“I have formed certain conclusions about it, but I do not think I will mention them till I make my report.”
Whether under the influence of the footsteps of the policeman or of the eyes of the priest, old Hickory tucked his stick under his arm and put his hat on again, grunting. The priest bade him a placid good morning, and passed in an unhurried fashion out of the park, making his way to the lounge of the hotel where he knew that young Wain was to be found. The young man sprang up with a greeting; he looked even more haggard and harassed than before, as if some worry were eating him away; and the priest had a suspicion that his young friend had recently been engaged, with only too conspicuous success, in evading the last Amendment to the American Constitution. But at the first word about his hobby or favourite science, he was vigilant and concentrated enough. For Father Brown had asked, in an idle and conversational fashion, whether much flying was done in that district, and had told how he had at first mistaken Mr. Merton’s circular wall for an aerodrome.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t see any while we were there,” answered Captain Wain. “Sometimes they’re as thick as flies; that open plain is a great place for them, and I shouldn’t wonder if it were the chief breeding-ground, so to speak, for my sort of birds in the future. I’ve flown a good deal there myself, of course, and I know most of the fellows about here who flew in the war; but there are a whole lot of people taking to it out there now, whom I never heard of in my life. I suppose it will be like motoring soon, and every man in the States will have one.”
“Being endowed by his Creator,” said Father Brown with a smile, “with the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of motoring—not to mention aviation. So I suppose we may take it that one strange aeroplane passing over that house, at certain times, wouldn’t be noticed much.”
“No,” replied the young man; “I don’t suppose it would.”
“Or even if the man were known,” went on the other, “I suppose he might get hold of a machine that wouldn’t be recognised as his. If you, for instance, flew in the ordinary way, Mr. Merton and his friends might recognize the rig-out, perhaps; but you might pass pretty near that window on a different pattern of plane, or whatever you call it; near enough for practical purposes.”
“Well, yes,” began the young man, almost automatically, and then ceased, and remained staring at the cleric with an open mouth and eyes standing out of his head.
“My God!” he said, in a low voice, “my God!”
Then he rose from the lounge seat, pale and shaking from head to foot, and still staring at the priest.
“Are you mad?” he said; “are you raving mad?”
There was a silence and then he spoke again in a swift hissing fashion. “You positively come here to suggest—”
“No; only to collect suggestions,” said Father Brown, rising. “I may have formed some conclusions provisionally, but I had better reserve them for the present.”
And then saluting the other with the same stiff civility, he passed out of the hotel to continue his curious peregrinations.
By the dusk of that day they had led him down the dingy streets and steps that straggled and tumbled towards the river in the oldest and most irregular part of the city. Immediately under the coloured lantern that marked the entrance to a rather low Chinese restaurant, he encountered a figure he had seen before, though by no means presenting itself to the eye as he had seen it.
Mr. Norman Drage still confronted the world grimly behind his great goggles which seemed somehow to cover his face like a dark mask of glass. But except for the goggles, his appearance had undergone a strange transformation in the month that had elapsed since the murder. He had then, as Father Brown had noted, been dressed up to the nines; up to that point, indeed, where there begins to be too fine a distinction between the dandy and the dummy outside a tailor’s shop. But now all those externals were mysteriously altered for the worse; as if the tailor’s dummy had been turned into a scarecrow. His top hat still existed, but it was battered and shabby, his clothes were dilapidated; his watch-chain and minor ornaments were gone. Father Brown, however, addressed him as if they had met yesterday, and made no demur to sitting down with him on a bench in the cheap eating-house whither he was bound. It was not he, however, who began the conversation.
“Well?” growled Drage; “and have you succeeded in avenging your holy and sainted millionaire? We know all millionaires are holy and sainted; you can find it all in the papers next day, about how they lived by the light of the Family Bible they read at their mother’s knee. Gee! if they’d only read out some of the things there are in the Family Bible, the mother might have been startled some. And the millionaire, too, I reckon. The old book’s full of a lot of grand fierce old notions they don’t grow nowadays; sort of wisdom of the Stone Age and buried under the Pyramids. Suppose somebody had flung old man Merton from the top of that tower of his, and let him be eaten by dogs at the bottom, it would be no worse than what
