The Innocence of Father Brown Read online

  The Invisible Man

  In the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shopat the corner, a confectioner's, glowed like the butt of a cigar. Oneshould rather say, perhaps, like the butt of a firework, for the lightwas of many colours and some complexity, broken up by many mirrors anddancing on many gilt and gaily-coloured cakes and sweetmeats. Againstthis one fiery glass were glued the noses of many gutter-snipes, forthe chocolates were all wrapped in those red and gold and green metalliccolours which are almost better than chocolate itself; and the hugewhite wedding-cake in the window was somehow at once remote andsatisfying, just as if the whole North Pole were good to eat.Such rainbow provocations could naturally collect the youth of theneighbourhood up to the ages of ten or twelve. But this corner was alsoattractive to youth at a later stage; and a young man, not less thantwenty-four, was staring into the same shop window. To him, also,the shop was of fiery charm, but this attraction was not wholly to beexplained by chocolates; which, however, he was far from despising.

  He was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face buta listless manner. He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio ofblack-and-white sketches, which he had sold with more or less successto publishers ever since his uncle (who was an admiral) had disinheritedhim for Socialism, because of a lecture which he had delivered againstthat economic theory. His name was John Turnbull Angus.

  Entering at last, he walked through the confectioner's shop to the backroom, which was a sort of pastry-cook restaurant, merely raising his hatto the young lady who was serving there. She was a dark, elegant, alertgirl in black, with a high colour and very quick, dark eyes; and afterthe ordinary interval she followed him into the inner room to take hisorder.

  His order was evidently a usual one. "I want, please," he said withprecision, "one halfpenny bun and a small cup of black coffee." Aninstant before the girl could turn away he added, "Also, I want you tomarry me."

  The young lady of the shop stiffened suddenly and said, "Those are jokesI 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 thehalfpenny bun. It is expensive, like the bun; one pays for it. It isindigestible, like the bun. It hurts."

  The dark young lady had never taken her dark eyes off him, but seemedto be studying him with almost tragic exactitude. At the end of herscrutiny she had something like the shadow of a smile, and she sat downin a chair.

  "Don't you think," observed Angus, absently, "that it's rather cruel toeat these halfpenny buns? They might grow up into penny buns. I shallgive 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 atlast she swung round again with an air of resolution she was bewilderedto observe that the young man was carefully laying out on the tablevarious objects from the shop-window. They included a pyramid of highlycoloured sweets, several plates of sandwiches, and the two decanterscontaining that mysterious port and sherry which are peculiar topastry-cooks. In the middle of this neat arrangement he had carefullylet down the enormous load of white sugared cake which had been the hugeornament 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 tome 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 ofsugar.

  "The wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus," he said.

  The girl marched to that article, removed it with some clatter, and putit back in the shop window; she then returned, and, putting her elegantelbows on the table, regarded the young man not unfavourably but withconsiderable 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 graverbehind the smile.

  "Mr. Angus," she said steadily, "before there is a minute more of thisnonsense I must tell you something about myself as shortly as I can.'"

  "Delighted," replied Angus gravely. "You might tell me something aboutmyself, too, while you are about it."

  "Oh, do hold your tongue and listen," she said. "It's nothing that I'mashamed 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 ofmine and yet is my nightmare?"

  "In that case," said the man seriously, "I should suggest that you bringback 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 Christianair about this one confectioner's shop."

  "Ludbury is a sleepy, grassy little hole in the Eastern Counties, andthe only kind of people who ever came to the 'Red Fish' were occasionalcommercial travellers, and for the rest, the most awful people you cansee, only you've never seen them. I mean little, loungy men, who hadjust enough to live on and had nothing to do but lean about in bar-roomsand 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; butthere were two of them that were a lot too common--common in every sortof way. They both lived on money of their own, and were wearisomely idleand over-dressed. But yet I was a bit sorry for them, because I halfbelieve they slunk into our little empty bar because each of them had aslight deformity; the sort of thing that some yokels laugh at. It wasn'texactly a deformity either; it was more an oddity. One of them wasa surprisingly small man, something like a dwarf, or at least like ajockey. He was not at all jockeyish to look at, though; he had a roundblack head and a well-trimmed black beard, bright eyes like a bird's; hejingled money in his pockets; he jangled a great gold watch chain; andhe never turned up except dressed just too much like a gentleman tobe one. He was no fool though, though a futile idler; he was curiouslyclever at all kinds of things that couldn't be the slightest use; a sortof impromptu conjuring; making fifteen matches set fire to each otherlike a regular firework; or cutting a banana or some such thing into adancing doll. His name was Isidore Smythe; and I can see him still, withhis little dark face, just coming up to the counter, making a jumpingkangaroo out of five cigars.

  "The other fellow was more silent and more ordinary; but somehow healarmed me much more than poor little Smythe. He was very tall andslight, and light-haired; his nose had a high bridge, and he mightalmost have been handsome in a spectral sort of way; but he had one ofthe most appalling squints I have ever seen or heard of. When he lookedstraight at you, you didn't know where you were yourself, let alone whathe was looking at. I fancy this sort of disfigurement embittered thepoor chap a little; for while Smythe was ready to show off his monkeytricks anywhere, James Welkin (that was the squinting man's name) neverdid anything except soak in our bar parlour, and go for great walksby himself in the flat, grey country all round. All the same, I thinkSmythe, too, was a little sensitive about being so small, though hecarried it off more smartly. And so it was that I was really puzzled, aswell as startled, and very sorry, when they both offered to marry me inthe 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 oftheir thinking I refused them for the real reason, which was that theywere so impossibly ugly. So I made up some gas of another sort, aboutnever meaning to marry anyone who hadn't carved his way in the world. Isaid it was a point of principle with me not to live on money thatwas just inherited like theirs. Two days after I had talked in thiswell-meaning sort of way, the whole trouble began. The first thing Iheard was that both of them had gone off to seek their for
tunes, as ifthey were in some silly fairy tale.

  "Well, I've never seen either of them from that day to this. But I'vehad two letters from the little man called Smythe, and really they wererather 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 walkingwith Welkin to London; but Welkin was such a good walker that the littleman dropped out of it, and took a rest by the roadside. He happened tobe picked up by some travelling show, and, partly because he was nearlya dwarf, and partly because he was really a clever little wretch, hegot on quite well in the show business, and was soon sent up to theAquarium, 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 mildand patient eyes. Her own mouth took a slight twist of laughter asshe 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 doingall the housework by machinery. You know the sort of thing: 'Press aButton--A Butler who Never Drinks.' 'Turn a Handle--Ten Housemaids whoNever Flirt.' You must have seen the advertisements. Well, whateverthese machines are, they are making pots of money; and they are makingit all for that little imp whom I knew down in Ludbury. I can't helpfeeling pleased the poor little chap has fallen on his feet; but theplain fact is, I'm in terror of his turning up any minute and telling mehe'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 thinkyou are a witch. Yes, you are quite right. I have not seen a line of theother man's writing; and I have no more notion than the dead of what orwhere he is. But it is of him that I am frightened. It is he who is allabout my path. It is he who has half driven me mad. Indeed, I think hehas driven me mad; for I have felt him where he could not have been, andI have heard his voice when he could not have spoken."

  "Well, my dear," said the young man, cheerfully, "if he were Satanhimself, he is done for now you have told somebody. One goes mad allalone, old girl. But when was it you fancied you felt and heard oursquinting friend?"

  "I heard James Welkin laugh as plainly as I hear you speak," said thegirl, steadily. "There was nobody there, for I stood just outside theshop at the corner, and could see down both streets at once. I hadforgotten how he laughed, though his laugh was as odd as his squint. Ihad not thought of him for nearly a year. But it's a solemn truth that afew seconds later the first letter came from his rival."

  "Did you ever make the spectre speak or squeak, or anything?" askedAngus, 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 Smytheannouncing his success. Just then, I heard Welkin say, 'He shan't haveyou, though.' It was quite plain, as if he were in the room. It isawful, I think I must be mad."

  "If you really were mad," said the young man, "you would think you mustbe sane. But certainly there seems to me to be something a little rumabout this unseen gentleman. Two heads are better than one--I spare youallusions to any other organs and really, if you would allow me, asa sturdy, practical man, to bring back the wedding-cake out of thewindow--"

  Even as he spoke, there was a sort of steely shriek in the streetoutside, and a small motor, driven at devilish speed, shot up to thedoor of the shop and stuck there. In the same flash of time a small manin a shiny top hat stood stamping in the outer room.

  Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mentalhygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out ofthe inner room and confronting the new-comer. A glance at him was quitesufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love. Thisvery dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carriedinsolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervousfingers, could be none other than the man just described to him: IsidoreSmythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; IsidoreSmythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirtinghousemaids of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctivelyunderstanding each other's air of possession, looked at each other withthat curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry.

  Mr. Smythe, however, made no allusion to the ultimate ground of theirantagonism, but said simply and explosively, "Has Miss Hope seen thatthing on the window?"

  "On the window?" repeated the staring Angus.

  "There's no time to explain other things," said the small millionaireshortly. "There's some tomfoolery going on here that has to beinvestigated."

  He pointed his polished walking-stick at the window, recently depletedby the bridal preparations of Mr. Angus; and that gentleman wasastonished to see along the front of the glass a long strip of paperpasted, which had certainly not been on the window when he lookedthrough it some time before. Following the energetic Smythe outside intothe street, he found that some yard and a half of stamp paper had beencarefully gummed along the glass outside, and on this was written instraggly characters, "If you marry Smythe, he will die."

  "Laura," said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, "you're notmad."

  "It's the writing of that fellow Welkin," said Smythe gruffly. "Ihaven't seen him for years, but he's always bothering me. Five times inthe last fortnight he's had threatening letters left at my flat, and Ican'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 beenseen, 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 werehaving tea. Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sensein dealing so directly with the matter. We can talk about other thingsafterwards. The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there wasno paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutesago. On the other hand, he's too far off to be chased, as we don't evenknow the direction. If you'll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you'll putthis at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private ratherthan public. I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up inbusiness five minutes from here in your car. His name's Flambeau, andthough his youth was a bit stormy, he's a strictly honest man now, andhis 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 careto come with me; I can go to my rooms and sort out these queer Welkindocuments, while you run round and get your friend the detective."

  "You are very good," said Angus politely. "Well, the sooner we act thebetter."

  Both men, with a queer kind of impromptu fairness, took the same sort offormal farewell of the lady, and both jumped into the brisk littlecar. As Smythe took the handles and they turned the great corner of thestreet, Angus was amused to see a gigantesque poster of "Smythe'sSilent Service," with a picture of a huge headless iron doll, carrying asaucepan 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 dobring your coals or claret or a timetable quicker than any live servantsI'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 thosethreatening letters at my flat."

  The man's motor was small and swift like himself; in fact, like hisdomestic service, it was of his own invention. If he was an advertisingquack, he was one who b
elieved in his own wares. The sense of somethingtiny and flying was accentuated as they swept up long white curves ofroad in the dead but open daylight of evening. Soon the white curvescame sharper and dizzier; they were upon ascending spirals, as they sayin the modern religions. For, indeed, they were cresting a corner ofLondon which is almost as precipitous as Edinburgh, if not quite sopicturesque. Terrace rose above terrace, and the special tower of flatsthey sought, rose above them all to almost Egyptian height, gilt bythe level sunset. The change, as they turned the corner and entered thecrescent known as Himylaya Mansions, was as abrupt as the opening of awindow; for they found that pile of flats sitting above London as abovea green sea of slate. Opposite to the mansions, on the other side of thegravel crescent, was a bushy enclosure more like a steep hedge or dykethan 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 carswept round the crescent it passed, at one corner, the stray stall ofa 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 onlyhuman shapes in that high suburban solitude; but he had an irrationalsense that they expressed the speechless poetry of London. He felt as ifthey were figures in a story.

  The little car shot up to the right house like a bullet, and shot outits owner like a bomb shell. He was immediately inquiring of a tallcommissionaire in shining braid, and a short porter in shirt sleeves,whether anybody or anything had been seeking his apartments. He wasassured that nobody and nothing had passed these officials since hislast inquiries; whereupon he and the slightly bewildered Angus were shotup 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 showyou those Welkin letters. Then you might run round the corner and fetchyour friend." He pressed a button concealed in the wall, and the dooropened of itself.

  It opened on a long, commodious ante-room, of which the only arrestingfeatures, ordinarily speaking, were the rows of tall half-humanmechanical figures that stood up on both sides like tailors' dummies.Like tailors' dummies they were headless; and like tailors' dummiesthey had a handsome unnecessary humpiness in the shoulders, and apigeon-breasted protuberance of chest; but barring this, they were notmuch more like a human figure than any automatic machine at a stationthat is about the human height. They had two great hooks like arms, forcarrying trays; and they were painted pea-green, or vermilion, orblack for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were onlyautomatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them. Onthis occasion, at least, nobody did. For between the two rows ofthese domestic dummies lay something more interesting than most of themechanics of the world. It was a white, tattered scrap of paper scrawledwith red ink; and the agile inventor had snatched it up almost as soonas the door flew open. He handed it to Angus without a word. The red inkon it actually was not dry, and the message ran, "If you have been tosee her today, I shall kill you."

  There was a short silence, and then Isidore Smythe said quietly, "Wouldyou 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 roundat once to fetch him."

  "Right you are," said the other, with admirable cheerfulness. "Bring himround here as quick as you can."

  But as Angus closed the front door behind him he saw Smythe push back abutton, and one of the clockwork images glided from its place and slidalong a groove in the floor carrying a tray with syphon and decanter.There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little manalone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the doorclosed.

  Six steps down from Smythe's landing the man in shirt sleeves was doingsomething with a pail. Angus stopped to extract a promise, fortifiedwith a prospective bribe, that he would remain in that place until thereturn with the detective, and would keep count of any kind of strangercoming up those stairs. Dashing down to the front hall he then laidsimilar charges of vigilance on the commissionaire at the front door,from whom he learned the simplifying circumstances that there was noback door. Not content with this, he captured the floating policemanand induced him to stand opposite the entrance and watch it; and finallypaused an instant for a pennyworth of chestnuts, and an inquiry as tothe probable length of the merchant's stay in the neighbourhood.

  The chestnut seller, turning up the collar of his coat, told him heshould probably be moving shortly, as he thought it was going to snow.Indeed, the evening was growing grey and bitter, but Angus, with all hiseloquence, proceeded to nail the chestnut man to his post.

  "Keep yourself warm on your own chestnuts," he said earnestly. "Eatup your whole stock; I'll make it worth your while. I'll give you asovereign if you'll wait here till I come back, and then tell mewhether any man, woman, or child has gone into that house where thecommissionaire 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 allfour of them be Mr. Welkin's accomplices."

  Lucknow Mansions were, so to speak, on a lower platform of that hillof houses, of which Himylaya Mansions might be called the peak. Mr.Flambeau's semi-official flat was on the ground floor, and presentedin every way a marked contrast to the American machinery and coldhotel-like luxury of the flat of the Silent Service. Flambeau, who wasa friend of Angus, received him in a rococo artistic den behind hisoffice, of which the ornaments were sabres, harquebuses, Easterncuriosities, flasks of Italian wine, savage cooking-pots, a plumyPersian cat, and a small dusty-looking Roman Catholic priest, who lookedparticularly out of place.

  "This is my friend Father Brown," said Flambeau. "I've often wanted youto meet him. Splendid weather, this; a little cold for Southerners likeme."

  "Yes, I think it will keep clear," said Angus, sitting down on aviolet-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 ofchestnuts, began to drift across the darkening windowpane.

  "Well," said Angus heavily. "I'm afraid I've come on business, andrather jumpy business at that. The fact is, Flambeau, within a stone'sthrow of your house is a fellow who badly wants your help; he'sperpetually being haunted and threatened by an invisible enemy--ascoundrel whom nobody has even seen." As Angus proceeded to tell thewhole tale of Smythe and Welkin, beginning with Laura's story, andgoing on with his own, the supernatural laugh at the corner of two emptystreets, the strange distinct words spoken in an empty room, Flambeaugrew more and more vividly concerned, and the little priest seemed to beleft out of it, like a piece of furniture. When it came to the scribbledstamp-paper pasted on the window, Flambeau rose, seeming to fill theroom with his huge shoulders.

  "If you don't mind," he said, "I think you had better tell me the reston the nearest road to this man's house. It strikes me, somehow, thatthere is no time to be lost."

  "Delighted," said Angus, rising also, "though he's safe enough for thepresent, 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 themwith the docility of a small dog. He merely said, in a cheerful way,like one making conversation, "How quick the snow gets thick on theground."

  As they threaded the steep side streets already powdered with silver,Angus finished his story; and by the time they reached the crescent withthe towering flats, he had leisure to turn his attention to the foursentinels. The chestnut seller, both before and after receiving asovereign, swore stubbornly that he had watched the door and seen novisitor enter. The policeman was even more emphatic. He said he had hadexperience of crooks of all kinds, in top hats and in rags; he wasn't sogreen as to expect suspicious characters to look suspicious; he lookedout for anybody, and, so help him, there had been nobody. And when allthree men gathered round the gilded com
missionaire, who still stoodsmiling 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 inthese flats," said the genial and gold-laced giant, "and I'll swearthere's been nobody to ask since this gentleman went away."

  The unimportant Father Brown, who stood back, looking modestly at thepavement, here ventured to say meekly, "Has nobody been up and downstairs, then, since the snow began to fall? It began while we were allround at Flambeau's."

  "Nobody's been in here, sir, you can take it from me," said theofficial, with beaming authority.

  "Then I wonder what that is?" said the priest, and stared at the groundblankly like a fish.

  The others all looked down also; and Flambeau used a fierce exclamationand a French gesture. For it was unquestionably true that down themiddle of the entrance guarded by the man in gold lace, actually betweenthe arrogant, stretched legs of that colossus, ran a stringy pattern ofgrey footprints stamped upon the white snow.

  "God!" cried Angus involuntarily, "the Invisible Man!"

  Without another word he turned and dashed up the stairs, with Flambeaufollowing; but Father Brown still stood looking about him in thesnow-clad street as if he had lost interest in his query.

  Flambeau was plainly in a mood to break down the door with his bigshoulders; but the Scotchman, with more reason, if less intuition,fumbled about on the frame of the door till he found the invisiblebutton; and the door swung slowly open.

  It showed substantially the same serried interior; the hall had growndarker, though it was still struck here and there with the last crimsonshafts of sunset, and one or two of the headless machines had been movedfrom their places for this or that purpose, and stood here and thereabout the twilit place. The green and red of their coats were alldarkened in the dusk; and their likeness to human shapes slightlyincreased by their very shapelessness. But in the middle of them all,exactly where the paper with the red ink had lain, there lay somethingthat looked like red ink spilt out of its bottle. But it was not redink.

  With a French combination of reason and violence Flambeau simply said"Murder!" and, plunging into the flat, had explored, every corner andcupboard of it in five minutes. But if he expected to find a corpse hefound 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 outerhall, 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 Celticcorner of his Scotch soul a shudder started. One of the life-size dollsstood immediately overshadowing the blood stain, summoned, perhaps,by the slain man an instant before he fell. One of the high-shoulderedhooks that served the thing for arms, was a little lifted, and Angus hadsuddenly the horrid fancy that poor Smythe's own iron child had struckhim down. Matter had rebelled, and these machines had killed theirmaster. But even so, what had they done with him?

  "Eaten him?" said the nightmare at his ear; and he sickened for aninstant at the idea of rent, human remains absorbed and crushed into allthat acephalous clockwork.

  He recovered his mental health by an emphatic effort, and said toFlambeau, "Well, there it is. The poor fellow has evaporated like acloud and left a red streak on the floor. The tale does not belong tothis world."

  "There is only one thing to be done," said Flambeau, "whether it belongsto this world or the other. I must go down and talk to my friend."

  They descended, passing the man with the pail, who again asseveratedthat he had let no intruder pass, down to the commissionaire and thehovering chestnut man, who rigidly reasserted their own watchfulness.But when Angus looked round for his fourth confirmation he could not seeit, and called out with some nervousness, "Where is the policeman?"

  "I beg your pardon," said Father Brown; "that is my fault. I just senthim down the road to investigate something--that I just thought worthinvestigating."

  "Well, we want him back pretty soon," said Angus abruptly, "for thewretched 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 ismore in your department than mine. No friend or foe has entered thehouse, but Smythe is gone, as if stolen by the fairies. If that is notsupernatural, I--"

  As he spoke they were all checked by an unusual sight; the big bluepoliceman came round the corner of the crescent, running. He camestraight up to Brown.

  "You're right, sir," he panted, "they've just found poor Mr. Smythe'sbody in the canal down below."

  Angus put his hand wildly to his head. "Did he run down and drownhimself?" he asked.

  "He never came down, I'll swear," said the constable, "and he wasn'tdrowned 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 theyfound a light brown sack."

  "Why a light brown sack?" asked Angus, astonished.

  "Because if it was any other coloured sack, the case must begin overagain," said Father Brown; "but if it was a light brown sack, why, thecase is finished."

  "I am pleased to hear it," said Angus with hearty irony. "It hasn'tbegun, so far as I am concerned."

  "You must tell us all about it," said Flambeau with a strange heavysimplicity, like a child.

  Unconsciously they were walking with quickening steps down the longsweep of road on the other side of the high crescent, Father Brownleading briskly, though in silence. At last he said with an almosttouching vagueness, "Well, I'm afraid you'll think it so prosy. Wealways begin at the abstract end of things, and you can't begin thisstory anywhere else.

  "Have you ever noticed this--that people never answer what you say? Theyanswer what you mean--or what they think you mean. Suppose one lady saysto another in a country house, 'Is anybody staying with you?' the ladydoesn't answer 'Yes; the butler, the three footmen, the parlourmaid, andso on,' though the parlourmaid may be in the room, or the butler behindher chair. She says 'There is nobody staying with us,' meaning nobody ofthe 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 neverget a question answered literally, even when you get it answered truly.When those four quite honest men said that no man had gone into theMansions, they did not really mean that no man had gone into them. Theymeant no man whom they could suspect of being your man. A man did gointo the house, and did come out of it, but they never noticed him."

  "An invisible man?" inquired Angus, raising his red eyebrows. "Amentally invisible man," said Father Brown.

  A minute or two after he resumed in the same unassuming voice, like aman thinking his way. "Of course you can't think of such a man, untilyou do think of him. That's where his cleverness comes in. But I cameto think of him through two or three little things in the tale Mr. Angustold 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 thatcouldn't be true. Don't get annoyed," he added hastily, noting a suddenmovement of the Scotchman's head; "she thought they were true. A personcan'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 letterjust received. There must be somebody pretty near her; he must bementally invisible."

  "Why must there be somebody near her?" asked Angus.

  "Because," said Father Brown, "barring carrier-pigeons, somebody musthave 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 thisfellow? What does he look like? What is the usual get-up of a mentallyinvisible man?"

  "He is dressed rather handsomely in red, blue and gold," replied thepriest promptly with precision, "and in this striking, and even showy,costume he entered Himylaya Mansions under eight human eyes; he killedSmythe in cold blood, and came down into the street again carrying thedead body in his arms--"

  "Reverend sir," cried Angus, standing still, "are you raving mad, or amI?"

  "You are not mad," said Brown, "only a little unobservant. You have notnoticed such a man as this, for example."

  He took three quick strides forward, and put his hand on the shoulder ofan ordinary passing postman who had bustled by them unnoticed under theshade of the trees.

  "Nobody ever notices postmen somehow," he said thoughtfully; "yet theyhave passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a smallcorpse can be stowed quite easily."

  The postman, instead of turning naturally, had ducked and tumbledagainst the garden fence. He was a lean fair-bearded man of veryordinary 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, havingmany things to attend to. John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady atthe shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremelycomfortable. But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under thestars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each otherwill never be known.