There is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue of tall houses, rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs. The very steps up to the dark front doors seem as steep as the side of pyramids; one would hesitate to knock at the door, lest it should be opened by a mummy. But a yet more depressing feature in the grey facade is its telescopic length and changeless continuity. The pilgrim walking down it begins to think he will never come to a break or a corner; but there is one exception – a very small one, but hailed by the pilgrim almost with a shout. There is a sort of mews between two of the tall mansions, a mere slit like the crack of a door by comparison with the street, but just large enough to permit a pigmy ale-house or eating-house, still allowed by the rich to their stable-servants, to stand in the angle. There is something cheery in its very dinginess, and something free and elfin in its very insignificance. At the feet of those grey stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs.
Anyone passing the place during a certain autumn evening, itself almost fairylike, might have seen a hand pull aside the red half-blind which (along with some large white lettering) half hid the interior from the street, and a face peer out not unlike a rather innocent goblin's. It was, in fact, the face of one with the harmless human name of Brown, formerly priest of Cobhole in Essex, and now working in London. His friend, Flambeau, a semi-official investigator, was sitting opposite him, making his last notes of a case he had cleared up in the neighborhood. They were sitting at a small table, close up to the window, when the priest pulled the curtain back and looked out. He waited till a stranger in the street had passed the window, to let the curtain fall into its place again. Then his round eyes rolled to the large white lettering on the window above his head, and then strayed to the next table, at which sat only a navvy with beer and cheese, and a young girl with red hair and a glass of milk. Then (seeing his friend put away the pocket-book), he said softly:
'If you've got ten minutes, I wish you'd follow that man with the false nose.'
Flambeau looked up in surprise; but the girl with the red hair also looked up, and with something that was stronger than astonishment. She was simply and even loosely dressed in light brown sacking stuff; but she was a lady, and even, on a second glance, a rather needlessly haughty one. 'The man with the false nose!' repeated Flambeau. 'Who's he?'
'I haven't a notion,' answered Father Brown. 'I want you to find out; I ask it as a favor. He went down there' – and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in one of his undistinguished gestures – 'and can't have passed three lamp-posts yet. I only want to know the direction.'
Flambeau gazed at his friend for some time, with an expression between perplexity and amusement; and then, rising from the table; squeezed his huge form out of the little door of the dwarf tavern, and melted into the twilight.
Father Brown took a small book out of his pocket and began to read steadily; he betrayed no consciousness of the fact that the red-haired lady had left her own table and sat down opposite him. At last she leaned over and said in a low, strong voice: 'Why do you say that? How do you know it's false?'
He lifted his rather heavy eyelids, which fluttered in considerable embarrassment. Then his dubious eye roamed again to the white lettering on the glass front of the public-house. The young woman's eyes followed his, and rested there also, but in pure puzzledom.
'No,' said Father Brown, answering her thoughts. 'It doesn't say 'Sela,' like the thing in the Psalms; I read it like that myself when I was wool-gathering just now; it says 'Ales.''
'Well?' inquired the staring young lady. 'What does it matter what it says?'
His ruminating eye roved to the girl's light canvas sleeve, round the wrist of which ran a very slight thread of artistic pattern, just enough to distinguish it from a working-dress of a common woman and make it more like the working-dress of a lady art-student. He seemed to find much food for thought in this; but his reply was very slow and hesitant. 'You see, madam,' he said, 'from outside the place looks – well, it is a perfectly decent place – but ladies like you don't – don't generally think so. They never go into such places from choice, except-'
'Well?' she repeated.
'Except an unfortunate few who don't go in to drink milk.'
'You are a most singular person,' said the young lady. 'What is your object in all this?'
'Not to trouble you about it,' he replied, very gently. 'Only to arm myself with knowledge enough to help you, if ever you freely ask my help.'
'But why should I need help?'
He continued his dreamy monologue. 'You couldn't have come in to see protegees, humble friends, that sort of thing, or you'd have gone through into the parlor… and you couldn't have come in because you were ill, or you'd have spoken to the woman of the place, who's obviously respectable… besides, you don't look ill in that way, but only unhappy… This street is the only original long lane that has no turning; and the houses on both sides are shut up… I could only suppose that you'd seen somebody coming whom you didn't want to meet; and found the public- house was the only shelter in this wilderness of stone… I don't think I went beyond the license of a stranger in glancing at the only man who passed immediately after… And as I thought he looked like the wrong sort… and you looked like the right sort… I held myself ready to help if he annoyed you; that is all. As for my friend, he'll be back soon; and he certainly can't find out anything by stumping down a road like this… I didn't think he could.'
'Then why did you send him out?' she cried, leaning forward with yet warmer curiosity. She had the proud, impetuous face that goes with reddish coloring, and a Roman nose, as it did in Marie Antoinette.
He looked at her steadily for the first time, and said: 'Because I hoped you would speak to me.'
She looked back at him for some time with a heated face, in which there hung a red shadow of anger; then, despite her anxieties, humor broke out of her eyes and the corners of her mouth, and she answered almost grimly: 'Well, if you're so keen on my conversation, perhaps you'll answer my question.' After a pause she added: 'I had the honor to ask you why you thought the man's nose was false.'
'The wax always spots like that just a little in this weather,' answered Father Brown with entire simplicity,
'But it's such a crooked nose,' remonstrated the red-haired girl.
The priest smiled in his turn. 'I don't say it's the sort of nose one would wear out of mere foppery,' he admitted. 'This man, I think, wears it because his real nose is so much nicer.'
'But why?' she insisted.
'What is the nursery-rhyme?' observed Brown absent-mindedly. 'There was a crooked man and he went a crooked mile… That man, I fancy, has gone a very crooked road – by following his nose.'
'Why, what's he done?' she demanded, rather shakily.
'I don't want to force your confidence by a hair,' said Father Brown, very quietly. 'But I think you could tell me more about that than I can tell you.'
The girl sprang to her feet and stood quite quietly, but with clenched hands, like one about to stride away; then her hands loosened slowly, and she sat down again. 'You are more of a mystery than all the others,' she said desperately, 'but I feel there might be a heart in your mystery.'
'What we all dread most,' said the priest in a low voice, 'is a maze with no center. That is why atheism is only a nightmare.'
'I will tell you everything,' said the red-haired girl doggedly, 'except why I am telling you; and that I don't know.'
She picked at the darned table-cloth and went on: 'You look as if you knew what isn't snobbery as well as what is; and when I say that ours is a good old family, you'll understand it is a necessary part of the story; indeed, my chief danger is in my brother's high-and-dry notions, noblesse oblige and all that. Well, my name is Christabel Carstairs; and my father was that Colonel Carstairs you've probably heard of, who made the famous Carstairs Collection of Roman coins. I could never describe my father to you; the nearest I can say is that he was very like a Roman coin himself. He was as handsome and as genuine and as valuable and as metallic and as out-of-date. He was prouder of his Collection than of his coat-of-arms… nobody could say more than that. His extraordinary character came out most in his will. He had two sons and one daughter. He quarreled with one son, my brother Giles, and sent him to Australia on a small allowance. He then made a will leaving the Carstairs Collection, actually with a yet smaller allowance, to my brother Arthur. He meant it as a reward, as the highest honor he could offer, in acknowledgment of Arthur's loyalty and rectitude and the distinctions he had already gained in mathematics and
