, and carrying a faint suggestion of the +young Napoleon. The association was assisted by something old and odd +about the whole get-up, as of a man who had never troubled to change +the fashions of his fathers. He had a shabby blue frock coat, a red, +soldierly looking waistcoat, and a kind of coarse white trousers common +among the early Victorians, but strangely incongruous today. From all +this old clothes-shop his olive face stood out strangely young and +monstrously sincere. + +“The deuce!” said Prince Saradine, and clapping on his white hat he went +to the front door himself, flinging it open on the sunset garden. + +By that time the new-comer and his followers were drawn up on the lawn +like a small stage army. The six boatmen had pulled the boat well up on +shore, and were guarding it almost menacingly, holding their oars erect +like spears. They were swarthy men, and some of them wore earrings. But +one of them stood forward beside the olive-faced young man in the red +waistcoat, and carried a large black case of unfamiliar form. + +“Your name,” said the young man, “is Saradine?” + +Saradine assented rather negligently. + +The new-comer had dull, dog-like brown eyes, as different as possible +from the restless and glittering grey eyes of the prince. But once +again Father Brown was tortured with a sense of having seen somewhere a +replica of the face; and once again he remembered the repetitions of +the glass-panelled room, and put down the coincidence to that. “Confound +this crystal palace!” he muttered. “One sees everything too many times. +It’s like a dream.” + +“If you are Prince Saradine,” said the young man, “I may tell you that +my name is Antonelli.” + +“Antonelli,” repeated the prince languidly. “Somehow I remember the +name.” + +“Permit me to present myself,” said the young Italian. + +With his left hand he politely took off his old-fashioned top-hat; with +his right he caught Prince Saradine so ringing a crack across the +face that the white top hat rolled down the steps and one of the blue +flower-pots rocked upon its pedestal. + +The prince, whatever he was, was evidently not a coward; he sprang at +his enemy’s throat and almost bore him backwards to the grass. But his +enemy extricated himself with a singularly inappropriate air of hurried +politeness. + +“That is all right,” he said, panting and in halting English. “I have +insulted. I will give satisfaction. Marco, open the case.” + +The man beside him with the earrings and the big black case proceeded +to unlock it. He took out of it two long Italian rapiers, with splendid +steel hilts and blades, which he planted point downwards in the lawn. +The strange young man standing facing the entrance with his yellow and +vindictive face, the two swords standing up in the turf like two crosses +in a cemetery, and the line of the ranked towers behind, gave it all an +odd appearance of being some barbaric court of justice. But everything +else was unchanged, so sudden had been the interruption. The sunset gold +still glowed on the lawn, and the bittern still boomed as announcing +some small but dreadful destiny. + +“Prince Saradine,” said the man called Antonelli, “when I was an infant +in the cradle you killed my father and stole my mother; my father was +the more fortunate. You did not kill him fairly, as I am going to kill +you. You and my wicked mother took him driving to a lonely pass in +Sicily, flung him down a cliff, and went on your way. I could imitate +you if I chose, but imitating you is too vile. I have followed you all +over the world, and you have always fled from me. But this is the end +of the world--and of you. I have you now, and I give you the chance you +never gave my father. Choose one of those swords.” + +Prince Saradine, with contracted brows, seemed to hesitate a moment, +but his ears were still singing with the blow, and he sprang forward +and snatched at one of the hilts. Father Brown had also sprung forward, +striving to compose the dispute; but he soon found his personal presence +made matters worse. Saradine was a French freemason and a fierce +atheist, and a priest moved him by the law of contraries. And for the +other man neither priest nor layman moved him at all. This young man +with the Bonaparte face and the brown eyes was something far sterner +than a puritan--a pagan. He was a simple slayer from the morning of the +earth; a man of the stone age--a man of stone. + +One hope remained, the summoning of the household; and Father Brown ran +back into the house. He found, however, that all the under servants +had been given a holiday ashore by the autocrat Paul, and that only the +sombre Mrs. Anthony moved uneasily about the long rooms. But the moment +she turned a ghastly face upon him, he resolved one of the riddles of +the house of mirrors. The heavy brown eyes of Antonelli were the heavy +brown eyes of Mrs. Anthony; and in a flash he saw half the story. + +“Your son is outside,” he said without wasting words; “either he or the +prince will be killed. Where is Mr. Paul?” + +“He is at the landing-stage,” said the woman faintly. “He is--he +is--signalling for help.” + +“Mrs. Anthony,” said Father Brown seriously, “there is no time for +nonsense. My friend has his boat down the river fishing. Your son’s boat +is guarded by your son’s men. There is only this one canoe; what is Mr. +Paul doing with it?” + +“Santa Maria! I do not know,” she said; and swooned all her length on +the matted floor. + +Father Brown lifted her to a sofa, flung a pot of water over her, +shouted for help, and then rushed down to the landing-stage of the +little island. But the canoe was already in mid-stream, and old Paul +was pulling and pushing it up the river with an energy incredible at his +years. + +“I will save my master,” he cried, his eyes blazing maniacally. “I will +save him yet!” + +Father Brown could do nothing but gaze after the boat as it struggled +up-stream and pray that the old man might waken the little town in time. + +“A duel is bad enough,” he muttered, rubbing up his rough dust-coloured +hair, “but there’s something wrong about this duel, even as a duel. I +feel it in my bones. But what can it be?” + +As he stood staring at the water, a wavering mirror of sunset, he +heard from the other end of the island garden a small but unmistakable +sound--the cold concussion of steel. He turned his head. + +Away on the farthest cape or headland of the long islet, on a strip of +turf beyond the last rank of roses, the duellists had already crossed +swords. Evening above them was a dome of virgin gold, and, distant as +they were, every detail was picked out. They had cast off their coats, +but the yellow waistcoat and white hair of Saradine, the red waistcoat +and white trousers of Antonelli, glittered in the level light like the +colours of the dancing clockwork dolls. The two swords sparkled from +point to pommel like two diamond pins. There was something frightful +in the two figures appearing so little and so gay. They looked like two +butterflies trying to pin each other to a cork. + +Father Brown ran as hard as he could, his little legs going like a +wheel. But when he came to the field of combat he found he was born too +late and too early--too late to stop the strife, under the shadow of the +grim Sicilians leaning on their oars, and too early to anticipate any +disastrous issue of it. For the two men were singularly well matched, +the prince using his skill with a sort of cynical confidence, the +Sicilian using his with a murderous care. Few finer fencing matches can +ever have been seen in crowded amphitheatres than that which tinkled and +sparkled on that forgotten island in the reedy river. The dizzy fight +was balanced so long that hope began to revive in the protesting priest; +by all common probability Paul must soon come back with the police. It +would be some comfort even if Flambeau came back from his fishing, for +Flambeau, physically speaking, was worth four other men. But there was +no sign of Flambeau, and, what was much queerer, no sign of Paul or the +police. No other raft or stick was left to float on; in that lost +island in that vast nameless pool, they were cut off as on a rock in the +Pacific. + +Almost as he had the thought the ringing of the rapiers quickened to a +rattle, the prince’s arms flew up, and the point shot out behind between +his shoulder-blades. He went over with a great whirling movement, almost +like one throwing the half of a boy’s cart-wheel. The sword flew from +his hand like a shooting star, and dived into the distant river. And +he himself sank with so earth-shaking a subsidence that he broke a +big rose-tree with his body and shook up into the sky a cloud of red +earth--like the smoke of some heathen sacrifice. The Sicilian had made +blood-offering to the ghost of his father. + +The priest was instantly on his knees by the corpse; but only to make +too sure that it was a corpse. As he was still trying some last hopeless +tests he heard for the first time voices from farther up the river, and +saw a police boat shoot up to the landing-stage, with constables and +other important people, including the excited Paul. The little priest +rose with a distinctly dubious grimace. + +“Now, why on earth,” he muttered, “why on earth couldn’t he have come +before?” + +Some seven minutes later the island was occupied by an invasion +of townsfolk and police, and the latter had put their hands on the +victorious duellist, ritually reminding him that anything he said might +be used against him. + +“I shall not say anything,” said the monomaniac, with a wonderful and +peaceful face. “I shall never say anything more. I am very happy, and I +only want to be hanged.” + +Then he shut his mouth as they led him away, and it is the strange but +certain truth that he never opened it again in this world, except to say +“Guilty” at his trial. + +Father Brown had stared at the suddenly crowded garden, the arrest of +the man of blood, the carrying away of the corpse after its examination +by the doctor, rather as one watches the break-up of some ugly dream; he +was motionless, like a man in a nightmare. He gave his name and address +as a witness, but declined their offer of a boat to the shore, and +remained alone in the island garden, gazing at the broken rose bush +and the whole green theatre of that swift and inexplicable tragedy. The +light died along the river; mist rose in the marshy banks; a few belated +birds flitted fitfully across. + +Stuck stubbornly in his sub-consciousness (which was an unusually +lively one) was an unspeakable certainty that there was something still +unexplained. This sense that had clung to him all day could not be fully +explained by his fancy about “looking-glass land.” Somehow he had not +seen the real story, but some game or masque. And yet people do not get +hanged or run through the body for the sake of a charade. + +As he sat on the steps of the landing-stage ruminating he grew conscious +of the tall, dark streak of a sail coming silently down the shining +river, and sprang to his feet with such a backrush of feeling that he +almost wept. + +“Flambeau!” he cried, and shook his friend by both hands again and +again, much to the astonishment of that sportsman, as he came on shore +with his fishing tackle. “Flambeau,” he said, “so you’re not killed?” + +“Killed!” repeated the angler in great astonishment. “And why should I +be killed?” + +“Oh, because nearly everybody else is,” said his companion rather +wildly. “Saradine got murdered, and Antonelli wants to be hanged, and +his mother’s fainted, and I, for one, don’t know whether I’m in this +world or the next. But, thank God, you’re in the same one.” And he took +the bewildered Flambeau’s arm. + +As they turned from the landing-stage they came under the eaves of the +low bamboo house, and looked in through one of the windows, as they +had done on their first arrival. They beheld a lamp-lit interior well +calculated to arrest their eyes. The table in the long dining-room +had been laid for dinner when Saradine’s destroyer had fallen like a +stormbolt on the island. And the dinner was now in placid progress, for +Mrs. Anthony sat somewhat sullenly at the foot of the table, while at +the head of it was Mr. Paul, the major domo, eating and drinking of the +best, his bleared, bluish eyes standing queerly out of his face, his +gaunt countenance inscrutable, but by no means devoid of satisfaction. + +With a gesture of powerful impatience, Flambeau rattled at the window, +wrenched it open, and put an indignant head into the lamp-lit room. + +“Well,” he cried. “I can understand you may need some refreshment, +but really to steal your master’s dinner while he lies murdered in the +garden--” + +“I have stolen a great many things in a long and pleasant life,” replied +the strange old gentleman placidly; “this dinner is one of the few +things I have not stolen. This dinner and this house and garden happen +to belong to me.” + +A thought flashed across Flambeau’s face. “You mean to say,” he began, +“that the will of Prince Saradine--” + +“I am Prince Saradine,” said the old man, munching a salted almond. + +Father Brown, who was looking at the birds outside, jumped as if he were +shot, and put in at the window a pale face like a turnip. + +“You are what?” he repeated in a shrill voice. + +“Paul, Prince Saradine, A vos ordres,” said the venerable person +politely, lifting a glass of sherry. “I live here very quietly, being +a domestic kind of fellow; and for the sake of modesty I am called Mr. +Paul, to distinguish me from my unfortunate brother Mr. Stephen. He +died, I hear, recently--in the garden. Of course, it is not my fault +if enemies pursue him to this place. It is owing to the regrettable +irregularity of his life. He was not a domestic character.” + +He relapsed into silence, and continued to gaze at the opposite wall +just above the bowed and sombre head of the woman. They saw plainly +the family likeness that had haunted them in the dead man. Then his old +shoulders began to heave and shake a little, as if he were choking, but +his face did not alter. + +“My God!” cried Flambeau after a pause, “he’s laughing!” + +“Come away,” said Father Brown, who was quite white. “Come away from +this house of hell. Let us get into an honest boat again.” + +Night had sunk on rushes and river by the time they had pushed off from +the island, and they went down-stream in the dark, warming themselves +with two big cigars that glowed like crimson ships’ lanterns. Father +Brown took his cigar out of his mouth and said: + +“I suppose you can guess the whole story now? After all, it’s a +primitive story. A man had two enemies. He was a wise man. And so he +discovered that two enemies are better than one.” + +“I do not follow that,” answered Flambeau. + +“Oh, it’s really simple,” rejoined his friend. “Simple, though anything +but innocent. Both the Saradines were scamps, but the prince, the +elder, was the sort of scamp that gets to the top, and the younger, the +captain, was the sort that sinks to the bottom. This squalid officer +fell from beggar to blackmailer, and one ugly day he got his hold upon +his brother, the prince. Obviously it was for no light matter, for +Prince Paul Saradine was frankly ‘fast,’ and had no reputation to lose +as to the mere sins of society. In plain fact, it was a hanging matter, +and Stephen literally had a rope round his brother’s neck. He had +somehow discovered the truth about the Sicilian affair, and could prove +that Paul murdered old Antonelli in the mountains. The captain raked in +the hush money heavily for ten years, until even the prince’s splendid +fortune began to look a little foolish. + +“But Prince Saradine bore another burden besides his blood-sucking +brother. He knew that the son of Antonelli, a mere child at the time of +the murder, had been trained in savage Sicilian loyalty, and lived only +to avenge his father, not with the gibbet (for he lacked Stephen’s legal +proof), but with the old weapons of vendetta. The boy had practised arms +with a deadly perfection, and about the time that he was old enough to +use them Prince Saradine began, as the society papers said, to travel. +The fact is that he began to flee for his life, passing from place +to place like a hunted criminal; but with one relentless man upon his +trail. That was Prince Paul’s position, and by no means a pretty one. +The more money he spent on eluding Antonelli the less he had to silence +Stephen. The more he gave to silence Stephen the less chance there was +of finally escaping Antonelli. Then it was that he showed himself a +great man--a genius like Napoleon. + +“Instead of resisting his two antagonists, he surrendered suddenly to +both of them. He gave way like a Japanese wrestler, and his foes fell +prostrate before him. He gave up the race round the world, and he gave +up his address to young Antonelli; then he gave up everything to his +brother. He sent Stephen money enough for smart clothes and easy travel, +with a letter saying roughly: ‘This is all I have left. You have cleaned +me out. I still have a little house in Norfolk, with servants and a +cellar, and if you want more from me you must take that. Come and take +possession if you like, and I will live there quietly as your friend +or agent or anything.’ He knew that the Sicilian had never seen the +Saradine brothers save, perhaps, in pictures; he knew they were somewhat +alike, both having grey, pointed beards. Then he shaved his own face +and waited. The trap worked. The unhappy captain, in his new clothes, +entered the house in triumph as a prince, and walked upon the Sicilian’s +sword. + +“There was one hitch, and it is to the honour of human nature. Evil +spirits like Saradine often blunder by never expecting the virtues of +mankind. He took it for granted that the Italian’s blow, when it came, +would be dark, violent and nameless, like the blow it avenged; that the +victim would be knifed at night, or shot from behind a hedge, and so +die without speech. It was a bad minute for Prince Paul when Antonelli’s +chivalry proposed a formal duel, with all its possible explanations. It +was then that I found him putting off in his boat with wild eyes. He was +fleeing, bareheaded, in an open boat before Antonelli should learn who +he was. + +“But, however agitated, he was not hopeless. He knew the adventurer and +he knew the fanatic. It was quite probable that Stephen, the adventurer, +would hold his tongue, through his mere histrionic pleasure in playing a +part, his lust for clinging to his new cosy quarters, his rascal’s +trust in luck, and his fine fencing. It was certain that Antonelli, the +fanatic, would hold his tongue, and be hanged without telling tales +of his family. Paul hung about on the river till he knew the fight +was over. Then he roused the town, brought the police, saw his two +vanquished enemies taken away forever, and sat down smiling to his +dinner.” + +“Laughing, God help us!” said Flambeau with a strong shudder. “Do they +get such ideas from Satan?” + +“He got that idea from you,” answered the priest. + +“God forbid!” ejaculated Flambeau. “From me! What do you mean!” + +The priest pulled a visiting-card from his pocket and held it up in the +faint glow of his cigar; it was scrawled with green ink. + +“Don’t you remember his original invitation to you?” he asked, “and the +compliment to your criminal exploit? ‘That trick of yours,’ he says, +‘of getting one detective to arrest the other’? He has just copied your +trick. With an enemy on each side of him, he slipped swiftly out of the +way and let them collide and kill each other.” + +Flambeau tore Prince Saradine’s card from the priest’s hands and rent it +savagely in small pieces. + +“There’s the last of that old skull and crossbones,” he said as he +scattered the pieces upon the dark and disappearing waves of the stream; +“but I should think it would poison the fishes.” + +The last gleam of white card and green ink was drowned and darkened; +a faint and vibrant colour as of morning changed the sky, and the moon +behind the grasses grew paler. They drifted in silence. + +“Father,” said Flambeau suddenly, “do you think it was all a dream?” + +The priest shook his head, whether in dissent or agnosticism, but +remained mute. A smell of hawthorn and of orchards came to them through +the darkness, telling them that a wind was awake; the next moment it +swayed their little boat and swelled their sail, and carried them onward +down the winding river to happier places and the homes of harmless men. + + + + +The Hammer of God + + +The little village of Bohun Beacon was perched on a hill so steep +that the tall spire of its church seemed only like the peak of a small +mountain. At the foot of the church stood a smithy, generally red with +fires and always littered with hammers and scraps of iron; opposite to +this, over a rude cross of cobbled paths, was “The Blue Boar,” the only +inn of the place. It was upon this crossway, in the lifting of a leaden +and silver daybreak, that two brothers met in the street and spoke; +though one was beginning the day and the other finishing it. The Rev. +and Hon. Wilfred Bohun was very devout, and was making his way to some +austere exercises of prayer or contemplation at dawn. Colonel the Hon. +Norman Bohun, his elder brother, was by no means devout, and was sitting +in evening dress on the bench outside “The Blue Boar,” drinking what +the philosophic observer was free to regard either as his last glass on +Tuesday or his first on Wednesday. The colonel was not particular. + +The Bohuns were one of the very few aristocratic families really dating +from the Middle Ages, and their pennon had actually seen Palestine. +But it is a great mistake to suppose that such houses stand high +in chivalric tradition. Few except the poor preserve traditions. +Aristocrats live not in traditions but in fashions. The Bohuns had been +Mohocks under Queen Anne and Mashers under Queen Victoria. But like more +than one of the really ancient houses, they had rotted in the last two +centuries into mere drunkards and dandy degenerates, till there had even +come a whisper of insanity. Certainly there was something hardly +human about the colonel’s wolfish pursuit of pleasure, and his chronic +resolution not to go home till morning had a touch of the hideous +clarity of insomnia. He was a tall, fine animal, elderly, but with +hair still startlingly yellow. He would have looked merely blonde and +leonine, but his blue eyes were sunk so deep in his face that they +looked black. They were a little too close together. He had very long +yellow moustaches; on each side of them a fold or furrow from nostril to +jaw, so that a sneer seemed cut into his face. Over his evening clothes +he wore a curious pale yellow coat that looked more like a very light +dressing gown than an overcoat, and on the back of his head was stuck an +extraordinary broad-brimmed hat of a bright green colour, evidently some +oriental curiosity caught up at random. He was proud of appearing in +such incongruous attires--proud of the fact that he always made them +look congruous. + +His brother the curate had also the yellow hair and the elegance, but +he was buttoned up to the chin in black, and his face was clean-shaven, +cultivated, and a little nervous. He seemed to live for nothing but his +religion; but there were some who said (notably the blacksmith, who was +a Presbyterian) that it was a love of Gothic architecture rather than of +God, and that his haunting of the church like a ghost was only another +and purer turn of the almost morbid thirst for beauty which sent his +brother raging after women and wine. This charge was doubtful, while the +man’s practical piety was indubitable. Indeed, the charge was mostly an +ignorant misunderstanding of the love of solitude and secret prayer, and +was founded on his being often found kneeling, not before the altar, but +in peculiar places, in the crypts or gallery, or even in the belfry. +He was at the moment about to enter the church through the yard of +the smithy, but stopped and frowned a little as he saw his brother’s +cavernous eyes staring in the same direction. On the hypothesis that the +colonel was interested in the church he did not waste any speculations. +There only remained the blacksmith’s shop, and though the blacksmith was +a Puritan and none of his people, Wilfred Bohun had heard some scandals +about a beautiful and rather celebrated wife. He flung a suspicious look +across the shed, and the colonel stood up laughing to speak to him. + +“Good morning, Wilfred,” he said. “Like a good landlord I am watching +sleeplessly over my people. I am going to call on the blacksmith.” + +Wilfred looked at the ground, and said: “The blacksmith is out. He is +over at Greenford.” + +“I know,” answered the other with silent laughter; “that is why I am +calling on him.” + +“Norman,” said the cleric, with his eye on a pebble in the road, “are +you ever afraid of thunderbolts?” + +“What do you mean?” asked the colonel. “Is your hobby meteorology?” + +“I mean,” said Wilfred, without looking up, “do you ever think that God +might strike you in the street?” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the colonel; “I see your hobby is folk-lore.” + +“I know your hobby is blasphemy,” retorted the religious man, stung in +the one live place of his nature. “But if you do not fear God, you have +good reason to fear man.” + +The elder raised his eyebrows politely. “Fear man?” he said. + +“Barnes the blacksmith is the biggest and strongest man for forty +miles round,” said the clergyman sternly. “I know you are no coward or +weakling, but he could throw you over the wall.” + +This struck home, being true, and the lowering line by mouth and nostril +darkened and deepened. For a moment he stood with the heavy sneer on his +face. But in an instant Colonel Bohun had recovered his own cruel good +humour and laughed, showing two dog-like front teeth under his yellow +moustache. “In that case, my dear Wilfred,” he said quite carelessly, +“it was wise for the last of the Bohuns to come out partially in +armour.” + +And he took off the queer round hat covered with green, showing that +it was lined within with steel. Wilfred recognised it indeed as a light +Japanese or Chinese helmet torn down from a trophy that hung in the old +family hall. + +“It was the first hat to hand,” explained his brother airily; “always +the nearest hat--and the nearest woman.” + +“The blacksmith is away at Greenford,” said Wilfred quietly; “the time +of his return is unsettled.” + +And with that he turned and went into the church with bowed head, +crossing himself like one who wishes to be quit of an unclean spirit. +He was anxious to forget such grossness in the cool twilight of his tall +Gothic cloisters; but on that morning it was fated that his still round +of religious exercises should be everywhere arrested by small shocks. +As he entered the church, hitherto always empty at that hour, a kneeling +figure rose hastily to its feet and came towards the full daylight of +the doorway. When the curate saw it he stood still with surprise. For +the early worshipper was none other than the village idiot, a nephew of +the blacksmith, one who neither would nor could care for the church or +for anything else. He was always called “Mad Joe,” and seemed to have +no other name; he was a dark, strong, slouching lad, with a heavy white +face, dark straight hair, and a mouth always open. As he passed the +priest, his moon-calf countenance gave no hint of what he had been doing +or thinking of. He had never been known to pray before. What sort of +prayers was he saying now? Extraordinary prayers surely. + +Wilfred Bohun stood rooted to the spot long enough to see the idiot go +out into the sunshine, and even to see his dissolute brother hail him +with a sort of avuncular jocularity. The last thing he saw was the +colonel throwing pennies at the open mouth of Joe, with the serious +appearance of trying to hit it. + +This ugly sunlit picture of the stupidity and cruelty of the earth sent +the ascetic finally to his prayers for purification and new thoughts. +He went up to a pew in the gallery, which brought him under a coloured +window which he loved and always quieted his spirit; a blue window +with an angel carrying lilies. There he began to think less about the +half-wit, with his livid face and mouth like a fish. He began to think +less of his evil brother, pacing like a lean lion in his horrible +hunger. He sank deeper and deeper into those cold and sweet colours of +silver blossoms and sapphire sky. + +In this place half an hour afterwards he was found by Gibbs, the village +cobbler, who had been sent for him in some haste. He got to his feet +with promptitude, for he knew that no small matter would have brought +Gibbs into such a place at all. The cobbler was, as in many villages, +an atheist, and his appearance in church was a shade more extraordinary +than Mad Joe’s. It was a morning of theological enigmas. + +“What is it?” asked Wilfred Bohun rather stiffly, but putting out a +trembling hand for his hat. + +The atheist spoke in a tone that, coming from him, was quite startlingly +respectful, and even, as it were, huskily sympathetic. + +“You must excuse me, sir,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “but we didn’t +think it right not to let you know at once. I’m afraid a rather dreadful +thing has happened, sir. I’m afraid your brother--” + +Wilfred clenched his frail hands. “What devilry has he done now?” he +cried in voluntary passion. + +“Why, sir,” said the cobbler, coughing, “I’m afraid he’s done nothing, +and won’t do anything. I’m afraid he’s done for. You had really better +come down, sir.” + +The curate followed the cobbler down a short winding stair which brought +them out at an entrance rather higher than the street. Bohun saw the +tragedy in one glance, flat underneath him like a plan. In the yard +of the smithy were standing five or six men mostly in black, one in +an inspector’s uniform. They included the doctor, the Presbyterian +minister, and the priest from the Roman Catholic chapel, to which the +blacksmith’s wife belonged. The latter was speaking to her, indeed, +very rapidly, in an undertone, as she, a magnificent woman with red-gold +hair, was sobbing blindly on a bench. Between these two groups, and +just clear of the main heap of hammers, lay a man in evening dress, +spread-eagled and flat on his face. From the height above Wilfred could +have sworn to every item of his costume and appearance, down to the +Bohun rings upon his fingers; but the skull was only a hideous splash, +like a star of blackness and blood. + +Wilfred Bohun gave but one glance, and ran down the steps into the yard. +The doctor, who was the family physician, saluted him, but he scarcely +took any notice. He could only stammer out: “My brother is dead. What +does it mean? What is this horrible mystery?” There was an unhappy +silence; and then the cobbler, the most outspoken man present, answered: +“Plenty of horror, sir,” he said; “but not much mystery.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Wilfred, with a white face. + +“It’s plain enough,” answered Gibbs. “There is only one man for forty +miles round that could have struck such a blow as that, and he’s the man +that had most reason to.” + +“We must not prejudge anything,” put in the doctor, a tall, +black-bearded man, rather nervously; “but it is competent for me to +corroborate what Mr. Gibbs says about the nature of the blow, sir; it +is an incredible blow. Mr. Gibbs says that only one man in this district +could have done it. I should have said myself that nobody could have +done it.” + +A shudder of superstition went through the slight figure of the curate. +“I can hardly understand,” he said. + +“Mr. Bohun,” said the doctor in a low voice, “metaphors literally fail +me. It is inadequate to say that the skull was smashed to bits like an +eggshell. Fragments of bone were driven into the body and the ground +like bullets into a mud wall. It was the hand of a giant.” + +He was silent a moment, looking grimly through his glasses; then he +added: “The thing has one advantage--that it clears most people of +suspicion at one stroke. If you or I or any normally made man in the +country were accused of this crime, we should be acquitted as an infant +would be acquitted of stealing the Nelson column.” + +“That’s what I say,” repeated the cobbler obstinately; “there’s only one +man that could have done it, and he’s the man that would have done it. +Where’s Simeon Barnes, the blacksmith?” + +“He’s over at Greenford,” faltered the curate. + +“More likely over in France,” muttered the cobbler. + +“No; he is in neither of those places,” said a small and colourless +voice, which came from the little Roman priest who had joined the group. +“As a matter of fact, he is coming up the road at this moment.” + +The little priest was not an interesting man to look at, having stubbly +brown hair and a round and stolid face. But if he had been as splendid +as Apollo no one would have looked at him at that moment. Everyone +turned round and peered at the pathway which wound across the plain +below, along which was indeed walking, at his own huge stride and with +a hammer on his shoulder, Simeon the smith. He was a bony and gigantic +man, with deep, dark, sinister eyes and a dark chin beard. He was +walking and talking quietly with two other men; and though he was never +specially cheerful, he seemed quite at his ease. + +“My God!” cried the atheistic cobbler, “and there’s the hammer he did it +with.” + +“No,” said the inspector, a sensible-looking man with a sandy moustache, +speaking for the first time. “There’s the hammer he did it with over +there by the church wall. We have left it and the body exactly as they +are.” + +All glanced round and the short priest went across and looked down in +silence at the tool where it lay. It was one of the smallest and the +lightest of the hammers, and would not have caught the eye among the +rest; but on the iron edge of it were blood and yellow hair. + +After a silence the short priest spoke without looking up, and there was +a new note in his dull voice. “Mr. Gibbs was hardly right,” he said, “in +saying that there is no mystery. There is at least the mystery of why so +big a man should attempt so big a blow with so little a hammer.” + +“Oh, never mind that,” cried Gibbs, in a fever. “What are we to do with +Simeon Barnes?” + +“Leave him alone,” said the priest quietly. “He is coming here of +himself. I know those two men with him. They are very good fellows from +Greenford, and they have come over about the Presbyterian chapel.” + +Even as he spoke the tall smith swung round the corner of the church, +and strode into his own yard. Then he stood there quite still, and the +hammer fell from his hand. The inspector, who had preserved impenetrable +propriety, immediately went up to him. + +“I won’t ask you, Mr. Barnes,” he said, “whether you know anything about +what has happened here. You are not bound to say. I hope you don’t know, +and that you will be able to prove it. But I must go through the form +of arresting you in the King’s name for the murder of Colonel Norman +Bohun.” + +“You are not bound to say anything,” said the cobbler in officious +excitement. “They’ve got to prove everything. They haven’t proved yet +that it is Colonel Bohun, with the head all smashed up like that.” + +“That won’t wash,” said the doctor aside to the priest. “That’s out of +the detective stories. I was the colonel’s medical man, and I knew his +body better than he did. He had very fine hands, but quite peculiar +ones. The second and third fingers were the same length. Oh, that’s the +colonel right enough.” + +As he glanced at the brained corpse upon the ground the iron eyes of the +motionless blacksmith followed them and rested there also. + +“Is Colonel Bohun dead?” said the smith quite calmly. “Then he’s +damned.” + +“Don’t say anything! Oh, don’t say anything,” cried the atheist cobbler, +dancing about in an ecstasy of admiration of the English legal system. +For no man is such a legalist as the good Secularist. + +The blacksmith turned on him over his shoulder the august face of a +fanatic. + +“It’s well for you infidels to dodge like foxes because the world’s law +favours you,” he said; “but God guards His own in His pocket, as you +shall see this day.” + +Then he pointed to the colonel and said: “When did this dog die in his +sins?” + +“Moderate your language,” said the doctor. + +“Moderate the Bible’s language, and I’ll moderate mine. When did he +die?” + +“I saw him alive at six o’clock this morning,” stammered Wilfred Bohun. + +“God is good,” said the smith. “Mr. Inspector, I have not the slightest +objection to being arrested. It is you who may object to arresting me. +I don’t mind leaving the court without a stain on my character. You do +mind perhaps leaving the court with a bad set-back in your career.” + +The solid inspector for the first time looked at the blacksmith with a +lively eye; as did everybody else, except the short, strange priest, who +was still looking down at the little hammer that had dealt the dreadful +blow. + +“There are two men standing outside this shop,” went on the blacksmith +with ponderous lucidity, “good tradesmen in Greenford whom you all know, +who will swear that they saw me from before midnight till daybreak and +long after in the committee room of our Revival Mission, which sits all +night, we save souls so fast. In Greenford itself twenty people could +swear to me for all that time. If I were a heathen, Mr. Inspector, I +would let you walk on to your downfall. But as a Christian man I feel +bound to give you your chance, and ask you whether you will hear my +alibi now or in court.” + +The inspector seemed for the first time disturbed, and said, “Of course +I should be glad to clear you altogether now.” + +The smith walked out of his yard with the same long and easy stride, and +returned to his two friends from Greenford, who were indeed friends of +nearly everyone present. Each of them said a few words which no one ever +thought of disbelieving. When they had spoken, the innocence of Simeon +stood up as solid as the great church above them. + +One of those silences struck the group which are more strange and +insufferable than any speech. Madly, in order to make conversation, the +curate said to the Catholic priest: + +“You seem very much interested in that hammer, Father Brown.” + +“Yes, I am,” said Father Brown; “why is it such a small hammer?” + +The doctor swung round on him. + +“By George, that’s true,” he cried; “who would use a little hammer with +ten larger hammers lying about?” + +Then he lowered his voice in the curate’s ear and said: “Only the kind +of person that can’t lift a large hammer. It is not a question of force +or courage between the sexes. It’s a question of lifting power in the +shoulders. A bold woman could commit ten murders with a light hammer and +never turn a hair. She could not kill a beetle with a heavy one.” + +Wilfred Bohun was staring at him with a sort of hypnotised horror, +while Father Brown listened with his head a little on one side, really +interested and attentive. The doctor went on with more hissing emphasis: + +“Why do these idiots always assume that the only person who hates the +wife’s lover is the wife’s husband? Nine times out of ten the person +who most hates the wife’s lover is the wife. Who knows what insolence or +treachery he had shown her--look there!” + +He made a momentary gesture towards the red-haired woman on the bench. +She had lifted her head at last and the tears were drying on her +splendid face. But the eyes were fixed on the corpse with an electric +glare that had in it something of idiocy. + +The Rev. Wilfred Bohun made a limp gesture as if waving away all desire +to know; but Father Brown, dusting off his sleeve some ashes blown from +the furnace, spoke in his indifferent way. + +“You are like so many doctors,” he said; “your mental science is really +suggestive. It is your physical science that is utterly impossible. I +agree that the woman wants to kill the co-respondent much more than the +petitioner does. And I agree that a woman will always pick up a small +hammer instead of a big one. But the difficulty is one of physical +impossibility. No woman ever born could have smashed a man’s skull +out flat like that.” Then he added reflectively, after a pause: “These +people haven’t grasped the whole of it. The man was actually wearing an +iron helmet, and the blow scattered it like broken glass. Look at that +woman. Look at her arms.” + +Silence held them all up again, and then the doctor said rather sulkily: +“Well, I may be wrong; there are objections to everything. But I stick +to the main point. No man but an idiot would pick up that little hammer +if he could use a big hammer.” + +With that the lean and quivering hands of Wilfred Bohun went up to his +head and seemed to clutch his scanty yellow hair. After an instant they +dropped, and he cried: “That was the word I wanted; you have said the +word.” + +Then he continued, mastering his discomposure: “The words you said were, +‘No man but an idiot would pick up the small hammer.’” + +“Yes,” said the doctor. “Well?” + +“Well,” said the curate, “no man but an idiot did.” The rest stared +at him with eyes arrested and riveted, and he went on in a febrile and +feminine agitation. + +“I am a priest,” he cried unsteadily, “and a priest should be no shedder +of blood. I--I mean that he should bring no one to the gallows. And I +thank God that I see the criminal clearly now--because he is a criminal +who cannot be brought to the gallows.” + +“You will not denounce him?” inquired the doctor. + +“He would not be hanged if I did denounce him,” answered Wilfred with +a wild but curiously happy smile. “When I went into the church this +morning I found a madman praying there--that poor Joe, who has been +wrong all his life. God knows what he prayed; but with such strange folk +it is not incredible to suppose that their prayers are all upside down. +Very likely a lunatic would pray before killing a man. When I last saw +poor Joe he was with my brother. My brother was mocking him.” + +“By Jove!” cried the doctor, “this is talking at last. But how do you +explain--” + +The Rev. Wilfred was almost trembling with the excitement of his +own glimpse of the truth. “Don’t you see; don’t you see,” he cried +feverishly; “that is the only theory that covers both the queer things, +that answers both the riddles. The two riddles are the little hammer and +the big blow. The smith might have struck the big blow, but would not +have chosen the little hammer. His wife would have chosen the little +hammer, but she could not have struck the big blow. But the madman might +have done both. As for the little hammer--why, he was mad and might have +picked up anything. And for the big blow, have you never heard, doctor, +that a maniac in his paroxysm may have the strength of ten men?” + +The doctor drew a deep breath and then said, “By golly, I believe you’ve +got it.” + +Father Brown had fixed his eyes on the speaker so long and steadily +as to prove that his large grey, ox-like eyes were not quite so +insignificant as the rest of his face. When silence had fallen he said +with marked respect: “Mr. Bohun, yours is the only theory yet propounded +which holds water every way and is essentially unassailable. I think, +therefore, that you deserve to be told, on my positive knowledge, that +it is not the true one.” And with that the old little man walked away +and stared again at the hammer. + +“That fellow seems to know more than he ought to,” whispered the doctor +peevishly to Wilfred. “Those popish priests are deucedly sly.” + +“No, no,” said Bohun, with a sort of wild fatigue. “It was the lunatic. +It was the lunatic.” + +The group of the two clerics and the doctor had fallen away from +the more official group containing the inspector and the man he had +arrested. Now, however, that their own party had broken up, they heard +voices from the others. The priest looked up quietly and then looked +down again as he heard the blacksmith say in a loud voice: + +“I hope I’ve convinced you, Mr. Inspector. I’m a strong man, as you say, +but I couldn’t have flung my hammer bang here from Greenford. My hammer +hasn’t got wings that it should come flying half a mile over hedges and +fields.” + +The inspector laughed amicably and said: “No, I think you can be +considered out of it, though it’s one of the rummiest coincidences I +ever saw. I can only ask you to give us all the assistance you can in +finding a man as big and strong as yourself. By George! you might be +useful, if only to hold him! I suppose you yourself have no guess at the +man?” + +“I may have a guess,” said the pale smith, “but it is not at a man.” + Then, seeing the scared eyes turn towards his wife on the bench, he put +his huge hand on her shoulder and said: “Nor a woman either.” + +“What do you mean?” asked the inspector jocularly. “You don’t think cows +use hammers, do you?” + +“I think no thing of flesh held that hammer,” said the blacksmith in a +stifled voice; “mortally speaking, I think the man died alone.” + +Wilfred made a sudden forward movement and peered at him with burning +eyes. + +“Do you mean to say, Barnes,” came the sharp voice of the cobbler, “that +the hammer jumped up of itself and knocked the man down?” + +“Oh, you gentlemen may stare and snigger,” cried Simeon; “you clergymen +who tell us on Sunday in what a stillness the Lord smote Sennacherib. I +believe that One who walks invisible in every house defended the honour +of mine, and laid the defiler dead before the door of it. I believe the +force in that blow was just the force there is in earthquakes, and no +force less.” + +Wilfred said, with a voice utterly undescribable: “I told Norman myself +to beware of the thunderbolt.” + +“That agent is outside my jurisdiction,” said the inspector with a +slight smile. + +“You are not outside His,” answered the smith; “see you to it,” and, +turning his broad back, he went into the house. + +The shaken Wilfred was led away by Father Brown, who had an easy and +friendly way with him. “Let us get out of this horrid place, Mr. Bohun,” + he said. “May I look inside your church? I hear it’s one of the oldest +in England. We take some interest, you know,” he added with a comical +grimace, “in old English churches.” + +Wilfred Bohun did not smile, for humour was never his strong point. But +he nodded rather eagerly, being only too ready to explain the +Gothic splendours to someone more likely to be sympathetic than the +Presbyterian blacksmith or the atheist cobbler. + +“By all means,” he said; “let us go in at this side.” And he led the way +into the high side entrance at the top of the flight of steps. Father +Brown was mounting the first step to follow him when he felt a hand on +his shoulder, and turned to behold the dark, thin figure of the doctor, +his face darker yet with suspicion. + +“Sir,” said the physician harshly, “you appear to know some secrets +in this black business. May I ask if you are going to keep them to +yourself?” + +“Why, doctor,” answered the priest, smiling quite pleasantly, “there is +one very good reason why a man of my trade should keep things to himself +when he is not sure of them, and that is that it is so constantly his +duty to keep them to himself when he is sure of them. But if you think +I have been discourteously reticent with you or anyone, I will go to the +extreme limit of my custom. I will give you two very large hints.” + +“Well, sir?” said the doctor gloomily. + +“First,” said Father Brown quietly, “the thing is quite in your +own province. It is a matter of physical science. The blacksmith is +mistaken, not perhaps in saying that the blow was divine, but certainly +in saying that it came by a miracle. It was no miracle, doctor, except +in so far as man is himself a miracle, with his strange and wicked and +yet half-heroic heart. The force that smashed that skull was a force +well known to scientists--one of the most frequently debated of the laws +of nature.” + +The doctor, who was looking at him with frowning intentness, only said: +“And the other hint?” + +“The other hint is this,” said the priest. “Do you remember the +blacksmith, though he believes in miracles, talking scornfully of the +impossible fairy tale that his hammer had wings and flew half a mile +across country?” + +“Yes,” said the doctor, “I remember that.” + +“Well,” added Father Brown, with a broad smile, “that fairy tale was the +nearest thing to the real truth that has been said today.” And with that +he turned his back and stumped up the steps after the curate. + +The Reverend Wilfred, who had been waiting for him, pale and impatient, +as if this little delay were the last straw for his nerves, led him +immediately to his favourite corner of the church, that part of the +gallery closest to the carved roof and lit by the wonderful window +with the angel. The little Latin priest explored and admired everything +exhaustively, talking cheerfully but in a low voice all the time. +When in the course of his investigation he found the side exit and the +winding stair down which Wilfred had rushed to find his brother dead, +Father Brown ran not down but up, with the agility of a monkey, and his +clear voice came from an outer platform above. + +“Come up here, Mr. Bohun,” he called. “The air will do you good.” + +Bohun followed him, and came out on a kind of stone gallery or balcony +outside the building, from which one could see the illimitable plain +in which their small hill stood, wooded away to the purple horizon +and dotted with villages and farms. Clear and square, but quite small +beneath them, was the blacksmith’s yard, where the inspector still stood +taking notes and the corpse still lay like a smashed fly. + +“Might be the map of the world, mightn’t it?” said Father Brown. + +“Yes,” said Bohun very gravely, and nodded his head. + +Immediately beneath and about them the lines of the Gothic building +plunged outwards into the void with a sickening swiftness akin to +suicide. There is that element of Titan energy in the architecture of +the Middle Ages that, from whatever aspect it be seen, it always seems +to be rushing away, like the strong back of some maddened horse. This +church was hewn out of ancient and silent stone, bearded with old +fungoids and stained with the nests of birds. And yet, when they saw it +from below, it sprang like a fountain at the stars; and when they saw +it, as now, from above, it poured like a cataract into a voiceless pit. +For these two men on the tower were left alone with the most terrible +aspect of Gothic; the monstrous foreshortening and disproportion, the +dizzy perspectives, the glimpses of great things small and small things +great; a topsy-turvydom of stone in the mid-air. Details of stone, +enormous by their proximity, were relieved against a pattern of fields +and farms, pygmy in their distance. A carved bird or beast at a corner +seemed like some vast walking or flying dragon wasting the pastures and +villages below. The whole atmosphere was dizzy and dangerous, as if men +were upheld in air amid the gyrating wings of colossal genii; and the +whole of that old church, as tall and rich as a cathedral, seemed to sit +upon the sunlit country like a cloudburst. + +“I think there is something rather dangerous about standing on these +high places even to pray,” said Father Brown. “Heights were made to be +looked at, not to be looked from.” + +“Do you mean that one may fall over,” asked Wilfred. + +“I mean that one’s soul may fall if one’s body doesn’t,” said the other +priest. + +“I scarcely understand you,” remarked Bohun indistinctly. + +“Look at that blacksmith, for instance,” went on Father Brown calmly; “a +good man, but not a Christian--hard, imperious, unforgiving. Well, his +Scotch religion was made up by men who prayed on hills and high crags, +and learnt to look down on the world more than to look up at heaven. +Humility is the mother of giants. One sees great things from the valley; +only small things from the peak.” + +“But he--he didn’t do it,” said Bohun tremulously. + +“No,” said the other in an odd voice; “we know he didn’t do it.” + +After a moment he resumed, looking tranquilly out over the plain with +his pale grey eyes. “I knew a man,” he said, “who began by worshipping +with others before the altar, but who grew fond of high and lonely +places to pray from, corners or niches in the belfry or the spire. And +once in one of those dizzy places, where the whole world seemed to turn +under him like a wheel, his brain turned also, and he fancied he was +God. So that, though he was a good man, he committed a great crime.” + +Wilfred’s face was turned away, but his bony hands turned blue and white +as they tightened on the parapet of stone. + +“He thought it was given to him to judge the world and strike down the +sinner. He would never have had such a thought if he had been kneeling +with other men upon a floor. But he saw all men walking about like +insects. He saw one especially strutting just below him, insolent and +evident by a bright green hat--a poisonous insect.” + +Rooks cawed round the corners of the belfry; but there was no other +sound till Father Brown went on. + +“This also tempted him, that he had in his hand one of the most awful +engines of nature; I mean gravitation, that mad and quickening rush by +which all earth’s creatures fly back to her heart when released. See, +the inspector is strutting just below us in the smithy. If I were to +toss a pebble over this parapet it would be something like a bullet +by the time it struck him. If I were to drop a hammer--even a small +hammer--” + +Wilfred Bohun threw one leg over the parapet, and Father Brown had him +in a minute by the collar. + +“Not by that door,” he said quite gently; “that door leads to hell.” + +Bohun staggered back against the wall, and stared at him with frightful +eyes. + +“How do you know all this?” he cried. “Are you a devil?” + +“I am a man,” answered Father Brown gravely; “and therefore have all +devils in my heart. Listen to me,” he said after a short pause. “I know +what you did--at least, I can guess the great part of it. When you left +your brother you were racked with no unrighteous rage, to the extent +even that you snatched up a small hammer, half inclined to kill him with +his foulness on his mouth. Recoiling, you thrust it under your buttoned +coat instead, and rushed into the church. You pray wildly in many +places, under the angel window, upon the platform above, and a higher +platform still, from which you could see the colonel’s Eastern hat like +the back of a green beetle crawling about. Then something snapped in +your soul, and you let God’s thunderbolt fall.” + +Wilfred put a weak hand to his head, and asked in a low voice: “How did +you know that his hat looked like a green beetle?” + +“Oh, that,” said the other with the shadow of a smile, “that was common +sense. But hear me further. I say I know all this; but no one else shall +know it. The next step is for you; I shall take no more steps; I will +seal this with the seal of confession. If you ask me why, there are many +reasons, and only one that concerns you. I leave things to you because +you have not yet gone very far wrong, as assassins go. You did not help +to fix the crime on the smith when it was easy; or on his wife, when +that was easy. You tried to fix it on the imbecile because you knew that +he could not suffer. That was one of the gleams that it is my business +to find in assassins. And now come down into the village, and go your +own way as free as the wind; for I have said my last word.” + +They went down the winding stairs in utter silence, and came out into +the sunlight by the smithy. Wilfred Bohun carefully unlatched the wooden +gate of the yard, and going up to the inspector, said: “I wish to give +myself up; I have killed my brother.” + + + + +The Eye of Apollo + + +That singular smoky sparkle, at once a confusion and a transparency, +which is the strange secret of the Thames, was changing more and more +from its grey to its glittering extreme as the sun climbed to the zenith +over Westminster, and two men crossed Westminster Bridge. One man +was very tall and the other very short; they might even have been +fantastically compared to the arrogant clock-tower of Parliament and the +humbler humped shoulders of the Abbey, for the short man was in clerical +dress. The official description of the tall man was M. Hercule Flambeau, +private detective, and he was going to his new offices in a new pile of +flats facing the Abbey entrance. The official description of the short +man was the Reverend J. Brown, attached to St. Francis Xavier’s Church, +Camberwell, and he was coming from a Camberwell deathbed to see the new +offices of his friend. + +The building was American in its sky-scraping altitude, and American +also in the oiled elaboration of its machinery of telephones and lifts. +But it was barely finished and still understaffed; only three tenants +had moved in; the office just above Flambeau was occupied, as also +was the office just below him; the two floors above that and the three +floors below were entirely bare. But the first glance at the new tower +of flats caught something much more arresting. Save for a few relics of +scaffolding, the one glaring object was erected outside the office +just above Flambeau’s. It was an enormous gilt effigy of the human eye, +surrounded with rays of gold, and taking up as much room as two or three +of the office windows. + +“What on earth is that?” asked Father Brown, and stood still. “Oh, a +new religion,” said Flambeau, laughing; “one of those new religions that +forgive your sins by saying you never had any. Rather like Christian +Science, I should think. The fact is that a fellow calling himself Kalon +(I don’t know what his name is, except that it can’t be that) has taken +the flat just above me. I have two lady typewriters underneath me, and +this enthusiastic old humbug on top. He calls himself the New Priest of +Apollo, and he worships the sun.” + +“Let him look out,” said Father Brown. “The sun was the cruellest of all +the gods. But what does that monstrous eye mean?” + +“As I understand it, it is a theory of theirs,” answered Flambeau, “that +a man can endure anything if his mind is quite steady. Their two great +symbols are the sun and the open eye; for they say that if a man were +really healthy he could stare at the sun.” + +“If a man were really healthy,” said Father Brown, “he would not bother +to stare at it.” + +“Well, that’s all I can tell you about the new religion,” went on +Flambeau carelessly. “It claims, of course, that it can cure all +physical diseases.” + +“Can it cure the one spiritual disease?” asked Father Brown, with a +serious curiosity. + +“And what is the one spiritual disease?” asked Flambeau, smiling. + +“Oh, thinking one is quite well,” said his friend. + +Flambeau was more interested in the quiet little office below him than +in the flamboyant temple above. He was a lucid Southerner, incapable +of conceiving himself as anything but a Catholic or an atheist; and new +religions of a bright and pallid sort were not much in his line. But +humanity was always in his line, especially when it was good-looking; +moreover, the ladies downstairs were characters in their way. The office +was kept by two sisters, both slight and dark, one of them tall and +striking. She had a dark, eager and aquiline profile, and was one of +those women whom one always thinks of in profile, as of the clean-cut +edge of some weapon. She seemed to cleave her way through life. She had +eyes of startling brilliancy, but it was the brilliancy of steel rather +than of diamonds; and her straight, slim figure was a shade too stiff +for its grace. Her younger sister was like her shortened shadow, +a little greyer, paler, and more insignificant. They both wore a +business-like black, with little masculine cuffs and collars. There are +thousands of such curt, strenuous ladies in the offices of London, +but the interest of these lay rather in their real than their apparent +position. + +For Pauline Stacey, the elder, was actually the heiress of a crest +and half a county, as well as great wealth; she had been brought up in +castles and gardens, before a frigid fierceness (peculiar to the modern +woman) had driven her to what she considered a harsher and a higher +existence. She had not, indeed, surrendered her money; in that there +would have been a romantic or monkish abandon quite alien to her +masterful utilitarianism. She held her wealth, she would say, for use +upon practical social objects. Part of it she had put into her business, +the nucleus of a model typewriting emporium; part of it was distributed +in various leagues and causes for the advancement of such work among +women. How far Joan, her sister and partner, shared this slightly +prosaic idealism no one could be very sure. But she followed her leader +with a dog-like affection which was somehow more attractive, with its +touch of tragedy, than the hard, high spirits of the elder. For Pauline +Stacey had nothing to say to tragedy; she was understood to deny its +existence. + +Her rigid rapidity and cold impatience had amused Flambeau very much on +the first occasion of his entering the flats. He had lingered outside +the lift in the entrance hall waiting for the lift-boy, who generally +conducts strangers to the various floors. But this bright-eyed falcon +of a girl had openly refused to endure such official delay. She said +sharply that she knew all about the lift, and was not dependent on +boys--or men either. Though her flat was only three floors above, she +managed in the few seconds of ascent to give Flambeau a great many of +her fundamental views in an off-hand manner; they were to the general +effect that she was a modern working woman and loved modern working +machinery. Her bright black eyes blazed with abstract anger against +those who rebuke mechanic science and ask for the return of romance. +Everyone, she said, ought to be able to manage machines, just as she +could manage the lift. She seemed almost to resent the fact of Flambeau +opening the lift-door for her; and that gentleman went up to his own +apartments smiling with somewhat mingled feelings at the memory of such +spit-fire self-dependence. + +She certainly had a temper, of a snappy, practical sort; the gestures of +her thin, elegant hands were abrupt or even destructive. + +Once Flambeau entered her office on some typewriting business, and found +she had just flung a pair of spectacles belonging to her sister into the +middle of the floor and stamped on them. She was already in the rapids +of an ethical tirade about the “sickly medical notions” and the morbid +admission of weakness implied in such an apparatus. She dared her sister +to bring such artificial, unhealthy rubbish into the place again. She +asked if she was expected to wear wooden legs or false hair or glass +eyes; and as she spoke her eyes sparkled like the terrible crystal. + +Flambeau, quite bewildered with this fanaticism, could not refrain from +asking Miss Pauline (with direct French logic) why a pair of spectacles +was a more morbid sign of weakness than a lift, and why, if science +might help us in the one effort, it might not help us in the other. + +“That is so different,” said Pauline Stacey, loftily. “Batteries and +motors and all those things are marks of the force of man--yes, Mr. +Flambeau, and the force of woman, too! We shall take our turn at these +great engines that devour distance and defy time. That is high and +splendid--that is really science. But these nasty props and plasters the +doctors sell--why, they are just badges of poltroonery. Doctors stick +on legs and arms as if we were born cripples and sick slaves. But I +was free-born, Mr. Flambeau! People only think they need these things +because they have been trained in fear instead of being trained in power +and courage, just as the silly nurses tell children not to stare at the +sun, and so they can’t do it without blinking. But why among the stars +should there be one star I may not see? The sun is not my master, and I +will open my eyes and stare at him whenever I choose.” + +“Your eyes,” said Flambeau, with a foreign bow, “will dazzle the sun.” + He took pleasure in complimenting this strange stiff beauty, partly +because it threw her a little off her balance. But as he went upstairs +to his floor he drew a deep breath and whistled, saying to himself: “So +she has got into the hands of that conjurer upstairs with his golden +eye.” For, little as he knew or cared about the new religion of Kalon, +he had heard of his special notion about sun-gazing. + +He soon discovered that the spiritual bond between the floors above and +below him was close and increasing. The man who called himself Kalon was +a magnificent creature, worthy, in a physical sense, to be the pontiff +of Apollo. He was nearly as tall even as Flambeau, and very much better +looking, with a golden beard, strong blue eyes, and a mane flung back +like a lion’s. In structure he was the blonde beast of Nietzsche, +but all this animal beauty was heightened, brightened and softened by +genuine intellect and spirituality. If he looked like one of the great +Saxon kings, he looked like one of the kings that were also saints. And +this despite the cockney incongruity of his surroundings; the fact that +he had an office half-way up a building in Victoria Street; that the +clerk (a commonplace youth in cuffs and collars) sat in the outer room, +between him and the corridor; that his name was on a brass plate, +and the gilt emblem of his creed hung above his street, like the +advertisement of an oculist. All this vulgarity could not take away from +the man called Kalon the vivid oppression and inspiration that came +from his soul and body. When all was said, a man in the presence of +this quack did feel in the presence of a great man. Even in the loose +jacket-suit of linen that he wore as a workshop dress in his office he +was a fascinating and formidable figure; and when robed in the white +vestments and crowned with the golden circlet, in which he daily saluted +the sun, he really looked so splendid that the laughter of the street +people sometimes died suddenly on their lips. For three times in the day +the new sun-worshipper went out on his little balcony, in the face +of all Westminster, to say some litany to his shining lord: once at +daybreak, once at sunset, and once at the shock of noon. And it +was while the shock of noon still shook faintly from the towers of +Parliament and parish church that Father Brown, the friend of Flambeau, +first looked up and saw the white priest of Apollo. + +Flambeau had seen quite enough of these daily salutations of Phoebus, +and plunged into the porch of the tall building without even looking +for his clerical friend to follow. But Father Brown, whether from a +professional interest in ritual or a strong individual interest in +tomfoolery, stopped and stared up at the balcony of the sun-worshipper, +just as he might have stopped and stared up at a Punch and Judy. Kalon +the Prophet was already erect, with argent garments and uplifted hands, +and the sound of his strangely penetrating voice could be heard all the +way down the busy street uttering his solar litany. He was already +in the middle of it; his eyes were fixed upon the flaming disc. It is +doubtful if he saw anything or anyone on this earth; it is substantially +certain that he did not see a stunted, round-faced priest who, in the +crowd below, looked up at him with blinking eyes. That was perhaps the +most startling difference between even these two far divided men. Father +Brown could not look at anything without blinking; but the priest of +Apollo could look on the blaze at noon without a quiver of the eyelid. + +“O sun,” cried the prophet, “O star that art too great to be allowed +among the stars! O fountain that flowest quietly in that secret spot +that is called space. White Father of all white unwearied things, white +flames and white flowers and white peaks. Father, who art more innocent +than all thy most innocent and quiet children; primal purity, into the +peace of which--” + +A rush and crash like the reversed rush of a rocket was cloven with a +strident and incessant yelling. Five people rushed into the gate of +the mansions as three people rushed out, and for an instant they all +deafened each other. The sense of some utterly abrupt horror seemed for +a moment to fill half the street with bad news--bad news that was all +the worse because no one knew what it was. Two figures remained still +after the crash of commotion: the fair priest of Apollo on the balcony +above, and the ugly priest of Christ below him. + +At last the tall figure and titanic energy of Flambeau appeared in the +doorway of the mansions and dominated the little mob. Talking at the top +of his voice like a fog-horn, he told somebody or anybody to go for a +surgeon; and as he turned back into the dark and thronged entrance his +friend Father Brown dipped in insignificantly after him. Even as he +ducked and dived through the crowd he could still hear the magnificent +melody and monotony of the solar priest still calling on the happy god +who is the friend of fountains and flowers. + +Father Brown found Flambeau and some six other people standing round the +enclosed space into which the lift commonly descended. But the lift had +not descended. Something else had descended; something that ought to +have come by a lift. + +For the last four minutes Flambeau had looked down on it; had seen +the brained and bleeding figure of that beautiful woman who denied the +existence of tragedy. He had never had the slightest doubt that it was +Pauline Stacey; and, though he had sent for a doctor, he had not the +slightest doubt that she was dead. + +He could not remember for certain whether he had liked her or disliked +her; there was so much both to like and dislike. But she had been a +person to him, and the unbearable pathos of details and habit stabbed +him with all the small daggers of bereavement. He remembered her pretty +face and priggish speeches with a sudden secret vividness which is all +the bitterness of death. In an instant like a bolt from the blue, like +a thunderbolt from nowhere, that beautiful and defiant body had been +dashed down the open well of the lift to death at the bottom. Was it +suicide? With so insolent an optimist it seemed impossible. Was it +murder? But who was there in those hardly inhabited flats to murder +anybody? In a rush of raucous words, which he meant to be strong and +suddenly found weak, he asked where was that fellow Kalon. A voice, +habitually heavy, quiet and full, assured him that Kalon for the last +fifteen minutes had been away up on his balcony worshipping his god. +When Flambeau heard the voice, and felt the hand of Father Brown, he +turned his swarthy face and said abruptly: + +“Then, if he has been up there all the time, who can have done it?” + +“Perhaps,” said the other, “we might go upstairs and find out. We have +half an hour before the police will move.” + +Leaving the body of the slain heiress in charge of the surgeons, +Flambeau dashed up the stairs to the typewriting office, found it +utterly empty, and then dashed up to his own. Having entered that, he +abruptly returned with a new and white face to his friend. + +“Her sister,” he said, with an unpleasant seriousness, “her sister seems +to have gone out for a walk.” + +Father Brown nodded. “Or, she may have gone up to the office of that sun +man,” he said. “If I were you I should just verify that, and then let +us all talk it over in your office. No,” he added suddenly, as if +remembering something, “shall I ever get over that stupidity of mine? Of +course, in their office downstairs.” + +Flambeau stared; but he followed the little father downstairs to the +empty flat of the Staceys, where that impenetrable pastor took a large +red-leather chair in the very entrance, from which he could see the +stairs and landings, and waited. He did not wait very long. In about +four minutes three figures descended the stairs, alike only in +their solemnity. The first was Joan Stacey, the sister of the dead +woman--evidently she had been upstairs in the temporary temple of +Apollo; the second was the priest of Apollo himself, his +litany finished, sweeping down the empty stairs in utter +magnificence--something in his white robes, beard and parted hair had +the look of Dore’s Christ leaving the Pretorium; the third was Flambeau, +black browed and somewhat bewildered. + +Miss Joan Stacey, dark, with a drawn face and hair prematurely touched +with grey, walked straight to her own desk and set out her papers with a +practical flap. The mere action rallied everyone else to sanity. If Miss +Joan Stacey was a criminal, she was a cool one. Father Brown regarded +her for some time with an odd little smile, and then, without taking his +eyes off her, addressed himself to somebody else. + +“Prophet,” he said, presumably addressing Kalon, “I wish you would tell +me a lot about your religion.” + +“I shall be proud to do it,” said Kalon, inclining his still crowned +head, “but I am not sure that I understand.” + +“Why, it’s like this,” said Father Brown, in his frankly doubtful way: +“We are taught that if a man has really bad first principles, that must +be partly his fault. But, for all that, we can make some difference +between a man who insults his quite clear conscience and a man with a +conscience more or less clouded with sophistries. Now, do you really +think that murder is wrong at all?” + +“Is this an accusation?” asked Kalon very quietly. + +“No,” answered Brown, equally gently, “it is the speech for the +defence.” + +In the long and startled stillness of the room the prophet of Apollo +slowly rose; and really it was like the rising of the sun. He filled +that room with his light and life in such a manner that a man felt he +could as easily have filled Salisbury Plain. His robed form seemed to +hang the whole room with classic draperies; his epic gesture seemed to +extend it into grander perspectives, till the little black figure of the +modern cleric seemed to be a fault and an intrusion, a round, black blot +upon some splendour of Hellas. + +“We meet at last, Caiaphas,” said the prophet. “Your church and mine are +the only realities on this earth. I adore the sun, and you the darkening +of the sun; you are the priest of the dying and I of the living God. +Your present work of suspicion and slander is worthy of your coat and +creed. All your church is but a black police; you are only spies and +detectives seeking to tear from men confessions of guilt, whether by +treachery or torture. You would convict men of crime, I would convict +them of innocence. You would convince them of sin, I would convince them +of virtue. + +“Reader of the books of evil, one more word before I blow away your +baseless nightmares for ever. Not even faintly could you understand +how little I care whether you can convict me or no. The things you +call disgrace and horrible hanging are to me no more than an ogre in a +child’s toy-book to a man once grown up. You said you were offering the +speech for the defence. I care so little for the cloudland of this life +that I will offer you the speech for the prosecution. There is but one +thing that can be said against me in this matter, and I will say it +myself. The woman that is dead was my love and my bride; not after such +manner as your tin chapels call lawful, but by a law purer and sterner +than you will ever understand. She and I walked another world from +yours, and trod palaces of crystal while you were plodding through +tunnels and corridors of brick. Well, I know that policemen, theological +and otherwise, always fancy that where there has been love there +must soon be hatred; so there you have the first point made for the +prosecution. But the second point is stronger; I do not grudge it you. +Not only is it true that Pauline loved me, but it is also true that this +very morning, before she died, she wrote at that table a will leaving me +and my new church half a million. Come, where are the handcuffs? Do you +suppose I care what foolish things you do with me? Penal servitude will +only be like waiting for her at a wayside station. The gallows will only +be going to her in a headlong car.” + +He spoke with the brain-shaking authority of an orator, and Flambeau +and Joan Stacey stared at him in amazed admiration. Father Brown’s face +seemed to express nothing but extreme distress; he looked at the ground +with one wrinkle of pain across his forehead. The prophet of the sun +leaned easily against the mantelpiece and resumed: + +“In a few words I have put before you the whole case against me--the +only possible case against me. In fewer words still I will blow it +to pieces, so that not a trace of it remains. As to whether I have +committed this crime, the truth is in one sentence: I could not have +committed this crime. Pauline Stacey fell from this floor to the +ground at five minutes past twelve. A hundred people will go into the +witness-box and say that I was standing out upon the balcony of my own +rooms above from just before the stroke of noon to a quarter-past--the +usual period of my public prayers. My clerk (a respectable youth from +Clapham, with no sort of connection with me) will swear that he sat +in my outer office all the morning, and that no communication passed +through. He will swear that I arrived a full ten minutes before the +hour, fifteen minutes before any whisper of the accident, and that I did +not leave the office or the balcony all that time. No one ever had so +complete an alibi; I could subpoena half Westminster. I think you had +better put the handcuffs away again. The case is at an end. + +“But last of all, that no breath of this idiotic suspicion remain in the +air, I will tell you all you want to know. I believe I do know how my +unhappy friend came by her death. You can, if you choose, blame me for +it, or my faith and philosophy at least; but you certainly cannot +lock me up. It is well known to all students of the higher truths that +certain adepts and illuminati have in history attained the power of +levitation--that is, of being self-sustained upon the empty air. It is +but a part of that general conquest of matter which is the main element +in our occult wisdom. Poor Pauline was of an impulsive and ambitious +temper. I think, to tell the truth, she thought herself somewhat deeper +in the mysteries than she was; and she has often said to me, as we went +down in the lift together, that if one’s will were strong enough, one +could float down as harmlessly as a feather. I solemnly believe that in +some ecstasy of noble thoughts she attempted the miracle. Her will, or +faith, must have failed her at the crucial instant, and the lower law +of matter had its horrible revenge. There is the whole story, gentlemen, +very sad and, as you think, very presumptuous and wicked, but certainly +not criminal or in any way connected with me. In the short-hand of the +police-courts, you had better call it suicide. I shall always call +it heroic failure for the advance of science and the slow scaling of +heaven.” + +It was the first time Flambeau had ever seen Father Brown vanquished. He +still sat looking at the ground, with a painful and corrugated brow, as +if in shame. It was impossible to avoid the feeling which the prophet’s +winged words had fanned, that here was a sullen, professional suspecter +of men overwhelmed by a prouder and purer spirit of natural liberty and +health. At last he said, blinking as if in bodily distress: “Well, if +that is so, sir, you need do no more than take the testamentary paper +you spoke of and go. I wonder where the poor lady left it.” + +“It will be over there on her desk by the door, I think,” said Kalon, +with that massive innocence of manner that seemed to acquit him wholly. +“She told me specially she would write it this morning, and I actually +saw her writing as I went up in the lift to my own room.” + +“Was her door open then?” asked the priest, with his eye on the corner +of the matting. + +“Yes,” said Kalon calmly. + +“Ah! it has been open ever since,” said the other, and resumed his +silent study of the mat. + +“There is a paper over here,” said the grim Miss Joan, in a somewhat +singular voice. She had passed over to her sister’s desk by the doorway, +and was holding a sheet of blue foolscap in her hand. There was a sour +smile on her face that seemed unfit for such a scene or occasion, and +Flambeau looked at her with a darkening brow. + +Kalon the prophet stood away from the paper with that loyal +unconsciousness that had carried him through. But Flambeau took it +out of the lady’s hand, and read it with the utmost amazement. It did, +indeed, begin in the formal manner of a will, but after the words “I +give and bequeath all of which I die possessed” the writing abruptly +stopped with a set of scratches, and there was no trace of the name of +any legatee. Flambeau, in wonder, handed this truncated testament to his +clerical friend, who glanced at it and silently gave it to the priest of +the sun. + +An instant afterwards that pontiff, in his splendid sweeping draperies, +had crossed the room in two great strides, and was towering over Joan +Stacey, his blue eyes standing from his head. + +“What monkey tricks have you been playing here?” he cried. “That’s not +all Pauline wrote.” + +They were startled to hear him speak in quite a new voice, with a Yankee +shrillness in it; all his grandeur and good English had fallen from him +like a cloak. + +“That is the only thing on her desk,” said Joan, and confronted him +steadily with the same smile of evil favour. + +Of a sudden the man broke out into blasphemies and cataracts of +incredulous words. There was something shocking about the dropping of +his mask; it was like a man’s real face falling off. + +“See here!” he cried in broad American, when he was breathless with +cursing, “I may be an adventurer, but I guess you’re a murderess. Yes, +gentlemen, here’s your death explained, and without any levitation. The +poor girl is writing a will in my favour; her cursed sister comes in, +struggles for the pen, drags her to the well, and throws her down before +she can finish it. Sakes! I reckon we want the handcuffs after all.” + +“As you have truly remarked,” replied Joan, with ugly calm, “your clerk +is a very respectable young man, who knows the nature of an oath; and +he will swear in any court that I was up in your office arranging some +typewriting work for five minutes before and five minutes after my +sister fell. Mr. Flambeau will tell you that he found me there.” + +There was a silence. + +“Why, then,” cried Flambeau, “Pauline was alone when she fell, and it +was suicide!” + +“She was alone when she fell,” said Father Brown, “but it was not +suicide.” + +“Then how did she die?” asked Flambeau impatiently. + +“She was murdered.” + +“But she was alone,” objected the detective. + +“She was murdered when she was all alone,” answered the priest. + +All the rest stared at him, but he remained sitting in the same +old dejected attitude, with a wrinkle in his round forehead and an +appearance of impersonal shame and sorrow; his voice was colourless and +sad. + +“What I want to know,” cried Kalon, with an oath, “is when the police +are coming for this bloody and wicked sister. She’s killed her flesh and +blood; she’s robbed me of half a million that was just as sacredly mine +as--” + +“Come, come, prophet,” interrupted Flambeau, with a kind of sneer; +“remember that all this world is a cloudland.” + +The hierophant of the sun-god made an effort to climb back on his +pedestal. “It is not the mere money,” he cried, “though that would equip +the cause throughout the world. It is also my beloved one’s wishes. To +Pauline all this was holy. In Pauline’s eyes--” + +Father Brown suddenly sprang erect, so that his chair fell over flat +behind him. He was deathly pale, yet he seemed fired with a hope; his +eyes shone. + +“That’s it!” he cried in a clear voice. “That’s the way to begin. In +Pauline’s eyes--” + +The tall prophet retreated before the tiny priest in an almost mad +disorder. “What do you mean? How dare you?” he cried repeatedly. + +“In Pauline’s eyes,” repeated the priest, his own shining more and more. +“Go on--in God’s name, go on. The foulest crime the fiends ever prompted +feels lighter after confession; and I implore you to confess. Go on, go +on--in Pauline’s eyes--” + +“Let me go, you devil!” thundered Kalon, struggling like a giant in +bonds. “Who are you, you cursed spy, to weave your spiders’ webs round +me, and peep and peer? Let me go.” + +“Shall I stop him?” asked Flambeau, bounding towards the exit, for Kalon +had already thrown the door wide open. + +“No; let him pass,” said Father Brown, with a strange deep sigh that +seemed to come from the depths of the universe. “Let Cain pass by, for +he belongs to God.” + +There was a long-drawn silence in the room when he had left it, which +was to Flambeau’s fierce wits one long agony of interrogation. Miss Joan +Stacey very coolly tidied up the papers on her desk. + +“Father,” said Flambeau at last, “it is my duty, not my curiosity +only--it is my duty to find out, if I can, who committed the crime.” + +“Which crime?” asked Father Brown. + +“The one we are dealing with, of course,” replied his impatient friend. + +“We are dealing with two crimes,” said Brown, “crimes of very different +weight--and by very different criminals.” + +Miss Joan Stacey, having collected and put away her papers, proceeded to +lock up her drawer. Father Brown went on, noticing her as little as she +noticed him. + +“The two crimes,” he observed, “were committed against the same weakness +of the same person, in a struggle for her money. The author of the +larger crime found himself thwarted by the smaller crime; the author of +the smaller crime got the money.” + +“Oh, don’t go on like a lecturer,” groaned Flambeau; “put it in a few +words.” + +“I can put it in one word,” answered his friend. + +Miss Joan Stacey skewered her business-like black hat on to her head +with a business-like black frown before a little mirror, and, as the +conversation proceeded, took her handbag and umbrella in an unhurried +style, and left the room. + +“The truth is one word, and a short one,” said Father Brown. “Pauline +Stacey was blind.” + +“Blind!” repeated Flambeau, and rose slowly to his whole huge stature. + +“She was subject to it by blood,” Brown proceeded. “Her sister would +have started eyeglasses if Pauline would have let her; but it was her +special philosophy or fad that one must not encourage such diseases by +yielding to them. She would not admit the cloud; or she tried to dispel +it by will. So her eyes got worse and worse with straining; but the +worst strain was to come. It came with this precious prophet, or +whatever he calls himself, who taught her to stare at the hot sun with +the naked eye. It was called accepting Apollo. Oh, if these new pagans +would only be old pagans, they would be a little wiser! The old pagans +knew that mere naked Nature-worship must have a cruel side. They knew +that the eye of Apollo can blast and blind.” + +There was a pause, and the priest went on in a gentle and even broken +voice. “Whether or no that devil deliberately made her blind, there is +no doubt that he deliberately killed her through her blindness. The very +simplicity of the crime is sickening. You know he and she went up and +down in those lifts without official help; you know also how smoothly +and silently the lifts slide. Kalon brought the lift to the girl’s +landing, and saw her, through the open door, writing in her slow, +sightless way the will she had promised him. He called out to her +cheerily that he had the lift ready for her, and she was to come out +when she was ready. Then he pressed a button and shot soundlessly up to +his own floor, walked through his own office, out on to his own balcony, +and was safely praying before the crowded street when the poor girl, +having finished her work, ran gaily out to where lover and lift were to +receive her, and stepped--” + +“Don’t!” cried Flambeau. + +“He ought to have got half a million by pressing that button,” continued +the little father, in the colourless voice in which he talked of such +horrors. “But that went smash. It went smash because there happened +to be another person who also wanted the money, and who also knew the +secret about poor Pauline’s sight. There was one thing about that will +that I think nobody noticed: although it was unfinished and without +signature, the other Miss Stacey and some servant of hers had already +signed it as witnesses. Joan had signed first, saying Pauline could +finish it later, with a typical feminine contempt for legal forms. +Therefore, Joan wanted her sister to sign the will without real +witnesses. Why? I thought of the blindness, and felt sure she had wanted +Pauline to sign in solitude because she had wanted her not to sign at +all. + +“People like the Staceys always use fountain pens; but this was +specially natural to Pauline. By habit and her strong will and memory +she could still write almost as well as if she saw; but she could not +tell when her pen needed dipping. Therefore, her fountain pens were +carefully filled by her sister--all except this fountain pen. This was +carefully not filled by her sister; the remains of the ink held out +for a few lines and then failed altogether. And the prophet lost +five hundred thousand pounds and committed one of the most brutal and +brilliant murders in human history for nothing.” + +Flambeau went to the open door and heard the official police ascending +the stairs. He turned and said: “You must have followed everything +devilish close to have traced the crime to Kalon in ten minutes.” + +Father Brown gave a sort of start. + +“Oh! to him,” he said. “No; I had to follow rather close to find out +about Miss Joan and the fountain pen. But I knew Kalon was the criminal +before I came into the front door.” + +“You must be joking!” cried Flambeau. + +“I’m quite serious,” answered the priest. “I tell you I knew he had done +it, even before I knew what he had done.” + +“But why?” + +“These pagan stoics,” said Brown reflectively, “always fail by their +strength. There came a crash and a scream down the street, and the +priest of Apollo did not start or look round. I did not know what it +was. But I knew that he was expecting it.” + + + + +The Sign of the Broken Sword + + +The thousand arms of the forest were grey, and its million fingers +silver. In a sky of dark green-blue-like slate the stars were bleak +and brilliant like splintered ice. All that thickly wooded and sparsely +tenanted countryside was stiff with a bitter and brittle frost. The +black hollows between the trunks of the trees looked like bottomless, +black caverns of that Scandinavian hell, a hell of incalculable cold. +Even the square stone tower of the church looked northern to the point +of heathenry, as if it were some barbaric tower among the sea rocks of +Iceland. It was a queer night for anyone to explore a churchyard. But, +on the other hand, perhaps it was worth exploring. + +It rose abruptly out of the ashen wastes of forest in a sort of hump or +shoulder of green turf that looked grey in the starlight. Most of the +graves were on a slant, and the path leading up to the church was +as steep as a staircase. On the top of the hill, in the one flat and +prominent place, was the monument for which the place was famous. It +contrasted strangely with the featureless graves all round, for it was +the work of one of the greatest sculptors of modern Europe; and yet his +fame was at once forgotten in the fame of the man whose image he had +made. It showed, by touches of the small silver pencil of starlight, the +massive metal figure of a soldier recumbent, the strong hands sealed +in an everlasting worship, the great head pillowed upon a gun. The +venerable face was bearded, or rather whiskered, in the old, heavy +Colonel Newcome fashion. The uniform, though suggested with the few +strokes of simplicity, was that of modern war. By his right side lay a +sword, of which the tip was broken off; on the left side lay a Bible. On +glowing summer afternoons wagonettes came full of Americans and cultured +suburbans to see the sepulchre; but even then they felt the vast forest +land with its one dumpy dome of churchyard and church as a place oddly +dumb and neglected. In this freezing darkness of mid-winter one would +think he might be left alone with the stars. Nevertheless, in the +stillness of those stiff woods a wooden gate creaked, and two dim +figures dressed in black climbed up the little path to the tomb. + +So faint was that frigid starlight that nothing could have been +traced about them except that while they both wore black, one man was +enormously big, and the other (perhaps by contrast) almost startlingly +small. They went up to the great graven tomb of the historic warrior, +and stood for a few minutes staring at it. There was no human, perhaps +no living, thing for a wide circle; and a morbid fancy might well have +wondered if they were human themselves. In any case, the beginning of +their conversation might have seemed strange. After the first silence +the small man said to the other: + +“Where does a wise man hide a pebble?” + +And the tall man answered in a low voice: “On the beach.” + +The small man nodded, and after a short silence said: “Where does a wise +man hide a leaf?” + +And the other answered: “In the forest.” + +There was another stillness, and then the tall man resumed: “Do you mean +that when a wise man has to hide a real diamond he has been known to +hide it among sham ones?” + +“No, no,” said the little man with a laugh, “we will let bygones be +bygones.” + +He stamped his cold feet for a second or two, and then said: “I’m +not thinking of that at all, but of something else; something rather +peculiar. Just strike a match, will you?” + +The big man fumbled in his pocket, and soon a scratch and a flare +painted gold the whole flat side of the monument. On it was cut in black +letters the well-known words which so many Americans had reverently +read: “Sacred to the Memory of General Sir Arthur St. Clare, Hero and +Martyr, who Always Vanquished his Enemies and Always Spared Them, and +Was Treacherously Slain by Them At Last. May God in Whom he Trusted both +Reward and Revenge him.” + +The match burnt the big man’s fingers, blackened, and dropped. He was +about to strike another, but his small companion stopped him. “That’s +all right, Flambeau, old man; I saw what I wanted. Or, rather, I didn’t +see what I didn’t want. And now we must walk a mile and a half along +the road to the next inn, and I will try to tell you all about it. For +Heaven knows a man should have a fire and ale when he dares tell such a +story.” + +They descended the precipitous path, they relatched the rusty gate, and +set off at a stamping, ringing walk down the frozen forest road. They +had gone a full quarter of a mile before the smaller man spoke again. He +said: “Yes; the wise man hides a pebble on the beach. But what does he +do if there is no beach? Do you know anything of that great St. Clare +trouble?” + +“I know nothing about English generals, Father Brown,” answered the +large man, laughing, “though a little about English policemen. I only +know that you have dragged me a precious long dance to all the shrines +of this fellow, whoever he is. One would think he got buried in +six different places. I’ve seen a memorial to General St. Clare in +Westminster Abbey. I’ve seen a ramping equestrian statue of General +St. Clare on the Embankment. I’ve seen a medallion of St. Clare in the +street he was born in, and another in the street he lived in; and now +you drag me after dark to his coffin in the village churchyard. I am +beginning to be a bit tired of his magnificent personality, especially +as I don’t in the least know who he was. What are you hunting for in all +these crypts and effigies?” + +“I am only looking for one word,” said Father Brown. “A word that isn’t +there.” + +“Well,” asked Flambeau; “are you going to tell me anything about it?” + +“I must divide it into two parts,” remarked the priest. “First there is +what everybody knows; and then there is what I know. Now, what everybody +knows is short and plain enough. It is also entirely wrong.” + +“Right you are,” said the big man called Flambeau cheerfully. “Let’s +begin at the wrong end. Let’s begin with what everybody knows, which +isn’t true.” + +“If not wholly untrue, it is at least very inadequate,” continued Brown; +“for in point of fact, all that the public knows amounts precisely to +this: The public knows that Arthur St. Clare was a great and successful +English general. It knows that after splendid yet careful campaigns +both in India and Africa he was in command against Brazil when the great +Brazilian patriot Olivier issued his ultimatum. It knows that on that +occasion St. Clare with a very small force attacked Olivier with a very +large one, and was captured after heroic resistance. And it knows that +after his capture, and to the abhorrence of the civilised world, St. +Clare was hanged on the nearest tree. He was found swinging there after +the Brazilians had retired, with his broken sword hung round his neck.” + +“And that popular story is untrue?” suggested Flambeau. + +“No,” said his friend quietly, “that story is quite true, so far as it +goes.” + +“Well, I think it goes far enough!” said Flambeau; “but if the popular +story is true, what is the mystery?” + +They had passed many hundreds of grey and ghostly trees before the +little priest answered. Then he bit his finger reflectively and said: +“Why, the mystery is a mystery of psychology. Or, rather, it is a +mystery of two psychologies. In that Brazilian business two of the most +famous men of modern history acted flat against their characters. Mind +you, Olivier and St. Clare were both heroes--the old thing, and no +mistake; it was like the fight between Hector and Achilles. Now, what +would you say to an affair in which Achilles was timid and Hector was +treacherous?” + +“Go on,” said the large man impatiently as the other bit his finger +again. + +“Sir Arthur St. Clare was a soldier of the old religious type--the type +that saved us during the Mutiny,” continued Brown. “He was always more +for duty than for dash; and with all his personal courage was decidedly +a prudent commander, particularly indignant at any needless waste of +soldiers. Yet in this last battle he attempted something that a baby +could see was absurd. One need not be a strategist to see it was as wild +as wind; just as one need not be a strategist to keep out of the way +of a motor-bus. Well, that is the first mystery; what had become of the +English general’s head? The second riddle is, what had become of the +Brazilian general’s heart? President Olivier might be called a visionary +or a nuisance; but even his enemies admitted that he was magnanimous to +the point of knight errantry. Almost every other prisoner he had ever +captured had been set free or even loaded with benefits. Men who had +really wronged him came away touched by his simplicity and sweetness. +Why the deuce should he diabolically revenge himself only once in his +life; and that for the one particular blow that could not have hurt him? +Well, there you have it. One of the wisest men in the world acted like +an idiot for no reason. One of the best men in the world acted like a +fiend for no reason. That’s the long and the short of it; and I leave it +to you, my boy.” + +“No, you don’t,” said the other with a snort. “I leave it to you; and +you jolly well tell me all about it.” + +“Well,” resumed Father Brown, “it’s not fair to say that the public +impression is just what I’ve said, without adding that two things have +happened since. I can’t say they threw a new light; for nobody can make +sense of them. But they threw a new kind of darkness; they threw the +darkness in new directions. The first was this. The family physician +of the St. Clares quarrelled with that family, and began publishing a +violent series of articles, in which he said that the late general was +a religious maniac; but as far as the tale went, this seemed to mean +little more than a religious man. + +“Anyhow, the story fizzled out. Everyone knew, of course, that St. Clare +had some of the eccentricities of puritan piety. The second incident was +much more arresting. In the luckless and unsupported regiment which made +that rash attempt at the Black River there was a certain Captain Keith, +who was at that time engaged to St. Clare’s daughter, and who afterwards +married her. He was one of those who were captured by Olivier, and, +like all the rest except the general, appears to have been bounteously +treated and promptly set free. Some twenty years afterwards this man, +then Lieutenant-Colonel Keith, published a sort of autobiography called +‘A British Officer in Burmah and Brazil.’ In the place where the reader +looks eagerly for some account of the mystery of St. Clare’s disaster +may be found the following words: ‘Everywhere else in this book I +have narrated things exactly as they occurred, holding as I do the +old-fashioned opinion that the glory of England is old enough to take +care of itself. The exception I shall make is in this matter of +the defeat by the Black River; and my reasons, though private, are +honourable and compelling. I will, however, add this in justice to the +memories of two distinguished men. General St. Clare has been accused +of incapacity on this occasion; I can at least testify that this action, +properly understood, was one of the most brilliant and sagacious of +his life. President Olivier by similar report is charged with savage +injustice. I think it due to the honour of an enemy to say that he acted +on this occasion with even more than his characteristic good feeling. To +put the matter popularly, I can assure my countrymen that St. Clare was +by no means such a fool nor Olivier such a brute as he looked. This is +all I have to say; nor shall any earthly consideration induce me to add +a word to it.’” + +A large frozen moon like a lustrous snowball began to show through the +tangle of twigs in front of them, and by its light the narrator had +been able to refresh his memory of Captain Keith’s text from a scrap of +printed paper. As he folded it up and put it back in his pocket Flambeau +threw up his hand with a French gesture. + +“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” he cried excitedly. “I believe I can guess it +at the first go.” + +He strode on, breathing hard, his black head and bull neck forward, like +a man winning a walking race. The little priest, amused and interested, +had some trouble in trotting beside him. Just before them the trees fell +back a little to left and right, and the road swept downwards across a +clear, moonlit valley, till it dived again like a rabbit into the wall +of another wood. The entrance to the farther forest looked small and +round, like the black hole of a remote railway tunnel. But it was within +some hundred yards, and gaped like a cavern before Flambeau spoke again. + +“I’ve got it,” he cried at last, slapping his thigh with his great hand. +“Four minutes’ thinking, and I can tell your whole story myself.” + +“All right,” assented his friend. “You tell it.” + +Flambeau lifted his head, but lowered his voice. “General Sir Arthur St. +Clare,” he said, “came of a family in which madness was hereditary; and +his whole aim was to keep this from his daughter, and even, if possible, +from his future son-in-law. Rightly or wrongly, he thought the final +collapse was close, and resolved on suicide. Yet ordinary suicide would +blazon the very idea he dreaded. As the campaign approached the clouds +came thicker on his brain; and at last in a mad moment he sacrificed his +public duty to his private. He rushed rashly into battle, hoping to fall +by the first shot. When he found that he had only attained capture and +discredit, the sealed bomb in his brain burst, and he broke his own +sword and hanged himself.” + +He stared firmly at the grey façade of forest in front of him, with the +one black gap in it, like the mouth of the grave, into which their path +plunged. Perhaps something menacing in the road thus suddenly swallowed +reinforced his vivid vision of the tragedy, for he shuddered. + +“A horrid story,” he said. + +“A horrid story,” repeated the priest with bent head. “But not the real +story.” + +Then he threw back his head with a sort of despair and cried: “Oh, I +wish it had been.” + +The tall Flambeau faced round and stared at him. + +“Yours is a clean story,” cried Father Brown, deeply moved. “A sweet, +pure, honest story, as open and white as that moon. Madness and despair +are innocent enough. There are worse things, Flambeau.” + +Flambeau looked up wildly at the moon thus invoked; and from where he +stood one black tree-bough curved across it exactly like a devil’s horn. + +“Father--father,” cried Flambeau with the French gesture and stepping +yet more rapidly forward, “do you mean it was worse than that?” + +“Worse than that,” said Paul like a grave echo. And they plunged into +the black cloister of the woodland, which ran by them in a dim tapestry +of trunks, like one of the dark corridors in a dream. + +They were soon in the most secret entrails of the wood, and felt close +about them foliage that they could not see, when the priest said again: + +“Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest. But what does he do +if there is no forest?” + +“Well, well,” cried Flambeau irritably, “what does he do?” + +“He grows a forest to hide it in,” said the priest in an obscure voice. +“A fearful sin.” + +“Look here,” cried his friend impatiently, for the dark wood and the +dark saying got a little on his nerves; “will you tell me this story or +not? What other evidence is there to go on?” + +“There are three more bits of evidence,” said the other, “that I have +dug up in holes and corners; and I will give them in logical rather +than chronological order. First of all, of course, our authority for the +issue and event of the battle is in Olivier’s own dispatches, which +are lucid enough. He was entrenched with two or three regiments on the +heights that swept down to the Black River, on the other side of which +was lower and more marshy ground. Beyond this again was gently rising +country, on which was the first English outpost, supported by others +which lay, however, considerably in its rear. The British forces as a +whole were greatly superior in numbers; but this particular regiment was +just far enough from its base to make Olivier consider the project of +crossing the river to cut it off. By sunset, however, he had decided to +retain his own position, which was a specially strong one. At daybreak +next morning he was thunderstruck to see that this stray handful of +English, entirely unsupported from their rear, had flung themselves +across the river, half by a bridge to the right, and the other half by a +ford higher up, and were massed upon the marshy bank below him. + +“That they should attempt an attack with such numbers against such a +position was incredible enough; but Olivier noticed something yet more +extraordinary. For instead of attempting to seize more solid ground, +this mad regiment, having put the river in its rear by one wild charge, +did nothing more, but stuck there in the mire like flies in treacle. +Needless to say, the Brazilians blew great gaps in them with artillery, +which they could only return with spirited but lessening rifle fire. Yet +they never broke; and Olivier’s curt account ends with a strong tribute +of admiration for the mystic valour of these imbeciles. ‘Our line then +advanced finally,’ writes Olivier, ‘and drove them into the river; +we captured General St. Clare himself and several other officers. The +colonel and the major had both fallen in the battle. I cannot resist +saying that few finer sights can have been seen in history than the last +stand of this extraordinary regiment; wounded officers picking up the +rifles of dead soldiers, and the general himself facing us on horseback +bareheaded and with a broken sword.’ On what happened to the general +afterwards Olivier is as silent as Captain Keith.” + +“Well,” grunted Flambeau, “get on to the next bit of evidence.” + +“The next evidence,” said Father Brown, “took some time to find, but it +will not take long to tell. I found at last in an almshouse down in the +Lincolnshire Fens an old soldier who not only was wounded at the Black +River, but had actually knelt beside the colonel of the regiment when +he died. This latter was a certain Colonel Clancy, a big bull of an +Irishman; and it would seem that he died almost as much of rage as of +bullets. He, at any rate, was not responsible for that ridiculous raid; +it must have been imposed on him by the general. His last edifying +words, according to my informant, were these: ‘And there goes the damned +old donkey with the end of his sword knocked off. I wish it was his +head.’ You will remark that everyone seems to have noticed this detail +about the broken sword blade, though most people regard it somewhat +more reverently than did the late Colonel Clancy. And now for the third +fragment.” + +Their path through the woodland began to go upward, and the speaker +paused a little for breath before he went on. Then he continued in the +same business-like tone: + +“Only a month or two ago a certain Brazilian official died in England, +having quarrelled with Olivier and left his country. He was a well-known +figure both here and on the Continent, a Spaniard named Espado; I knew +him myself, a yellow-faced old dandy, with a hooked nose. For various +private reasons I had permission to see the documents he had left; he +was a Catholic, of course, and I had been with him towards the end. +There was nothing of his that lit up any corner of the black St. Clare +business, except five or six common exercise books filled with the diary +of some English soldier. I can only suppose that it was found by the +Brazilians on one of those that fell. Anyhow, it stopped abruptly the +night before the battle. + +“But the account of that last day in the poor fellow’s life was +certainly worth reading. I have it on me; but it’s too dark to read it +here, and I will give you a resume. The first part of that entry is full +of jokes, evidently flung about among the men, about somebody called the +Vulture. It does not seem as if this person, whoever he was, was one of +themselves, nor even an Englishman; neither is he exactly spoken of as +one of the enemy. It sounds rather as if he were some local go-between +and non-combatant; perhaps a guide or a journalist. He has been closeted +with old Colonel Clancy; but is more often seen talking to the major. +Indeed, the major is somewhat prominent in this soldier’s narrative; +a lean, dark-haired man, apparently, of the name of Murray--a north of +Ireland man and a Puritan. There are continual jests about the contrast +between this Ulsterman’s austerity and the conviviality of +Colonel Clancy. There is also some joke about the Vulture wearing +bright-coloured clothes. + +“But all these levities are scattered by what may well be called the +note of a bugle. Behind the English camp and almost parallel to the +river ran one of the few great roads of that district. Westward the road +curved round towards the river, which it crossed by the bridge before +mentioned. To the east the road swept backwards into the wilds, and some +two miles along it was the next English outpost. From this direction +there came along the road that evening a glitter and clatter of +light cavalry, in which even the simple diarist could recognise with +astonishment the general with his staff. He rode the great white horse +which you have seen so often in illustrated papers and Academy pictures; +and you may be sure that the salute they gave him was not merely +ceremonial. He, at least, wasted no time on ceremony, but, springing +from the saddle immediately, mixed with the group of officers, and fell +into emphatic though confidential speech. What struck our friend the +diarist most was his special disposition to discuss matters with Major +Murray; but, indeed, such a selection, so long as it was not marked, was +in no way unnatural. The two men were made for sympathy; they were men +who ‘read their Bibles’; they were both the old Evangelical type of +officer. However this may be, it is certain that when the general +mounted again he was still talking earnestly to Murray; and that as +he walked his horse slowly down the road towards the river, the tall +Ulsterman still walked by his bridle rein in earnest debate. The +soldiers watched the two until they vanished behind a clump of trees +where the road turned towards the river. The colonel had gone back to +his tent, and the men to their pickets; the man with the diary lingered +for another four minutes, and saw a marvellous sight. + +“The great white horse which had marched slowly down the road, as it had +marched in so many processions, flew back, galloping up the road towards +them as if it were mad to win a race. At first they thought it had run +away with the man on its back; but they soon saw that the general, a +fine rider, was himself urging it to full speed. Horse and man swept up +to them like a whirlwind; and then, reining up the reeling charger, the +general turned on them a face like flame, and called for the colonel +like the trumpet that wakes the dead. + +“I conceive that all the earthquake events of that catastrophe tumbled +on top of each other rather like lumber in the minds of men such as our +friend with the diary. With the dazed excitement of a dream, they found +themselves falling--literally falling--into their ranks, and learned +that an attack was to be led at once across the river. The general and +the major, it was said, had found out something at the bridge, and there +was only just time to strike for life. The major had gone back at once +to call up the reserve along the road behind; it was doubtful if even +with that prompt appeal help could reach them in time. But they must +pass the stream that night, and seize the heights by morning. It is with +the very stir and throb of that romantic nocturnal march that the diary +suddenly ends.” + +Father Brown had mounted ahead; for the woodland path grew smaller, +steeper, and more twisted, till they felt as if they were ascending +a winding staircase. The priest’s voice came from above out of the +darkness. + +“There was one other little and enormous thing. When the general urged +them to their chivalric charge he half drew his sword from the scabbard; +and then, as if ashamed of such melodrama, thrust it back again. The +sword again, you see.” + +A half-light broke through the network of boughs above them, flinging +the ghost of a net about their feet; for they were mounting again to the +faint luminosity of the naked night. Flambeau felt truth all round him +as an atmosphere, but not as an idea. He answered with bewildered brain: +“Well, what’s the matter with the sword? Officers generally have swords, +don’t they?” + +“They are not often mentioned in modern war,” said the other +dispassionately; “but in this affair one falls over the blessed sword +everywhere.” + +“Well, what is there in that?” growled Flambeau; “it was a twopence +coloured sort of incident; the old man’s blade breaking in his last +battle. Anyone might bet the papers would get hold of it, as they have. +On all these tombs and things it’s shown broken at the point. I hope you +haven’t dragged me through this Polar expedition merely because two men +with an eye for a picture saw St. Clare’s broken sword.” + +“No,” cried Father Brown, with a sharp voice like a pistol shot; “but +who saw his unbroken sword?” + +“What do you mean?” cried the other, and stood still under the stars. +They had come abruptly out of the grey gates of the wood. + +“I say, who saw his unbroken sword?” repeated Father Brown obstinately. +“Not the writer of the diary, anyhow; the general sheathed it in time.” + +Flambeau looked about him in the moonlight, as a man struck blind +might look in the sun; and his friend went on, for the first time with +eagerness: + +“Flambeau,” he cried, “I cannot prove it, even after hunting through the +tombs. But I am sure of it. Let me add just one more tiny fact that tips +the whole thing over. The colonel, by a strange chance, was one of the +first struck by a bullet. He was struck long before the troops came to +close quarters. But he saw St. Clare’s sword broken. Why was it broken? +How was it broken? My friend, it was broken before the battle.” + +“Oh!” said his friend, with a sort of forlorn jocularity; “and pray +where is the other piece?” + +“I can tell you,” said the priest promptly. “In the northeast corner of +the cemetery of the Protestant Cathedral at Belfast.” + +“Indeed?” inquired the other. “Have you looked for it?” + +“I couldn’t,” replied Brown, with frank regret. “There’s a great marble +monument on top of it; a monument to the heroic Major Murray, who fell +fighting gloriously at the famous Battle of the Black River.” + +Flambeau seemed suddenly galvanised into existence. “You mean,” he cried +hoarsely, “that General St. Clare hated Murray, and murdered him on the +field of battle because--” + +“You are still full of good and pure thoughts,” said the other. “It was +worse than that.” + +“Well,” said the large man, “my stock of evil imagination is used up.” + +The priest seemed really doubtful where to begin, and at last he said +again: + +“Where would a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest.” + +The other did not answer. + +“If there were no forest, he would make a forest. And if he wished to +hide a dead leaf, he would make a dead forest.” + +There was still no reply, and the priest added still more mildly and +quietly: + +“And if a man had to hide a dead body, he would make a field of dead +bodies to hide it in.” + +Flambeau began to stamp forward with an intolerance of delay in time +or space; but Father Brown went on as if he were continuing the last +sentence: + +“Sir Arthur St. Clare, as I have already said, was a man who read +his Bible. That was what was the matter with him. When will people +understand that it is useless for a man to read his Bible unless he also +reads everybody else’s Bible? A printer reads a Bible for misprints. A +Mormon reads his Bible, and finds polygamy; a Christian Scientist +reads his, and finds we have no arms and legs. St. Clare was an old +Anglo-Indian Protestant soldier. Now, just think what that might +mean; and, for Heaven’s sake, don’t cant about it. It might mean a man +physically formidable living under a tropic sun in an Oriental society, +and soaking himself without sense or guidance in an Oriental Book. Of +course, he read the Old Testament rather than the New. Of course, he +found in the Old Testament anything that he wanted--lust, tyranny, +treason. Oh, I dare say he was honest, as you call it. But what is the +good of a man being honest in his worship of dishonesty? + +“In each of the hot and secret countries to which the man went he kept a +harem, he tortured witnesses, he amassed shameful gold; but certainly +he would have said with steady eyes that he did it to the glory of the +Lord. My own theology is sufficiently expressed by asking which Lord? +Anyhow, there is this about such evil, that it opens door after door +in hell, and always into smaller and smaller chambers. This is the real +case against crime, that a man does not become wilder and wilder, but +only meaner and meaner. St. Clare was soon suffocated by difficulties of +bribery and blackmail; and needed more and more cash. And by the time of +the Battle of the Black River he had fallen from world to world to that +place which Dante makes the lowest floor of the universe.” + +“What do you mean?” asked his friend again. + +“I mean that,” retorted the cleric, and suddenly pointed at a puddle +sealed with ice that shone in the moon. “Do you remember whom Dante put +in the last circle of ice?” + +“The traitors,” said Flambeau, and shuddered. As he looked around at the +inhuman landscape of trees, with taunting and almost obscene outlines, +he could almost fancy he was Dante, and the priest with the rivulet of a +voice was, indeed, a Virgil leading him through a land of eternal sins. + +The voice went on: “Olivier, as you know, was quixotic, and would not +permit a secret service and spies. The thing, however, was done, like +many other things, behind his back. It was managed by my old friend +Espado; he was the bright-clad fop, whose hook nose got him called the +Vulture. Posing as a sort of philanthropist at the front, he felt his +way through the English Army, and at last got his fingers on its one +corrupt man--please God!--and that man at the top. St. Clare was in foul +need of money, and mountains of it. The discredited family doctor was +threatening those extraordinary exposures that afterwards began and +were broken off; tales of monstrous and prehistoric things in Park Lane; +things done by an English Evangelist that smelt like human sacrifice and +hordes of slaves. Money was wanted, too, for his daughter’s dowry; for +to him the fame of wealth was as sweet as wealth itself. He snapped the +last thread, whispered the word to Brazil, and wealth poured in from the +enemies of England. But another man had talked to Espado the Vulture as +well as he. Somehow the dark, grim young major from Ulster had guessed +the hideous truth; and when they walked slowly together down that road +towards the bridge Murray was telling the general that he must resign +instantly, or be court-martialled and shot. The general temporised with +him till they came to the fringe of tropic trees by the bridge; and +there by the singing river and the sunlit palms (for I can see the +picture) the general drew his sabre and plunged it through the body of +the major.” + +The wintry road curved over a ridge in cutting frost, with cruel black +shapes of bush and thicket; but Flambeau fancied that he saw beyond it +faintly the edge of an aureole that was not starlight and moonlight, but +some fire such as is made by men. He watched it as the tale drew to its +close. + +“St. Clare was a hell-hound, but he was a hound of breed. Never, I’ll +swear, was he so lucid and so strong as when poor Murray lay a cold lump +at his feet. Never in all his triumphs, as Captain Keith said truly, was +the great man so great as he was in this last world-despised defeat. He +looked coolly at his weapon to wipe off the blood; he saw the point he +had planted between his victim’s shoulders had broken off in the body. +He saw quite calmly, as through a club windowpane, all that must follow. +He saw that men must find the unaccountable corpse; must extract +the unaccountable sword-point; must notice the unaccountable broken +sword--or absence of sword. He had killed, but not silenced. But his +imperious intellect rose against the facer; there was one way yet. He +could make the corpse less unaccountable. He could create a hill of +corpses to cover this one. In twenty minutes eight hundred English +soldiers were marching down to their death.” + +The warmer glow behind the black winter wood grew richer and brighter, +and Flambeau strode on to reach it. Father Brown also quickened his +stride; but he seemed merely absorbed in his tale. + +“Such was the valour of that English thousand, and such the genius of +their commander, that if they had at once attacked the hill, even their +mad march might have met some luck. But the evil mind that played with +them like pawns had other aims and reasons. They must remain in the +marshes by the bridge at least till British corpses should be a +common sight there. Then for the last grand scene; the silver-haired +soldier-saint would give up his shattered sword to save further +slaughter. Oh, it was well organised for an impromptu. But I think (I +cannot prove), I think that it was while they stuck there in the bloody +mire that someone doubted--and someone guessed.” + +He was mute a moment, and then said: “There is a voice from nowhere that +tells me the man who guessed was the lover... the man to wed the old +man’s child.” + +“But what about Olivier and the hanging?” asked Flambeau. + +“Olivier, partly from chivalry, partly from policy, seldom encumbered +his march with captives,” explained the narrator. “He released everybody +in most cases. He released everybody in this case.” + +“Everybody but the general,” said the tall man. + +“Everybody,” said the priest. + +Flambeau knit his black brows. “I don’t grasp it all yet,” he said. + +“There is another picture, Flambeau,” said Brown in his more mystical +undertone. “I can’t prove it; but I can do more--I can see it. There is +a camp breaking up on the bare, torrid hills at morning, and Brazilian +uniforms massed in blocks and columns to march. There is the red +shirt and long black beard of Olivier, which blows as he stands, his +broad-brimmed hat in his hand. He is saying farewell to the great enemy +he is setting free--the simple, snow-headed English veteran, who +thanks him in the name of his men. The English remnant stand behind +at attention; beside them are stores and vehicles for the retreat. +The drums roll; the Brazilians are moving; the English are still like +statues. So they abide till the last hum and flash of the enemy have +faded from the tropic horizon. Then they alter their postures all at +once, like dead men coming to life; they turn their fifty faces upon the +general--faces not to be forgotten.” + +Flambeau gave a great jump. “Ah,” he cried, “you don’t mean--” + +“Yes,” said Father Brown in a deep, moving voice. “It was an English +hand that put the rope round St. Clare’s neck; I believe the hand that +put the ring on his daughter’s finger. They were English hands that +dragged him up to the tree of shame; the hands of men that had adored +him and followed him to victory. And they were English souls (God pardon +and endure us all!) who stared at him swinging in that foreign sun on +the green gallows of palm, and prayed in their hatred that he might drop +off it into hell.” + +As the two topped the ridge there burst on them the strong scarlet light +of a red-curtained English inn. It stood sideways in the road, as if +standing aside in the amplitude of hospitality. Its three doors stood +open with invitation; and even where they stood they could hear the hum +and laughter of humanity happy for a night. + +“I need not tell you more,” said Father Brown. “They tried him in the +wilderness and destroyed him; and then, for the honour of England and +of his daughter, they took an oath to seal up for ever the story of the +traitor’s purse and the assassin’s sword blade. Perhaps--Heaven help +them--they tried to forget it. Let us try to forget it, anyhow; here is +our inn.” + +“With all my heart,” said Flambeau, and was just striding into the +bright, noisy bar when he stepped back and almost fell on the road. + +“Look there, in the devil’s name!” he cried, and pointed rigidly at the +square wooden sign that overhung the road. It showed dimly the crude +shape of a sabre hilt and a shortened blade; and was inscribed in false +archaic lettering, “The Sign of the Broken Sword.” + +“Were you not prepared?” asked Father Brown gently. “He is the god of +this country; half the inns and parks and streets are named after him +and his story.” + +“I thought we had done with the leper,” cried Flambeau, and spat on the +road. + +“You will never have done with him in England,” said the priest, looking +down, “while brass is strong and stone abides. His marble statues will +erect the souls of proud, innocent boys for centuries, his village tomb +will smell of loyalty as of lilies. Millions who never knew him shall +love him like a father--this man whom the last few that knew him dealt +with like dung. He shall be a saint; and the truth shall never be told +of him, because I have made up my mind at last. There is so much good +and evil in breaking secrets, that I put my conduct to a test. All these +newspapers will perish; the anti-Brazil boom is already over; Olivier +is already honoured everywhere. But I told myself that if anywhere, by +name, in metal or marble that will endure like the pyramids, Colonel +Clancy, or Captain Keith, or President Olivier, or any innocent man was +wrongly blamed, then I would speak. If it were only that St. Clare was +wrongly praised, I would be silent. And I will.” + +They plunged into the red-curtained tavern, which was not only cosy, but +even luxurious inside. On a table stood a silver model of the tomb of +St. Clare, the silver head bowed, the silver sword broken. On the +walls were coloured photographs of the same scene, and of the system +of wagonettes that took tourists to see it. They sat down on the +comfortable padded benches. + +“Come, it’s cold,” cried Father Brown; “let’s have some wine or beer.” + +“Or brandy,” said Flambeau. + + + + +The Three Tools of Death + + +Both by calling and conviction Father Brown knew better than most of us, +that every man is dignified when he is dead. But even he felt a pang of +incongruity when he was knocked up at daybreak and told that Sir Aaron +Armstrong had been murdered. There was something absurd and unseemly +about secret violence in connection with so entirely entertaining and +popular a figure. For Sir Aaron Armstrong was entertaining to the point +of being comic; and popular in such a manner as to be almost legendary. +It was like hearing that Sunny Jim had hanged himself; or that Mr. +Pickwick had died in Hanwell. For though Sir Aaron was a philanthropist, +and thus dealt with the darker side of our society, he prided himself +on dealing with it in the brightest possible style. His political and +social speeches were cataracts of anecdotes and “loud laughter”; his +bodily health was of a bursting sort; his ethics were all optimism; and +he dealt with the Drink problem (his favourite topic) with that immortal +or even monotonous gaiety which is so often a mark of the prosperous +total abstainer. + +The established story of his conversion was familiar on the more +puritanic platforms and pulpits, how he had been, when only a boy, drawn +away from Scotch theology to Scotch whisky, and how he had risen out of +both and become (as he modestly put it) what he was. Yet his wide +white beard, cherubic face, and sparkling spectacles, at the numberless +dinners and congresses where they appeared, made it hard to believe, +somehow, that he had ever been anything so morbid as either a +dram-drinker or a Calvinist. He was, one felt, the most seriously merry +of all the sons of men. + +He had lived on the rural skirt of Hampstead in a handsome house, high +but not broad, a modern and prosaic tower. The narrowest of its narrow +sides overhung the steep green bank of a railway, and was shaken by +passing trains. Sir Aaron Armstrong, as he boisterously explained, had +no nerves. But if the train had often given a shock to the house, that +morning the tables were turned, and it was the house that gave a shock +to the train. + +The engine slowed down and stopped just beyond that point where an angle +of the house impinged upon the sharp slope of turf. The arrest of most +mechanical things must be slow; but the living cause of this had been +very rapid. A man clad completely in black, even (it was remembered) +to the dreadful detail of black gloves, appeared on the ridge above +the engine, and waved his black hands like some sable windmill. This in +itself would hardly have stopped even a lingering train. But there came +out of him a cry which was talked of afterwards as something utterly +unnatural and new. It was one of those shouts that are horridly distinct +even when we cannot hear what is shouted. The word in this case was +“Murder!” + +But the engine-driver swears he would have pulled up just the same if he +had heard only the dreadful and definite accent and not the word. + +The train once arrested, the most superficial stare could take in many +features of the tragedy. The man in black on the green bank was Sir +Aaron Armstrong’s man-servant Magnus. The baronet in his optimism had +often laughed at the black gloves of this dismal attendant; but no one +was likely to laugh at him just now. + +So soon as an inquirer or two had stepped off the line and across the +smoky hedge, they saw, rolled down almost to the bottom of the bank, the +body of an old man in a yellow dressing-gown with a very vivid +scarlet lining. A scrap of rope seemed caught about his leg, entangled +presumably in a struggle. There was a smear or so of blood, though very +little; but the body was bent or broken into a posture impossible to any +living thing. It was Sir Aaron Armstrong. A few more bewildered moments +brought out a big fair-bearded man, whom some travellers could salute +as the dead man’s secretary, Patrick Royce, once well known in Bohemian +society and even famous in the Bohemian arts. In a manner more vague, +but even more convincing, he echoed the agony of the servant. By the +time the third figure of that household, Alice Armstrong, daughter of +the dead man, had come already tottering and waving into the garden, the +engine-driver had put a stop to his stoppage. The whistle had blown and +the train had panted on to get help from the next station. + +Father Brown had been thus rapidly summoned at the request of Patrick +Royce, the big ex-Bohemian secretary. Royce was an Irishman by birth; +and that casual kind of Catholic that never remembers his religion +until he is really in a hole. But Royce’s request might have been less +promptly complied with if one of the official detectives had not been a +friend and admirer of the unofficial Flambeau; and it was impossible to +be a friend of Flambeau without hearing numberless stories about Father +Brown. Hence, while the young detective (whose name was Merton) led +the little priest across the fields to the railway, their talk was more +confidential than could be expected between two total strangers. + +“As far as I can see,” said Mr. Merton candidly, “there is no sense +to be made of it at all. There is nobody one can suspect. Magnus is a +solemn old fool; far too much of a fool to be an assassin. Royce has +been the baronet’s best friend for years; and his daughter undoubtedly +adored him. Besides, it’s all too absurd. Who would kill such a cheery +old chap as Armstrong? Who could dip his hands in the gore of an +after-dinner speaker? It would be like killing Father Christmas.” + +“Yes, it was a cheery house,” assented Father Brown. “It was a cheery +house while he was alive. Do you think it will be cheery now he is +dead?” + +Merton started a little and regarded his companion with an enlivened +eye. “Now he is dead?” he repeated. + +“Yes,” continued the priest stolidly, “he was cheerful. But did he +communicate his cheerfulness? Frankly, was anyone else in the house +cheerful but he?” + +A window in Merton’s mind let in that strange light of surprise in which +we see for the first time things we have known all along. He had often +been to the Armstrongs’, on little police jobs of the philanthropist; +and, now he came to think of it, it was in itself a depressing house. +The rooms were very high and very cold; the decoration mean and +provincial; the draughty corridors were lit by electricity that was +bleaker than moonlight. And though the old man’s scarlet face and silver +beard had blazed like a bonfire in each room or passage in turn, it did +not leave any warmth behind it. Doubtless this spectral discomfort in +the place was partly due to the very vitality and exuberance of its +owner; he needed no stoves or lamps, he would say, but carried his own +warmth with him. But when Merton recalled the other inmates, he was +compelled to confess that they also were as shadows of their lord. +The moody man-servant, with his monstrous black gloves, was almost a +nightmare; Royce, the secretary, was solid enough, a big bull of a +man, in tweeds, with a short beard; but the straw-coloured beard was +startlingly salted with grey like the tweeds, and the broad forehead was +barred with premature wrinkles. He was good-natured enough also, but it +was a sad sort of good-nature, almost a heart-broken sort--he had the +general air of being some sort of failure in life. As for Armstrong’s +daughter, it was almost incredible that she was his daughter; she was so +pallid in colour and sensitive in outline. She was graceful, but there +was a quiver in the very shape of her that was like the lines of an +aspen. Merton had sometimes wondered if she had learnt to quail at the +crash of the passing trains. + +“You see,” said Father Brown, blinking modestly, “I’m not sure that the +Armstrong cheerfulness is so very cheerful--for other people. You say +that nobody could kill such a happy old man, but I’m not sure; ne nos +inducas in tentationem. If ever I murdered somebody,” he added quite +simply, “I dare say it might be an Optimist.” + +“Why?” cried Merton amused. “Do you think people dislike cheerfulness?” + +“People like frequent laughter,” answered Father Brown, “but I don’t +think they like a permanent smile. Cheerfulness without humour is a very +trying thing.” + +They walked some way in silence along the windy grassy bank by the rail, +and just as they came under the far-flung shadow of the tall Armstrong +house, Father Brown said suddenly, like a man throwing away a +troublesome thought rather than offering it seriously: “Of course, drink +is neither good nor bad in itself. But I can’t help sometimes feeling +that men like Armstrong want an occasional glass of wine to sadden +them.” + +Merton’s official superior, a grizzled and capable detective named +Gilder, was standing on the green bank waiting for the coroner, talking +to Patrick Royce, whose big shoulders and bristly beard and hair towered +above him. This was the more noticeable because Royce walked always +with a sort of powerful stoop, and seemed to be going about his small +clerical and domestic duties in a heavy and humbled style, like a +buffalo drawing a go-cart. + +He raised his head with unusual pleasure at the sight of the priest, and +took him a few paces apart. Meanwhile Merton was addressing the +older detective respectfully indeed, but not without a certain boyish +impatience. + +“Well, Mr. Gilder, have you got much farther with the mystery?” + +“There is no mystery,” replied Gilder, as he looked under dreamy eyelids +at the rooks. + +“Well, there is for me, at any rate,” said Merton, smiling. + +“It is simple enough, my boy,” observed the senior investigator, +stroking his grey, pointed beard. “Three minutes after you’d gone for +Mr. Royce’s parson the whole thing came out. You know that pasty-faced +servant in the black gloves who stopped the train?” + +“I should know him anywhere. Somehow he rather gave me the creeps.” + +“Well,” drawled Gilder, “when the train had gone on again, that man had +gone too. Rather a cool criminal, don’t you think, to escape by the very +train that went off for the police?” + +“You’re pretty sure, I suppose,” remarked the young man, “that he really +did kill his master?” + +“Yes, my son, I’m pretty sure,” replied Gilder drily, “for the trifling +reason that he has gone off with twenty thousand pounds in papers that +were in his master’s desk. No, the only thing worth calling a difficulty +is how he killed him. The skull seems broken as with some big weapon, +but there’s no weapon at all lying about, and the murderer would have +found it awkward to carry it away, unless the weapon was too small to be +noticed.” + +“Perhaps the weapon was too big to be noticed,” said the priest, with an +odd little giggle. + +Gilder looked round at this wild remark, and rather sternly asked Brown +what he meant. + +“Silly way of putting it, I know,” said Father Brown apologetically. +“Sounds like a fairy tale. But poor Armstrong was killed with a giant’s +club, a great green club, too big to be seen, and which we call the +earth. He was broken against this green bank we are standing on.” + +“How do you mean?” asked the detective quickly. + +Father Brown turned his moon face up to the narrow façade of the house +and blinked hopelessly up. Following his eyes, they saw that right at +the top of this otherwise blind back quarter of the building, an attic +window stood open. + +“Don’t you see,” he explained, pointing a little awkwardly like a child, +“he was thrown down from there?” + +Gilder frowningly scrutinised the window, and then said: “Well, it is +certainly possible. But I don’t see why you are so sure about it.” + +Brown opened his grey eyes wide. “Why,” he said, “there’s a bit of rope +round the dead man’s leg. Don’t you see that other bit of rope up there +caught at the corner of the window?” + +At that height the thing looked like the faintest particle of dust +or hair, but the shrewd old investigator was satisfied. “You’re quite +right, sir,” he said to Father Brown; “that is certainly one to you.” + +Almost as he spoke a special train with one carriage took the curve +of the line on their left, and, stopping, disgorged another group +of policemen, in whose midst was the hangdog visage of Magnus, the +absconded servant. + +“By Jove! they’ve got him,” cried Gilder, and stepped forward with quite +a new alertness. + +“Have you got the money!” he cried to the first policeman. + +The man looked him in the face with a rather curious expression and +said: “No.” Then he added: “At least, not here.” + +“Which is the inspector, please?” asked the man called Magnus. + +When he spoke everyone instantly understood how this voice had stopped +a train. He was a dull-looking man with flat black hair, a colourless +face, and a faint suggestion of the East in the level slits in his eyes +and mouth. His blood and name, indeed, had remained dubious, ever since +Sir Aaron had “rescued” him from a waitership in a London restaurant, +and (as some said) from more infamous things. But his voice was as vivid +as his face was dead. Whether through exactitude in a foreign language, +or in deference to his master (who had been somewhat deaf), Magnus’s +tones had a peculiarly ringing and piercing quality, and the whole group +quite jumped when he spoke. + +“I always knew this would happen,” he said aloud with brazen blandness. +“My poor old master made game of me for wearing black; but I always said +I should be ready for his funeral.” + +And he made a momentary movement with his two dark-gloved hands. + +“Sergeant,” said Inspector Gilder, eyeing the black hands with wrath, +“aren’t you putting the bracelets on this fellow; he looks pretty +dangerous.” + +“Well, sir,” said the sergeant, with the same odd look of wonder, “I +don’t know that we can.” + +“What do you mean?” asked the other sharply. “Haven’t you arrested him?” + +A faint scorn widened the slit-like mouth, and the whistle of an +approaching train seemed oddly to echo the mockery. + +“We arrested him,” replied the sergeant gravely, “just as he was coming +out of the police station at Highgate, where he had deposited all his +master’s money in the care of Inspector Robinson.” + +Gilder looked at the man-servant in utter amazement. “Why on earth did +you do that?” he asked of Magnus. + +“To keep it safe from the criminal, of course,” replied that person +placidly. + +“Surely,” said Gilder, “Sir Aaron’s money might have been safely left +with Sir Aaron’s family.” + +The tail of his sentence was drowned in the roar of the train as it went +rocking and clanking; but through all the hell of noises to which that +unhappy house was periodically subject, they could hear the syllables of +Magnus’s answer, in all their bell-like distinctness: “I have no reason +to feel confidence in Sir Aaron’s family.” + +All the motionless men had the ghostly sensation of the presence of some +new person; and Merton was scarcely surprised when he looked up and saw +the pale face of Armstrong’s daughter over Father Brown’s shoulder. She +was still young and beautiful in a silvery style, but her hair was of so +dusty and hueless a brown that in some shadows it seemed to have turned +totally grey. + +“Be careful what you say,” said Royce gruffly, “you’ll frighten Miss +Armstrong.” + +“I hope so,” said the man with the clear voice. + +As the woman winced and everyone else wondered, he went on: “I am +somewhat used to Miss Armstrong’s tremors. I have seen her trembling off +and on for years. And some said she was shaking with cold and some she +was shaking with fear, but I know she was shaking with hate and wicked +anger--fiends that have had their feast this morning. She would have +been away by now with her lover and all the money but for me. Ever since +my poor old master prevented her from marrying that tipsy blackguard--” + +“Stop,” said Gilder very sternly. “We have nothing to do with your +family fancies or suspicions. Unless you have some practical evidence, +your mere opinions--” + +“Oh! I’ll give you practical evidence,” cut in Magnus, in his hacking +accent. “You’ll have to subpoena me, Mr. Inspector, and I shall have to +tell the truth. And the truth is this: An instant after the old man was +pitched bleeding out of the window, I ran into the attic, and found +his daughter swooning on the floor with a red dagger still in her hand. +Allow me to hand that also to the proper authorities.” He took from his +tail-pocket a long horn-hilted knife with a red smear on it, and handed +it politely to the sergeant. Then he stood back again, and his slits of +eyes almost faded from his face in one fat Chinese sneer. + +Merton felt an almost bodily sickness at the sight of him; and he +muttered to Gilder: “Surely you would take Miss Armstrong’s word against +his?” + +Father Brown suddenly lifted a face so absurdly fresh that it looked +somehow as if he had just washed it. “Yes,” he said, radiating +innocence, “but is Miss Armstrong’s word against his?” + +The girl uttered a startled, singular little cry; everyone looked at +her. Her figure was rigid as if paralysed; only her face within its +frame of faint brown hair was alive with an appalling surprise. She +stood like one of a sudden lassooed and throttled. + +“This man,” said Mr. Gilder gravely, “actually says that you were found +grasping a knife, insensible, after the murder.” + +“He says the truth,” answered Alice. + +The next fact of which they were conscious was that Patrick Royce strode +with his great stooping head into their ring and uttered the singular +words: “Well, if I’ve got to go, I’ll have a bit of pleasure first.” + +His huge shoulder heaved and he sent an iron fist smash into Magnus’s +bland Mongolian visage, laying him on the lawn as flat as a starfish. +Two or three of the police instantly put their hands on Royce; but to +the rest it seemed as if all reason had broken up and the universe were +turning into a brainless harlequinade. + +“None of that, Mr. Royce,” Gilder had called out authoritatively. “I +shall arrest you for assault.” + +“No, you won’t,” answered the secretary in a voice like an iron gong, +“you will arrest me for murder.” + +Gilder threw an alarmed glance at the man knocked down; but since that +outraged person was already sitting up and wiping a little blood off a +substantially uninjured face, he only said shortly: “What do you mean?” + +“It is quite true, as this fellow says,” explained Royce, “that Miss +Armstrong fainted with a knife in her hand. But she had not snatched the +knife to attack her father, but to defend him.” + +“To defend him,” repeated Gilder gravely. “Against whom?” + +“Against me,” answered the secretary. + +Alice looked at him with a complex and baffling face; then she said in a +low voice: “After it all, I am still glad you are brave.” + +“Come upstairs,” said Patrick Royce heavily, “and I will show you the +whole cursed thing.” + +The attic, which was the secretary’s private place (and rather a small +cell for so large a hermit), had indeed all the vestiges of a violent +drama. Near the centre of the floor lay a large revolver as if flung +away; nearer to the left was rolled a whisky bottle, open but not quite +empty. The cloth of the little table lay dragged and trampled, and a +length of cord, like that found on the corpse, was cast wildly across +the windowsill. Two vases were smashed on the mantelpiece and one on the +carpet. + +“I was drunk,” said Royce; and this simplicity in the prematurely +battered man somehow had the pathos of the first sin of a baby. + +“You all know about me,” he continued huskily; “everybody knows how my +story began, and it may as well end like that too. I was called a clever +man once, and might have been a happy one; Armstrong saved the remains +of a brain and body from the taverns, and was always kind to me in his +own way, poor fellow! Only he wouldn’t let me marry Alice here; and it +will always be said that he was right enough. Well, you can form your +own conclusions, and you won’t want me to go into details. That is my +whisky bottle half emptied in the corner; that is my revolver quite +emptied on the carpet. It was the rope from my box that was found on the +corpse, and it was from my window the corpse was thrown. You need not +set detectives to grub up my tragedy; it is a common enough weed in this +world. I give myself to the gallows; and, by God, that is enough!” + +At a sufficiently delicate sign, the police gathered round the large man +to lead him away; but their unobtrusiveness was somewhat staggered by +the remarkable appearance of Father Brown, who was on his hands and +knees on the carpet in the doorway, as if engaged in some kind of +undignified prayers. Being a person utterly insensible to the social +figure he cut, he remained in this posture, but turned a bright round +face up at the company, presenting the appearance of a quadruped with a +very comic human head. + +“I say,” he said good-naturedly, “this really won’t do at all, you know. +At the beginning you said we’d found no weapon. But now we’re finding +too many; there’s the knife to stab, and the rope to strangle, and the +pistol to shoot; and after all he broke his neck by falling out of a +window! It won’t do. It’s not economical.” And he shook his head at the +ground as a horse does grazing. + +Inspector Gilder had opened his mouth with serious intentions, but +before he could speak the grotesque figure on the floor had gone on +quite volubly. + +“And now three quite impossible things. First, these holes in the +carpet, where the six bullets have gone in. Why on earth should anybody +fire at the carpet? A drunken man lets fly at his enemy’s head, the +thing that’s grinning at him. He doesn’t pick a quarrel with his feet, +or lay siege to his slippers. And then there’s the rope”--and having +done with the carpet the speaker lifted his hands and put them in his +pocket, but continued unaffectedly on his knees--“in what conceivable +intoxication would anybody try to put a rope round a man’s neck and +finally put it round his leg? Royce, anyhow, was not so drunk as that, +or he would be sleeping like a log by now. And, plainest of all, the +whisky bottle. You suggest a dipsomaniac fought for the whisky bottle, +and then having won, rolled it away in a corner, spilling one half and +leaving the other. That is the very last thing a dipsomaniac would do.” + +He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and said to the self-accused +murderer in tones of limpid penitence: “I’m awfully sorry, my dear sir, +but your tale is really rubbish.” + +“Sir,” said Alice Armstrong in a low tone to the priest, “can I speak to +you alone for a moment?” + +This request forced the communicative cleric out of the gangway, and +before he could speak in the next room, the girl was talking with +strange incisiveness. + +“You are a clever man,” she said, “and you are trying to save Patrick, +I know. But it’s no use. The core of all this is black, and the more +things you find out the more there will be against the miserable man I +love.” + +“Why?” asked Brown, looking at her steadily. + +“Because,” she answered equally steadily, “I saw him commit the crime +myself.” + +“Ah!” said the unmoved Brown, “and what did he do?” + +“I was in this room next to them,” she explained; “both doors were +closed, but I suddenly heard a voice, such as I had never heard on +earth, roaring ‘Hell, hell, hell,’ again and again, and then the two +doors shook with the first explosion of the revolver. Thrice again the +thing banged before I got the two doors open and found the room full of +smoke; but the pistol was smoking in my poor, mad Patrick’s hand; and I +saw him fire the last murderous volley with my own eyes. Then he leapt +on my father, who was clinging in terror to the window-sill, and, +grappling, tried to strangle him with the rope, which he threw over his +head, but which slipped over his struggling shoulders to his feet. Then +it tightened round one leg and Patrick dragged him along like a maniac. +I snatched a knife from the mat, and, rushing between them, managed to +cut the rope before I fainted.” + +“I see,” said Father Brown, with the same wooden civility. “Thank you.” + +As the girl collapsed under her memories, the priest passed stiffly +into the next room, where he found Gilder and Merton alone with Patrick +Royce, who sat in a chair, handcuffed. There he said to the Inspector +submissively: + +“Might I say a word to the prisoner in your presence; and might he take +off those funny cuffs for a minute?” + +“He is a very powerful man,” said Merton in an undertone. “Why do you +want them taken off?” + +“Why, I thought,” replied the priest humbly, “that perhaps I might have +the very great honour of shaking hands with him.” + +Both detectives stared, and Father Brown added: “Won’t you tell them +about it, sir?” + +The man on the chair shook his tousled head, and the priest turned +impatiently. + +“Then I will,” he said. “Private lives are more important than public +reputations. I am going to save the living, and let the dead bury their +dead.” + +He went to the fatal window, and blinked out of it as he went on +talking. + +“I told you that in this case there were too many weapons and only one +death. I tell you now that they were not weapons, and were not used to +cause death. All those grisly tools, the noose, the bloody knife, the +exploding pistol, were instruments of a curious mercy. They were not +used to kill Sir Aaron, but to save him.” + +“To save him!” repeated Gilder. “And from what?” + +“From himself,” said Father Brown. “He was a suicidal maniac.” + +“What?” cried Merton in an incredulous tone. “And the Religion of +Cheerfulness--” + +“It is a cruel religion,” said the priest, looking out of the window. +“Why couldn’t they let him weep a little, like his fathers before him? +His plans stiffened, his views grew cold; behind that merry mask was +the empty mind of the atheist. At last, to keep up his hilarious public +level, he fell back on that dram-drinking he had abandoned long ago. But +there is this horror about alcoholism in a sincere teetotaler: that he +pictures and expects that psychological inferno from which he has warned +others. It leapt upon poor Armstrong prematurely, and by this morning +he was in such a case that he sat here and cried he was in hell, in so +crazy a voice that his daughter did not know it. He was mad for death, +and with the monkey tricks of the mad he had scattered round him death +in many shapes--a running noose and his friend’s revolver and a knife. +Royce entered accidentally and acted in a flash. He flung the knife +on the mat behind him, snatched up the revolver, and having no time to +unload it, emptied it shot after shot all over the floor. The suicide +saw a fourth shape of death, and made a dash for the window. The rescuer +did the only thing he could--ran after him with the rope and tried to +tie him hand and foot. Then it was that the unlucky girl ran in, and +misunderstanding the struggle, strove to slash her father free. At first +she only slashed poor Royce’s knuckles, from which has come all the +little blood in this affair. But, of course, you noticed that he left +blood, but no wound, on that servant’s face? Only before the poor woman +swooned, she did hack her father loose, so that he went crashing through +that window into eternity.” + +There was a long stillness slowly broken by the metallic noises of +Gilder unlocking the handcuffs of Patrick Royce, to whom he said: “I +think I should have told the truth, sir. You and the young lady are +worth more than Armstrong’s obituary notices.” + +“Confound Armstrong’s notices,” cried Royce roughly. “Don’t you see it +was because she mustn’t know?” + +“Mustn’t know what?” asked Merton. + +“Why, that she killed her father, you fool!” roared the other. “He’d +have been alive now but for her. It might craze her to know that.” + +“No, I don’t think it would,” remarked Father Brown, as he picked up his +hat. “I rather think I should tell her. Even the most murderous blunders +don’t poison life like sins; anyhow, I think you may both be the happier +now. I’ve got to go back to the Deaf School.” + +As he went out on to the gusty grass an acquaintance from Highgate +stopped him and said: + +“The Coroner has arrived. The inquiry is just going to begin.” + +“I’ve got to get back to the Deaf School,” said Father Brown. “I’m sorry +I can’t stop for the inquiry.” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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