“Arrangements rather elaborate here, I’m afraid,” said the secretary. “You’ve probably heard all about this Daniel Doom, and why it isn’t safe to leave the boss very much alone.”
“But he is alone just now, isn’t he?” said Father Brown.
The secretary looked at him with grave, grey eyes.
“For fifteen minutes,” he said. “For fifteen minutes out of the twenty-four hours. That is all the real solitude he has; and that he insists on, for a pretty remarkable reason.”
“And what is the reason?” inquired the visitor.
Wilton, the secretary, continued his steady gaze, but his mouth, that had been merely grave, became grim.
“The Coptic Cup,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the Coptic Cup; but he hasn’t forgotten that or anything else. He doesn’t trust any of us about the Coptic Cup. It’s locked up somewhere and somehow in that room so that only he can find it; and he won’t take it out till we’re all out of the way. So we have to risk that quarter of an hour while he sits and worships it; I reckon it’s the only worshipping he does. Not that there’s any risk really; for I’ve turned all this place into a trap I don’t believe the devil himself could get into—or at any rate, get out of. If this infernal Daniel Doom pays us a visit, he’ll stay to dinner and a good bit later, by God. I sit here on hot bricks for the fifteen minutes, and the instant I heard a shot or a sound of struggle I’d press this button and an electrocuting current would run in a ring round that garden wall, so that it ’ud be death to cross or climb it. Of course, there couldn’t be a shot, for this is the only way in; and the only window he sits at is away up on the top of a tower as smooth as a greasy pole. But, anyhow, we’re all armed here, of course; and if Doom did get into that room he’d be dead before he got out.”
Father Brown was blinking at the carpet in a brown study. Then he said suddenly, with something like jerk:
“I hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but a kind of a notion came into my head just this minute. It’s about you.”
“Indeed,” remarked Wilton, “and what about me?”
“I think you are a man of one idea,” said Father Brown, “and you will forgive me for saying that it seems to be even more the idea of catching Daniel Doom than of defending Brander Merton.”
Wilton started a little and continued to stare at his companion; then very slowly his grim mouth took on a rather curious smile.
“How did you—what makes you think that?” he asked.
“You said that if you heard a shot you could instantly electrocute the escaping enemy,” remarked the priest. “I suppose it occurred to you that the shot might be fatal to your employer before the shock was fatal to his foe. I don’t mean that you wouldn’t protect Mr. Merton if you could, but it seems to come rather second in your thoughts. The arrangements are very elaborate, as you say, and you seem to have elaborated them. But they seem even more designed to catch a murderer than to save a man.”
“Father Brown,” said the secretary, who had recovered his quiet tone, “you’re very smart, but there’s something more to you than smartness. Somehow you’re the sort of man to whom one wants to tell the truth; and besides, you’ll probably hear it, anyhow, for in one way it’s a joke against me already. They all say I’m a monomaniac about running down this big crook, and perhaps I am. But I’ll tell you one thing that none of them know. My full name is John Wilton Horder.” Father Brown nodded as if he were completely enlightened, but the other went on.
“This fellow who calls himself Doom killed my father and uncle and ruined my mother. When Merton wanted a secretary I took the job, because I thought that where the cup was the criminal might sooner or later be. But I didn’t know who the criminal was and could only wait for him; and I meant to serve Merton faithfully.”
“I understand,” said Father Brown gently; “and, by the way, isn’t it time that we attended on him?”
“Why, yes,” answered Wilton, again starting a little out of his brooding so that the priest concluded that his vindictive mania had again absorbed him for a moment. “Go in now by all means.”
Father Brown walked straight into the inner room. No sound of greetings followed, but only a dead silence; and a moment after the priest reappeared in the doorway.
At the same moment the silent bodyguard sitting near the door moved suddenly; and it was as if a huge piece of furniture had come to life. It seemed as though something in the very attitude of the priest had been a signal; for his head was against the light from the inner window and his face was in shadow.
“I suppose you will press that button,” he said with a sort of sigh.
Wilton seemed to awake from his savage brooding with a bound and leapt up with a catch in his voice.
“There was no shot,” he cried.
“Well,” said Father Brown, “it depends what you mean by a shot.”
Wilton rushed forward, and they plunged into the inner room together. It was a comparatively small room and simply though elegantly furnished. Opposite to them one wide window stood open, overlooking the garden and the wooded plain. Close up against the window stood a chair and a small table, as if the captive desired as much air and light as was allowed him during his brief luxury of loneliness.
On the little table
