Horne had to depart under police supervision, of course, but the detective did not disguise from himself that the prisoner’s detention would probably be short and his punishment, if any, trifling. It is not every murderer who can put the murdered man in the witness-box to give him a testimonial.
“It’s a strange case,” said Byrne, as the detective and the others hastened along the cliff path towards the town.
“It is,” said Father Brown. “It’s no business of ours; but I wish you’d stop with me and talk it over.”
There was a silence and then Byrne complied by saying suddenly, “I suppose you were thinking of Horne already, when you said somebody wasn’t telling all he knew.”
“When I said that,” replied his friend, “I was thinking of the exceedingly silent Mr. Potter, the secretary of the no longer late or (shall we say) lamented Mr. Gideon Wise.”
“Well, the only time Potter ever spoke to me I thought he was a lunatic,” said Byrne, staring, “but I never thought of his being a criminal. He said something about it all having to do with an icebox.”
“Yes, I thought he knew something about it,” said Father Brown reflectively. “I never said he had anything to do with it. … I suppose old Wise really is strong enough to have climbed out of that chasm.”
“What do you mean?” asked the astonished reporter. “Why, of course he got out of that chasm; for there he is.”
The priest did not answer the question but asked abruptly:
“What do you think of Horne?”
“Well, one can’t call him a criminal exactly,” answered Byrne. “He never was at all like any criminal I ever knew, and I’ve had some experience, and, of course, Nares has had much more. I don’t think we ever quite believed him a criminal.”
“And I never believed in him in another capacity,” said the priest quietly. “You may know more about criminals. But there’s one class of people I probably do know more about than you do, or even Nares for that matter. I’ve known quite a lot of them, and I know their little ways.”
“Another class of people,” repeated Byme, mystified. “Why, what class do you know about?”
“Penitents,” said Father Brown.
“I don’t quite understand,” objected Byrne. “Do you mean you don’t believe in his crime?”
“I don’t believe in his confession,” said Father Brown. “I’ve heard a good many confessions, and there was never a genuine one like that. It was romantic; it was all out of books. Look how he talked about having the brand of Cain. That’s out of books. It’s not what anyone would feel who had in his own person done a thing hitherto horrible to him. Suppose you were an honest clerk or shop-boy shocked to feel that for the first time you’d stolen money. Would you immediately reflect that your action was the same as that of Barabbas? Suppose you’d killed a child in some ghastly anger. Would you go back through history, till you could identify your action with that of an Idumean potentate named Herod? Believe me, our own crimes are far too hideously private and prosaic to make our first thoughts turn towards historical parallels, however apt. And why did he go out of his way to say he would not give his colleagues away? Even in saying so, he was giving them away. Nobody had asked him so far to give away anything or anybody. No; I don’t think he was genuine, and I wouldn’t give him absolution. A nice state of things, if people started getting absolved for what they hadn’t done.” And Father Brown, his head turned away, looked steadily out to sea.
“But I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” cried Byrne. “What’s the good of buzzing round him with suspicions when he’s pardoned? He’s out of it anyhow. He’s quite safe.”
Father Brown spun round like a teetotum and caught his friend by the coat with unexpected and inexplicable excitement.
“That’s it,” he cried emphatically. “Freeze on to that! He’s quite safe. He’s out of it. That’s why he’s the key of the whole puzzle.”
“Oh, help,” said Byrne feebly.
“I mean,” persisted the little priest, “he’s in it because he’s out of it. That’s the whole explanation.”
“And a very lucid explanation too,” said the journalist with feeling.
They stood looking out to sea for a time in silence, and then Father Brown said cheerfully:
“And so we come back to the icebox. Where you have all gone wrong from the first in this business is where a good many of the papers and the public men do go wrong. It’s because you assumed that there is nothing whatever in the modern world to fight about except Bolshevism. This story has nothing whatever to do with Bolshevism; except perhaps as a blind.”
“I don’t see how that can be,” remonstrated Byrne. “Here you have the three millionaires in that one business murdered—”
“No!” said the priest in a sharp ringing voice. “You do not. That is just the point. You do not have three millionaires murdered. You have two millionaires murdered; and you have the third millionaire very much alive and kicking and quite ready to kick. And you have that third millionaire freed forever from the threat that was thrown at his head before your very face, in playfully polite terms, and in that conversation you described as taking place in the hotel. Gallup and Stein threatened the more old-fashioned and independent old huckster that if he would not come into their combine they would freeze him out. Hence the icebox, of course.”
After a pause he went on. “There is undoubtedly a Bolshevist movement in the modern world, and it must undoubtedly be resisted, though I do not believe very much in your way of resisting it. But what nobody notices is that there is another movement equally modern and equally
