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his hands on his knees:

      “Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than our reason. The mystery of heaven is unknowable, and I can only bow my head.”

      Then, without changing 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[31].”

      The 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 a bit. 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 still with terror.

      “Yes,” said the tall priest, in the same low voice, “yes, I am Flambeau.”

      Then, after a pause, he said:

      “Come, will you give me that cross?”

      “No,” said the other, and it sounded odd.

      The great robber suddenly leaned back in his seat and laughed low[32] 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 his face in the dusk, and said timidly:

      “Are – are you sure?”

      Flambeau yelled with delight.

      “Yes, you turnip[33]”, he cried. “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[34], Father Brown – a very old dodge.”

      “Yes,” said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair quietly. “Yes, I've heard of it before.”

      Flambeau leaned over to the little 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 thief. “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 did you ever hear of the spiked bracelet?” cried Flambeau.

      “Oh, one's little flock, you know!” said Father Brown, arching his eyebrows. “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. “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 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[35],” he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort of apology. “We can't help being priests[36]. People come and tell us these things.”

      Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He sprang to his feet, 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 you really might be 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 stunned with curiosity.

      “Well,” went on Father Brown, “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.

      “How do you know all these tricks?” asked 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 occurred to you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men's real sins[37] is likely to be wholly aware 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.

      “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[38].

      “Do not bow to me, mon ami[39]” said Valentin. “Let us both bow to our master.”

      And they both stood an instant uncovered[40] 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, met by his servant, Ivan, the old man with a scar, 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 of its architecture was this: that there was no other exit at all except through this front door, which was guarded by Ivan and the weapons. The garden was large and well-kept, 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, inaccessible wall with special spikes at the top.

      As

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