“I mean I’d rather not sign at all,” said Father Brown, modestly. “You see, it doesn’t quite do for a man in my position to joke about miracles.”
“But it was you who said it was a miracle,” said Alboin, staring.
“I’m so sorry,” said Father Brown; “I’m afraid there’s some mistake. I don’t think I ever said it was a miracle. All I said was that it might happen. What you said was that it couldn’t happen, because it would be a miracle if it did. And then it did. And so you said it was a miracle. But I never said a word about miracles or magic or anything of the sort from beginning to end.”
“But I thought you believed in miracles,” broke out the secretary.
“Yes,” answered Father Brown, “I believe in miracles. I believe in man-eating tigers, but I don’t see them running about everywhere. If I want any miracles, I know where to get them.”
“I can’t understand your taking this line, Father Brown,” said Vandam, earnestly. “It seems so narrow; and you don’t look narrow to me, though you are a parson. Don’t you see a miracle like this will knock all materialism endways? It will just tell the whole world in big print that spiritual powers can work and do work. You’ll be serving religion as no parson ever served it yet.”
The priest had stiffened a little and seemed in some strange way clothed with unconscious and impersonal dignity, for all his stumpy figure. “Well,” he said, “you wouldn’t suggest I should serve religion by what I know to be a lie? I don’t know precisely what you mean by the phrase; and, to be quite candid, I’m not sure you do. Lying may be serving religion; I’m sure it’s not serving God. And since you are harping so insistently on what I believe, wouldn’t it be as well if you had some sort of notion of what it is?”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” observed the millionaire, curiously.
“I don’t think you do,” said Father Brown, with simplicity. “You say this thing was done by spiritual powers. What spiritual powers? You don’t think the holy angels took him and hung him on a garden tree, do you? And as for the unholy angels—no, no, no. The men who did this did a wicked thing, but they went no further than their own wickedness; they weren’t wicked enough to be dealing with spiritual powers. I know something about Satanism, for my sins; I’ve been forced to know. I know what it is, what it practically always is. It’s proud and it’s sly. It likes to be superior; it loves to horrify the innocent with things half understood, to make children’s flesh creep. That’s why it’s so fond of mysteries and initiations and secret societies and all the rest of it. Its eyes are turned inwards, and however grand and grave it may look, it’s always hiding a small, mad smile.” He shuddered suddenly, as if caught in an icy draught of air. “Never mind about them; they’ve got nothing to do with this, believe me. Do you think that poor, wild Irishman of mine, who ran raving down the street, who blurted out half of it when he first saw my face, and ran away for fear he should blurt out more, do you think Satan confides any secrets to him? I admit he joined in a plot, probably in a plot with two other men worse than himself; but for all that, he was just in an everlasting rage when he rushed down the lane and let off his pistol and his curse.”
“But what on earth does all this mean?” demanded Vandam. “Letting off a toy pistol and a twopenny curse wouldn’t do what was done, except by a miracle. It wouldn’t make Wynd disappear like a fairy. It wouldn’t make him reappear a quarter of a mile away with a rope round his neck.”
“No,” said Father Brown sharply; “but what would it do?”
“And still I don’t follow you,” said the millionaire gravely.
“I say, what would it do?” repeated the priest, showing, for the first time, a sort of animation verging on annoyance. “You keep on repeating that a blank pistol-shot wouldn’t do this and wouldn’t do that; that if that was all, the murder wouldn’t happen or the miracle wouldn’t happen. It doesn’t seem to occur to you to ask what would happen. What would happen to you, if a lunatic let off a firearm without rhyme or reason right under your window? What’s the very first thing that would happen?”
Vandam looked thoughtful. “I guess I should look out of the window,” he said.
“Yes,” said Father Brown, “you’d look out of the window. That’s the whole story. It’s a sad story, but it’s finished now; and there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Why should looking out of the window hurt him?” asked Alboin. “He didn’t fall out, or he’d have been found in the lane.”
“No,” said Father Brown, in a low voice. “He didn’t fall. He rose.”
There was something in his voice like the groan of a gong, a note of doom, but otherwise he went on steadily:
“He rose, but not on wings; not on the wings of any holy or unholy angels. He rose at the end of a rope, exactly as you saw him in the garden: a noose dropped over the head the moment it was poked out of the window. Don’t you remember Wilson, that big servant of his, a man of huge strength, while Wynd was the lightest of little shrimps? Didn’t Wilson go to the floor above to get a pamphlet, to a room full of luggage corded in coils and coils of rope? Has Wilson been seen since that day? I fancy not.”
“Do you mean,” asked the secretary, “that Wilson whisked him clean out of his own window like a trout on a line?”
“Yes,” said the other, “and let him down again out of the other window into
