“The shaft was material, at least,” said his companion.
“The Pyramids are mighty material, and they hold down the dead kings all right,” grinned the man in the goggles. “I think there’s a lot to be said for these old material religions. There’s old carvings that have lasted for thousands of years, showing their gods and emperors with bended bows; with hands that look as if they could really bend bows of stone. Material, perhaps—but what materials! Don’t you sometimes stand staring at those old Eastern patterns and things, till you have a hunch that that old Lord God is still driving like a dark Apollo, and shooting black rays of death?”
“If he is,” replied Father Brown, “I might call him by another name. But I doubt whether Merton died by a dark ray or even a stone arrow.”
“I guess you think he’s St. Sebastian,” sneered Drage, “killed with an arrow. A millionaire must be a martyr. How do you know he didn’t deserve it? You don’t know much about your millionaire, I fancy. Well, let me tell you he deserved it a hundred times over.”
“Well,” asked Father Brown gently, “why didn’t you murder him?”
“You want to know why I didn’t?” said the other, staring. “Well, you’re a nice sort of clergyman.”
“Not at all,” said the other, as if waving away a compliment.
“I suppose it’s your way of saying I did,” snarled Drage. “Well, prove it, that’s all. As for him, I reckon he was no loss.”
“Yes, he was,” said Father Brown, sharply. “He was a loss to you. That’s why you didn’t kill him.”
And he walked out of the room, leaving the man in goggles gaping after him.
It was nearly a month later that Father Brown revisited the house where the third millionaire had suffered from the vendetta of Daniel Doom. A sort of council was held of the persons most interested. Old Crake sat at the head of the table with his nephew on his right hand and the lawyer on his left; the big man with the African features, whose name appeared to be Harris, was ponderously present, if only as a material witness; a red-haired, sharp-nosed individual addressed as Dixon seemed to be the representative of Pinkerton’s or some such private agency; and Father Brown slipped unobtrusively into an empty seat beside him.
Every newspaper in the world was full of the catastrophe of the colossus of finance, of the great organizer of the Big Business that bestrides the modern world; but from the tiny group that had been nearest to him at the very instant of his death very little could be learned. The uncle, nephew, and attendant solicitor declared they were well outside the outer wall before the alarm was raised; and inquiries of the official guardians at both barriers brought answers that were rather confused, but on the whole confirmatory. Only one other complication seemed to call for consideration. It seemed that round about the time of the death, before or after, a stranger had been found hanging mysteriously round the entrance and asking to see Mr. Merton. The servants had some difficulty in understanding what he meant, for his language was very obscure; but it was afterwards considered to be also very suspicious, since he had said something about a wicked man being destroyed by a word out of the sky.
Peter Wain leaned forward, the eyes bright in his haggard face, and said:
“I’ll bet on that, anyhow. Norman Drage.”
“And who in the world is Norman Drage?” asked his uncle.
“That’s what I want to know,” replied the young man. “I practically asked him, but he has got a wonderful trick of twisting every straight question crooked; it’s like lunging at a fencer. He hooked on to me with hints about the flying-ship of the future; but I never trusted him much.”
“But what sort of a man is he?” asked Crake.
“He’s a mystagogue,” said Father Brown, with innocent promptitude. “There are quite a lot of them about; the sort of men about town who hint to you in Paris cafés and cabarets that they’ve lifted the veil of Isis or know the secret of Stonehenge. In a case like this they’re sure to have some sort of mystical explanations.”
The smooth, dark head of Mr. Barnard Blake, the lawyer, was inclined politely towards the speaker, but his smile was faintly hostile.
“I should hardly have thought, sir,” he said, “that you had any quarrel with mystical explanations.”
“On the contrary,” replied Father Brown, blinking amiably at him. “That’s just why I can quarrel with ’em. Any sham lawyer could bamboozle me, but he couldn’t bamboozle you; because you’re a lawyer yourself. Any fool could dress up as a Red Indian and I’d swallow him whole as the only original Hiawatha; but Mr. Crake would see through him at once. A swindler could pretend to me that he knew all about aeroplanes, but not to Captain Wain. And it’s just the same with the other, don’t you see? It’s just because I have picked up a little about mystics that I have no use for mystagogues. Real mystics don’t hide mysteries, they reveal them. They set a thing up in broad daylight, and when you’ve seen it it’s still a mystery. But the mystagogues hide a thing in darkness and secrecy, and when you find it, it’s a platitude. But in the case of Drage, I admit he had also another and more practical notion in talking about fire from heaven or bolts from the blue.”
“And what was his notion?” asked Wain. “I think it wants watching, whatever it is.”
“Well,” replied the priest, slowly, “he wanted
