The Secret Garden

Aristide Valentin, Chief of the Paris Police, was late for his dinner,rnand some of his guests began to arrive before him. These were, however,rnreassured by his confidential servant, Ivan, the old man with a scar,rnand a face almost as grey as his moustaches, who always sat at a tablernin the entrance hall--a hall hung with weapons. Valentin’s house wasrnperhaps as peculiar and celebrated as its master. It was an old house,rnwith high walls and tall poplars almost overhanging the Seine; but thernoddity--and perhaps the police value--of its architecture was this: thatrnthere was no ultimate exit at all except through this front door, whichrnwas guarded by Ivan and the armoury. The garden was large and elaborate,rnand there were many exits from the house into the garden. But there wasrnno exit from the garden into the world outside; all round it ran a tall,rnsmooth, unscalable wall with special spikes at the top; no bad garden,rnperhaps, for a man to reflect in whom some hundred criminals had swornrnto kill.rnrnAs Ivan explained to the guests, their host had telephoned that hernwas detained for ten minutes. He was, in truth, making some lastrnarrangements about executions and such ugly things; and though thesernduties were rootedly repulsive to him, he always performed them withrnprecision. Ruthless in the pursuit of criminals, he was very mild aboutrntheir punishment. Since he had been supreme over French--and largelyrnover European--policial methods, his great influence had been honourablyrnused for the mitigation of sentences and the purification of prisons.rnHe was one of the great humanitarian French freethinkers; and the onlyrnthing wrong with them is that they make mercy even colder than justice.rnrnWhen Valentin arrived he was already dressed in black clothes and thernred rosette--an elegant figure, his dark beard already streaked withrngrey. He went straight through his house to his study, which opened onrnthe grounds behind. The garden door of it was open, and after he hadrncarefully locked his box in its official place, he stood for a fewrnseconds at the open door looking out upon the garden. A sharp moonrnwas fighting with the flying rags and tatters of a storm, and Valentinrnregarded it with a wistfulness unusual in such scientific natures asrnhis. Perhaps such scientific natures have some psychic prevision of thernmost tremendous problem of their lives. From any such occult mood,rnat least, he quickly recovered, for he knew he was late, and that hisrnguests had already begun to arrive. A glance at his drawing-room when hernentered it was enough to make certain that his principal guest was notrnthere, at any rate. He saw all the other pillars of the little party;rnhe saw Lord Galloway, the English Ambassador--a choleric old man with arnrusset face like an apple, wearing the blue ribbon of the Garter. Hernsaw Lady Galloway, slim and threadlike, with silver hair and a facernsensitive and superior. He saw her daughter, Lady Margaret Graham, arnpale and pretty girl with an elfish face and copper-coloured hair. Hernsaw the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, black-eyed and opulent, and withrnher her two daughters, black-eyed and opulent also. He saw Dr. Simon,rna typical French scientist, with glasses, a pointed brown beard, and arnforehead barred with those parallel wrinkles which are the penaltyrnof superciliousness, since they come through constantly elevatingrnthe eyebrows. He saw Father Brown, of Cobhole, in Essex, whom he hadrnrecently met in England. He saw--perhaps with more interest than anyrnof these--a tall man in uniform, who had bowed to the Galloways withoutrnreceiving any very hearty acknowledgment, and who now advanced alone tornpay his respects to his host. This was Commandant O’Brien, of thernFrench Foreign Legion. He was a slim yet somewhat swaggering figure,rnclean-shaven, dark-haired, and blue-eyed, and, as seemed natural in anrnofficer of that famous regiment of victorious failures and successfulrnsuicides, he had an air at once dashing and melancholy. He was by birthrnan Irish gentleman, and in boyhood had known the Galloways--especiallyrnMargaret Graham. He had left his country after some crash of debts, andrnnow expressed his complete freedom from British etiquette by swingingrnabout in uniform, sabre and spurs. When he bowed to the Ambassador’srnfamily, Lord and Lady Galloway bent stiffly, and Lady Margaret lookedrnaway.rnrnBut for whatever old causes such people might be interested in eachrnother, their distinguished host was not specially interested in them. Nornone of them at least was in his eyes the guest of the evening. Valentinrnwas expecting, for special reasons, a man of world-wide fame, whosernfriendship he had secured during some of his great detective tours andrntriumphs in the United States. He was expecting Julius K. Brayne, thatrnmulti-millionaire whose colossal and even crushing endowments of smallrnreligions have occasioned so much easy sport and easier solemnity forrnthe American and English papers. Nobody could quite make out whether Mr.rnBrayne was an atheist or a Mormon or a Christian Scientist; but he wasrnready to pour money into any intellectual vessel, so long as it wasrnan untried vessel. One of his hobbies was to wait for the AmericanrnShakespeare--a hobby more patient than angling. He admired Walt Whitman,rnbut thought that Luke P. Tanner, of Paris, Pa., was more “progressive” than Whitman any day. He liked anything that he thought “progressive.” He thought Valentin “progressive,” thereby doing him a grave injustice.rnrnThe solid appearance of Julius K. Brayne in the room was as decisivernas a dinner bell. He had this great quality, which very few of usrncan claim, that his presence was as big as his absence. He was a hugernfellow, as fat as he was tall, clad in complete evening black, withoutrnso much relief as a watch-chain or a ring. His hair was white and wellrnbrushed back like a German’s; his face was red, fierce and cherubic,rnwith one dark tuft under the lower lip that threw up that otherwiserninfantile visage with an effect theatrical and even Mephistophelean. Notrnlong, however, did that salon merely stare at the celebrated American;rnhis lateness had already become a domestic problem, and he was sent withrnall speed into the dining-room with Lady Galloway on his arm.rnrnExcept on one point the Galloways were genial and casual enough. So longrnas Lady Margaret did not take the arm of that adventurer O’Brien, herrnfather was quite satisfied; and she had not done so, she had decorouslyrngone in with Dr. Simon. Nevertheless, old Lord Galloway was restless andrnalmost rude. He was diplomatic enough during dinner, but when, over therncigars, three of the younger men--Simon the doctor, Brown the priest,rnand the detrimental O’Brien, the exile in a foreign uniform--all meltedrnaway to mix with the ladies or smoke in the conservatory, then thernEnglish diplomatist grew very undiplomatic indeed. He was stungrnevery sixty seconds with the thought that the scamp O’Brien might bernsignalling to Margaret somehow; he did not attempt to imagine how. Hernwas left over the coffee with Brayne, the hoary Yankee who believedrnin all religions, and Valentin, the grizzled Frenchman who believed inrnnone. They could argue with each other, but neither could appeal tornhim. After a time this “progressive” logomachy had reached a crisis ofrntedium; Lord Galloway got up also and sought the drawing-room. He lostrnhis way in long passages for some six or eight minutes: till he heardrnthe high-pitched, didactic voice of the doctor, and then the dull voicernof the priest, followed by general laughter. They also, he thought withrna curse, were probably arguing about “science and religion.” But therninstant he opened the salon door he saw only one thing--he saw whatrnwas not there. He saw that Commandant O’Brien was absent, and that LadyrnMargaret was absent too.rnrnRising impatiently from the drawing-room, as he had from therndining-room, he stamped along the passage once more. His notion ofrnprotecting his daughter from the Irish-Algerian n’er-do-well had becomernsomething central and even mad in his mind. As he went towards the backrnof the house, where was Valentin’s study, he was surprised to meet hisrndaughter, who swept past with a white, scornful face, which was a secondrnenigma. If she had been with O’Brien, where was O’Brien! If she hadrnnot been with O’Brien, where had she been? With a sort of senile andrnpassionate suspicion he groped his way to the dark back parts of thernmansion, and eventually found a servants’ entrance that opened on to therngarden. The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled away allrnthe storm-wrack. The argent light lit up all four corners of the garden.rnA tall figure in blue was striding across the lawn towards the studyrndoor; a glint of moonlit silver on his facings picked him out asrnCommandant O’Brien.rnrnHe vanished through the French windows into the house, leaving LordrnGalloway in an indescribable temper, at once virulent and vague. Thernblue-and-silver garden, like a scene in a theatre, seemed to taunt himrnwith all that tyrannic tenderness against which his worldly authorityrnwas at war. The length and grace of the Irishman’s stride enraged him asrnif he were a rival instead of a father; the moonlight maddened him.rnHe was trapped as if by magic into a garden of troubadours, a Watteaurnfairyland; and, willing to shake off such amorous imbecilities byrnspeech, he stepped briskly after his enemy. As he did so he tripped overrnsome tree or stone in the grass; looked down at it first with irritationrnand then a second time with curiosity. The next instant the moon and therntall poplars looked at an unusual sight--an elderly English diplomatistrnrunning hard and crying or bellowing as he ran.rnrnHis hoarse shouts brought a pale face to the study door, the beamingrnglasses and worried brow of Dr. Simon, who heard the nobleman’s firstrnclear words. Lord Galloway was crying: “A corpse in the grass--arnblood-stained corpse.” O’Brien at last had gone utterly out of his mind.rnrn“We must tell Valentin at once,” said the doctor, when the other hadrnbrokenly described all that he had dared to examine. “It is fortunaternthat he is here;” and even as he spoke the great detective entered thernstudy, attracted by the cry. It was almost amusing to note his typicalrntransformation; he had come with the common concern of a host and arngentleman, fearing that some guest or servant was ill. When he wasrntold the gory fact, he turned with all his gravity instantly bright andrnbusinesslike; for this, however abrupt and awful, was his business.rnrn“Strange, gentlemen,” he said as they hurried out into the garden, “thatrnI should have hunted mysteries all over the earth, and now one comes andrnsettles in my own back-yard. But where is the place?” They crossed thernlawn less easily, as a slight mist had begun to rise from the river; butrnunder the guidance of the shaken Galloway they found the body sunkenrnin deep grass--the body of a very tall and broad-shouldered man. He layrnface downwards, so they could only see that his big shoulders were cladrnin black cloth, and that his big head was bald, except for a wisp orrntwo of brown hair that clung to his skull like wet seaweed. A scarletrnserpent of blood crawled from under his fallen face.rnrn“At least,” said Simon, with a deep and singular intonation, “he is nonernof our party.”rnrn“Examine him, doctor,” cried Valentin rather sharply. “He may not berndead.”rnrnThe doctor bent down. “He is not quite cold, but I am afraid he is deadrnenough,” he answered. “Just help me to lift him up.”rnrnThey lifted him carefully an inch from the ground, and all doubts asrnto his being really dead were settled at once and frightfully. The headrnfell away. It had been entirely sundered from the body; whoever hadrncut his throat had managed to sever the neck as well. Even Valentinrnwas slightly shocked. “He must have been as strong as a gorilla,” hernmuttered.rnrnNot without a shiver, though he was used to anatomical abortions, Dr.rnSimon lifted the head. It was slightly slashed about the neck and jaw,rnbut the face was substantially unhurt. It was a ponderous, yellow face,rnat once sunken and swollen, with a hawk-like nose and heavy lids--a facernof a wicked Roman emperor, with, perhaps, a distant touch of a Chinesernemperor. All present seemed to look at it with the coldest eye ofrnignorance. Nothing else could be noted about the man except that, asrnthey had lifted his body, they had seen underneath it the white gleam ofrna shirt-front defaced with a red gleam of blood. As Dr. Simon said,rnthe man had never been of their party. But he might very well have beenrntrying to join it, for he had come dressed for such an occasion.rnrnValentin went down on his hands and knees and examined with his closestrnprofessional attention the grass and ground for some twenty yards roundrnthe body, in which he was assisted less skillfully by the doctor, andrnquite vaguely by the English lord. Nothing rewarded their grovellingsrnexcept a few twigs, snapped or chopped into very small lengths, whichrnValentin lifted for an instant’s examination and then tossed away.rnrn“Twigs,” he said gravely; “twigs, and a total stranger with his head cutrnoff; that is all there is on this lawn.”rnrnThere was an almost creepy stillness, and then the unnerved Gallowayrncalled out sharply:rnrn“Who’s that! Who’s that over there by the garden wall!”rnrnA small figure with a foolishly large head drew waveringly near them inrnthe moonlit haze; looked for an instant like a goblin, but turned out tornbe the harmless little priest whom they had left in the drawing-room.rnrn“I say,” he said meekly, “there are no gates to this garden, do yournknow.”rnrnValentin’s black brows had come together somewhat crossly, as they didrnon principle at the sight of the cassock. But he was far too just a manrnto deny the relevance of the remark. “You are right,” he said. “Beforernwe find out how he came to be killed, we may have to find out how herncame to be here. Now listen to me, gentlemen. If it can be done withoutrnprejudice to my position and duty, we shall all agree that certainrndistinguished names might well be kept out of this. There are ladies,rngentlemen, and there is a foreign ambassador. If we must mark it down asrna crime, then it must be followed up as a crime. But till then I can usernmy own discretion. I am the head of the police; I am so public that Irncan afford to be private. Please Heaven, I will clear everyone of my ownrnguests before I call in my men to look for anybody else. Gentlemen, uponrnyour honour, you will none of you leave the house till tomorrow at noon;rnthere are bedrooms for all. Simon, I think you know where to find myrnman, Ivan, in the front hall; he is a confidential man. Tell him tornleave another servant on guard and come to me at once. Lord Galloway,rnyou are certainly the best person to tell the ladies what has happened,rnand prevent a panic. They also must stay. Father Brown and I will remainrnwith the body.”rnrnWhen this spirit of the captain spoke in Valentin he was obeyed like arnbugle. Dr. Simon went through to the armoury and routed out Ivan, thernpublic detective’s private detective. Galloway went to the drawing-roomrnand told the terrible news tactfully enough, so that by the time therncompany assembled there the ladies were already startled and alreadyrnsoothed. Meanwhile the good priest and the good atheist stood at thernhead and foot of the dead man motionless in the moonlight, like symbolicrnstatues of their two philosophies of death.rnrnIvan, the confidential man with the scar and the moustaches, came outrnof the house like a cannon ball, and came racing across the lawn tornValentin like a dog to his master. His livid face was quite livelyrnwith the glow of this domestic detective story, and it was with almostrnunpleasant eagerness that he asked his master’s permission to examinernthe remains.rnrn“Yes; look, if you like, Ivan,” said Valentin, “but don’t be long. Wernmust go in and thrash this out in the house.”rnrnIvan lifted the head, and then almost let it drop.rnrn“Why,” he gasped, “it’s--no, it isn’t; it can’t be. Do you know thisrnman, sir?”rnrn“No,” said Valentin indifferently; “we had better go inside.”rnrnBetween them they carried the corpse to a sofa in the study, and thenrnall made their way to the drawing-room.rnrnThe detective sat down at a desk quietly, and even without hesitation;rnbut his eye was the iron eye of a judge at assize. He made a few rapidrnnotes upon paper in front of him, and then said shortly: “Is everybodyrnhere?”rnrn“Not Mr. Brayne,” said the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, looking round.rnrn“No,” said Lord Galloway in a hoarse, harsh voice. “And not Mr. NeilrnO’Brien, I fancy. I saw that gentleman walking in the garden when therncorpse was still warm.”rnrn“Ivan,” said the detective, “go and fetch Commandant O’Brien and Mr.rnBrayne. Mr. Brayne, I know, is finishing a cigar in the dining-room;rnCommandant O’Brien, I think, is walking up and down the conservatory. Irnam not sure.”rnrnThe faithful attendant flashed from the room, and before anyone couldrnstir or speak Valentin went on with the same soldierly swiftness ofrnexposition.rnrn“Everyone here knows that a dead man has been found in the garden, hisrnhead cut clean from his body. Dr. Simon, you have examined it. Do yournthink that to cut a man’s throat like that would need great force? Or,rnperhaps, only a very sharp knife?”rnrn“I should say that it could not be done with a knife at all,” said thernpale doctor.rnrn“Have you any thought,” resumed Valentin, “of a tool with which it couldrnbe done?”rnrn“Speaking within modern probabilities, I really haven’t,” said therndoctor, arching his painful brows. “It’s not easy to hack a neck throughrneven clumsily, and this was a very clean cut. It could be done with arnbattle-axe or an old headsman’s axe, or an old two-handed sword.”rnrn“But, good heavens!” cried the Duchess, almost in hysterics, “therernaren’t any two-handed swords and battle-axes round here.”rnrnValentin was still busy with the paper in front of him. “Tell me,” hernsaid, still writing rapidly, “could it have been done with a long Frenchrncavalry sabre?”rnrnA low knocking came at the door, which, for some unreasonable reason,rncurdled everyone’s blood like the knocking in Macbeth. Amid that frozenrnsilence Dr. Simon managed to say: “A sabre--yes, I suppose it could.”rnrn“Thank you,” said Valentin. “Come in, Ivan.”rnrnThe confidential Ivan opened the door and ushered in Commandant NeilrnO’Brien, whom he had found at last pacing the garden again.rnrnThe Irish officer stood up disordered and defiant on the threshold.“What do you want with me?” he cried.rnrn“Please sit down,” said Valentin in pleasant, level tones. “Why, yournaren’t wearing your sword. Where is it?”rnrn“I left it on the library table,” said O’Brien, his brogue deepening inrnhis disturbed mood. “It was a nuisance, it was getting--”rnrn“Ivan,” said Valentin, “please go and get the Commandant’s sword fromrnthe library.” Then, as the servant vanished, “Lord Galloway says he sawrnyou leaving the garden just before he found the corpse. What were yourndoing in the garden?”rnrnThe Commandant flung himself recklessly into a chair. “Oh,” he cried inrnpure Irish, “admirin’ the moon. Communing with Nature, me bhoy.”rnrnA heavy silence sank and endured, and at the end of it came again thatrntrivial and terrible knocking. Ivan reappeared, carrying an empty steelrnscabbard. “This is all I can find,” he said.rnrn“Put it on the table,” said Valentin, without looking up.rnrnThere was an inhuman silence in the room, like that sea of inhumanrnsilence round the dock of the condemned murderer. The Duchess’s weakrnexclamations had long ago died away. Lord Galloway’s swollen hatred wasrnsatisfied and even sobered. The voice that came was quite unexpected.rnrn“I think I can tell you,” cried Lady Margaret, in that clear, quiveringrnvoice with which a courageous woman speaks publicly. “I can tell yournwhat Mr. O’Brien was doing in the garden, since he is bound tornsilence. He was asking me to marry him. I refused; I said in my familyrncircumstances I could give him nothing but my respect. He was a littlernangry at that; he did not seem to think much of my respect. I wonder,” she added, with rather a wan smile, “if he will care at all for it now.rnFor I offer it him now. I will swear anywhere that he never did a thingrnlike this.”rnrnLord Galloway had edged up to his daughter, and was intimidating her inrnwhat he imagined to be an undertone. “Hold your tongue, Maggie,” he saidrnin a thunderous whisper. “Why should you shield the fellow? Where’s hisrnsword? Where’s his confounded cavalry--”rnrnHe stopped because of the singular stare with which his daughter wasrnregarding him, a look that was indeed a lurid magnet for the wholerngroup.rnrn“You old fool!” she said in a low voice without pretence of piety, “whatrndo you suppose you are trying to prove? I tell you this man was innocentrnwhile with me. But if he wasn’t innocent, he was still with me. If hernmurdered a man in the garden, who was it who must have seen--who mustrnat least have known? Do you hate Neil so much as to put your ownrndaughter--”rnrnLady Galloway screamed. Everyone else sat tingling at the touch of thosernsatanic tragedies that have been between lovers before now. They sawrnthe proud, white face of the Scotch aristocrat and her lover, the Irishrnadventurer, like old portraits in a dark house. The long silence wasrnfull of formless historical memories of murdered husbands and poisonousrnparamours.rnrnIn the centre of this morbid silence an innocent voice said: “Was it arnvery long cigar?”rnrnThe change of thought was so sharp that they had to look round to seernwho had spoken.rnrn“I mean,” said little Father Brown, from the corner of the room, “Irnmean that cigar Mr. Brayne is finishing. It seems nearly as long as arnwalking-stick.”rnrnDespite the irrelevance there was assent as well as irritation inrnValentin’s face as he lifted his head.rnrn“Quite right,” he remarked sharply. “Ivan, go and see about Mr. Braynernagain, and bring him here at once.”rnrnThe instant the factotum had closed the door, Valentin addressed therngirl with an entirely new earnestness.rnrn“Lady Margaret,” he said, “we all feel, I am sure, both gratitudernand admiration for your act in rising above your lower dignity andrnexplaining the Commandant’s conduct. But there is a hiatus still.rnLord Galloway, I understand, met you passing from the study to therndrawing-room, and it was only some minutes afterwards that he found therngarden and the Commandant still walking there.”rnrn“You have to remember,” replied Margaret, with a faint irony in herrnvoice, “that I had just refused him, so we should scarcely have comernback arm in arm. He is a gentleman, anyhow; and he loitered behind--andrnso got charged with murder.”rnrn“In those few moments,” said Valentin gravely, “he might really--”rnrnThe knock came again, and Ivan put in his scarred face.rnrn“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Brayne has left the house.”rnrn“Left!” cried Valentin, and rose for the first time to his feet.rnrn“Gone. Scooted. Evaporated,” replied Ivan in humorous French. “His hatrnand coat are gone, too, and I’ll tell you something to cap it all. I ranrnoutside the house to find any traces of him, and I found one, and a bigrntrace, too.”rnrn“What do you mean?” asked Valentin.rnrn“I’ll show you,” said his servant, and reappeared with a flashing nakedrncavalry sabre, streaked with blood about the point and edge. Everyone inrnthe room eyed it as if it were a thunderbolt; but the experienced Ivanrnwent on quite quietly:rnrn“I found this,” he said, “flung among the bushes fifty yards up the roadrnto Paris. In other words, I found it just where your respectable Mr.rnBrayne threw it when he ran away.”rnrnThere was again a silence, but of a new sort. Valentin took the sabre,rnexamined it, reflected with unaffected concentration of thought, andrnthen turned a respectful face to O’Brien. “Commandant,” he said, “werntrust you will always produce this weapon if it is wanted for policernexamination. Meanwhile,” he added, slapping the steel back in thernringing scabbard, “let me return you your sword.”rnrnAt the military symbolism of the action the audience could hardlyrnrefrain from applause.rnrnFor Neil O’Brien, indeed, that gesture was the turning-point ofrnexistence. By the time he was wandering in the mysterious garden againrnin the colours of the morning the tragic futility of his ordinary mienrnhad fallen from him; he was a man with many reasons for happiness. LordrnGalloway was a gentleman, and had offered him an apology. Lady Margaretrnwas something better than a lady, a woman at least, and had perhapsrngiven him something better than an apology, as they drifted among thernold flowerbeds before breakfast. The whole company was more lightheartedrnand humane, for though the riddle of the death remained, the load ofrnsuspicion was lifted off them all, and sent flying off to Paris with thernstrange millionaire--a man they hardly knew. The devil was cast out ofrnthe house--he had cast himself out.rnrnStill, the riddle remained; and when O’Brien threw himself on a gardenrnseat beside Dr. Simon, that keenly scientific person at once resumedrnit. He did not get much talk out of O’Brien, whose thoughts were onrnpleasanter things.rnrn“I can’t say it interests me much,” said the Irishman frankly,“especially as it seems pretty plain now. Apparently Brayne hated thisrnstranger for some reason; lured him into the garden, and killed him withrnmy sword. Then he fled to the city, tossing the sword away as he went.rnBy the way, Ivan tells me the dead man had a Yankee dollar in hisrnpocket. So he was a countryman of Brayne’s, and that seems to clinch it.rnI don’t see any difficulties about the business.”rnrn“There are five colossal difficulties,” said the doctor quietly; “likernhigh walls within walls. Don’t mistake me. I don’t doubt that Braynerndid it; his flight, I fancy, proves that. But as to how he did it.rnFirst difficulty: Why should a man kill another man with a great hulkingrnsabre, when he can almost kill him with a pocket knife and put it backrnin his pocket? Second difficulty: Why was there no noise or outcry?rnDoes a man commonly see another come up waving a scimitar and offerrnno remarks? Third difficulty: A servant watched the front door all thernevening; and a rat cannot get into Valentin’s garden anywhere. How didrnthe dead man get into the garden? Fourth difficulty: Given the samernconditions, how did Brayne get out of the garden?”rnrn“And the fifth,” said Neil, with eyes fixed on the English priest whornwas coming slowly up the path.rnrn“Is a trifle, I suppose,” said the doctor, “but I think an odd one. WhenrnI first saw how the head had been slashed, I supposed the assassin hadrnstruck more than once. But on examination I found many cuts across therntruncated section; in other words, they were struck after the head wasrnoff. Did Brayne hate his foe so fiendishly that he stood sabring hisrnbody in the moonlight?”rnrn“Horrible!” said O’Brien, and shuddered.rnrnThe little priest, Brown, had arrived while they were talking, and hadrnwaited, with characteristic shyness, till they had finished. Then hernsaid awkwardly:rnrn“I say, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I was sent to tell you the news!”rnrn“News?” repeated Simon, and stared at him rather painfully through hisrnglasses.rnrn“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Father Brown mildly. “There’s been anotherrnmurder, you know.”rnrnBoth men on the seat sprang up, leaving it rocking.rnrn“And, what’s stranger still,” continued the priest, with his dull eyernon the rhododendrons, “it’s the same disgusting sort; it’s anotherrnbeheading. They found the second head actually bleeding into the river,rna few yards along Brayne’s road to Paris; so they suppose that he--”rnrn“Great Heaven!” cried O’Brien. “Is Brayne a monomaniac?”rnrn“There are American vendettas,” said the priest impassively. Then hernadded: “They want you to come to the library and see it.”rnrnCommandant O’Brien followed the others towards the inquest, feelingrndecidedly sick. As a soldier, he loathed all this secretive carnage;rnwhere were these extravagant amputations going to stop? First onernhead was hacked off, and then another; in this case (he told himselfrnbitterly) it was not true that two heads were better than one. As herncrossed the study he almost staggered at a shocking coincidence. UponrnValentin’s table lay the coloured picture of yet a third bleeding head;rnand it was the head of Valentin himself. A second glance showed him itrnwas only a Nationalist paper, called _The Guillotine_, which every weekrnshowed one of its political opponents with rolling eyes and writhingrnfeatures just after execution; for Valentin was an anti-clerical of somernnote. But O’Brien was an Irishman, with a kind of chastity even in hisrnsins; and his gorge rose against that great brutality of the intellectrnwhich belongs only to France. He felt Paris as a whole, from therngrotesques on the Gothic churches to the gross caricatures in thernnewspapers. He remembered the gigantic jests of the Revolution. He sawrnthe whole city as one ugly energy, from the sanguinary sketch lying onrnValentin’s table up to where, above a mountain and forest of gargoyles,rnthe great devil grins on Notre Dame.rnrnThe library was long, low, and dark; what light entered it shot fromrnunder low blinds and had still some of the ruddy tinge of morning.rnValentin and his servant Ivan were waiting for them at the upper end ofrna long, slightly-sloping desk, on which lay the mortal remains, lookingrnenormous in the twilight. The big black figure and yellow face of thernman found in the garden confronted them essentially unchanged. Thernsecond head, which had been fished from among the river reeds thatrnmorning, lay streaming and dripping beside it; Valentin’s men were stillrnseeking to recover the rest of this second corpse, which was supposedrnto be afloat. Father Brown, who did not seem to share O’Brien’srnsensibilities in the least, went up to the second head and examined itrnwith his blinking care. It was little more than a mop of wet white hair,rnfringed with silver fire in the red and level morning light; the face,rnwhich seemed of an ugly, empurpled and perhaps criminal type, had beenrnmuch battered against trees or stones as it tossed in the water.rnrn“Good morning, Commandant O’Brien,” said Valentin, with quietrncordiality. “You have heard of Brayne’s last experiment in butchery, Irnsuppose?”rnrnFather Brown was still bending over the head with white hair, and hernsaid, without looking up:rnrn“I suppose it is quite certain that Brayne cut off this head, too.”rnrn“Well, it seems common sense,” said Valentin, with his hands in hisrnpockets. “Killed in the same way as the other. Found within a few yardsrnof the other. And sliced by the same weapon which we know he carriedrnaway.”rnrn“Yes, yes; I know,” replied Father Brown submissively. “Yet, you know, Irndoubt whether Brayne could have cut off this head.”rnrn“Why not?” inquired Dr. Simon, with a rational stare.rnrn“Well, doctor,” said the priest, looking up blinking, “can a man cut offrnhis own head? I don’t know.”rnrnO’Brien felt an insane universe crashing about his ears; but the doctorrnsprang forward with impetuous practicality and pushed back the wet whiternhair.rnrn“Oh, there’s no doubt it’s Brayne,” said the priest quietly. “He hadrnexactly that chip in the left ear.”rnrnThe detective, who had been regarding the priest with steady andrnglittering eyes, opened his clenched mouth and said sharply: “You seemrnto know a lot about him, Father Brown.”rnrn“I do,” said the little man simply. “I’ve been about with him for somernweeks. He was thinking of joining our church.”rnrnThe star of the fanatic sprang into Valentin’s eyes; he strode towardsrnthe priest with clenched hands. “And, perhaps,” he cried, with arnblasting sneer, “perhaps he was also thinking of leaving all his moneyrnto your church.”rnrn“Perhaps he was,” said Brown stolidly; “it is possible.”rnrn“In that case,” cried Valentin, with a dreadful smile, “you may indeedrnknow a great deal about him. About his life and about his--”rnrnCommandant O’Brien laid a hand on Valentin’s arm. “Drop that slanderousrnrubbish, Valentin,” he said, “or there may be more swords yet.”rnrnBut Valentin (under the steady, humble gaze of the priest) had alreadyrnrecovered himself. “Well,” he said shortly, “people’s private opinionsrncan wait. You gentlemen are still bound by your promise to stay; yournmust enforce it on yourselves--and on each other. Ivan here will tellrnyou anything more you want to know; I must get to business and write tornthe authorities. We can’t keep this quiet any longer. I shall be writingrnin my study if there is any more news.”rnrn“Is there any more news, Ivan?” asked Dr. Simon, as the chief of policernstrode out of the room.rnrn“Only one more thing, I think, sir,” said Ivan, wrinkling up his greyrnold face, “but that’s important, too, in its way. There’s that oldrnbuffer you found on the lawn,” and he pointed without pretence ofrnreverence at the big black body with the yellow head. “We’ve found outrnwho he is, anyhow.”rnrn“Indeed!” cried the astonished doctor, “and who is he?”rnrn“His name was Arnold Becker,” said the under-detective, “though he wentrnby many aliases. He was a wandering sort of scamp, and is known to havernbeen in America; so that was where Brayne got his knife into him. Werndidn’t have much to do with him ourselves, for he worked mostly inrnGermany. We’ve communicated, of course, with the German police. But,rnoddly enough, there was a twin brother of his, named Louis Becker,rnwhom we had a great deal to do with. In fact, we found it necessary tornguillotine him only yesterday. Well, it’s a rum thing, gentlemen, butrnwhen I saw that fellow flat on the lawn I had the greatest jump of myrnlife. If I hadn’t seen Louis Becker guillotined with my own eyes,rnI’d have sworn it was Louis Becker lying there in the grass. Then, ofrncourse, I remembered his twin brother in Germany, and following up thernclue--”rnrnThe explanatory Ivan stopped, for the excellent reason that nobody wasrnlistening to him. The Commandant and the doctor were both staring atrnFather Brown, who had sprung stiffly to his feet, and was holding hisrntemples tight like a man in sudden and violent pain.rnrn“Stop, stop, stop!” he cried; “stop talking a minute, for I see half.rnWill God give me strength? Will my brain make the one jump and see all?rnHeaven help me! I used to be fairly good at thinking. I could paraphrasernany page in Aquinas once. Will my head split--or will it see? I seernhalf--I only see half.”rnrnHe buried his head in his hands, and stood in a sort of rigid torturernof thought or prayer, while the other three could only go on staring atrnthis last prodigy of their wild twelve hours.rnrnWhen Father Brown’s hands fell they showed a face quite fresh andrnserious, like a child’s. He heaved a huge sigh, and said: “Let us getrnthis said and done with as quickly as possible. Look here, this willrnbe the quickest way to convince you all of the truth.” He turned to therndoctor. “Dr. Simon,” he said, “you have a strong head-piece, and I heardrnyou this morning asking the five hardest questions about this business.rnWell, if you will ask them again, I will answer them.”rnrnSimon’s pince-nez dropped from his nose in his doubt and wonder, butrnhe answered at once. “Well, the first question, you know, is why a manrnshould kill another with a clumsy sabre at all when a man can kill withrna bodkin?”rnrn“A man cannot behead with a bodkin,” said Brown calmly, “and for thisrnmurder beheading was absolutely necessary.”rnrn“Why?” asked O’Brien, with interest.rnrn“And the next question?” asked Father Brown.rnrn“Well, why didn’t the man cry out or anything?” asked the doctor;“sabres in gardens are certainly unusual.”rnrn“Twigs,” said the priest gloomily, and turned to the window which lookedrnon the scene of death. “No one saw the point of the twigs. Why shouldrnthey lie on that lawn (look at it) so far from any tree? They were notrnsnapped off; they were chopped off. The murderer occupied his enemyrnwith some tricks with the sabre, showing how he could cut a branch inrnmid-air, or what-not. Then, while his enemy bent down to see the result,rna silent slash, and the head fell.”rnrn“Well,” said the doctor slowly, “that seems plausible enough. But myrnnext two questions will stump anyone.”rnrnThe priest still stood looking critically out of the window and waited.rnrn“You know how all the garden was sealed up like an air-tight chamber,” went on the doctor. “Well, how did the strange man get into the garden?”rnrnWithout turning round, the little priest answered: “There never was anyrnstrange man in the garden.”rnrnThere was a silence, and then a sudden cackle of almost childishrnlaughter relieved the strain. The absurdity of Brown’s remark moved Ivanrnto open taunts.rnrn“Oh!” he cried; “then we didn’t lug a great fat corpse on to a sofa lastrnnight? He hadn’t got into the garden, I suppose?”rnrn“Got into the garden?” repeated Brown reflectively. “No, not entirely.”rnrn“Hang it all,” cried Simon, “a man gets into a garden, or he doesn’t.”rnrn“Not necessarily,” said the priest, with a faint smile. “What is thernnest question, doctor?”rnrn“I fancy you’re ill,” exclaimed Dr. Simon sharply; “but I’ll ask thernnext question if you like. How did Brayne get out of the garden?”rnrn“He didn’t get out of the garden,” said the priest, still looking out ofrnthe window.rnrn“Didn’t get out of the garden?” exploded Simon.rnrn“Not completely,” said Father Brown.rnrnSimon shook his fists in a frenzy of French logic. “A man gets out of arngarden, or he doesn’t,” he cried.rnrn“Not always,” said Father Brown.rnrnDr. Simon sprang to his feet impatiently. “I have no time to spare onrnsuch senseless talk,” he cried angrily. “If you can’t understand a manrnbeing on one side of a wall or the other, I won’t trouble you further.”rnrn“Doctor,” said the cleric very gently, “we have always got on veryrnpleasantly together. If only for the sake of old friendship, stop andrntell me your fifth question.”rnrnThe impatient Simon sank into a chair by the door and said briefly: “Thernhead and shoulders were cut about in a queer way. It seemed to be donernafter death.”rnrn“Yes,” said the motionless priest, “it was done so as to make you assumernexactly the one simple falsehood that you did assume. It was done tornmake you take for granted that the head belonged to the body.”rnrnThe borderland of the brain, where all the monsters are made, movedrnhorribly in the Gaelic O’Brien. He felt the chaotic presence of allrnthe horse-men and fish-women that man’s unnatural fancy has begotten. Arnvoice older than his first fathers seemed saying in his ear: “Keep outrnof the monstrous garden where grows the tree with double fruit. Avoidrnthe evil garden where died the man with two heads.” Yet, while thesernshameful symbolic shapes passed across the ancient mirror of his Irishrnsoul, his Frenchified intellect was quite alert, and was watching thernodd priest as closely and incredulously as all the rest.rnrnFather Brown had turned round at last, and stood against the window,rnwith his face in dense shadow; but even in that shadow they could seernit was pale as ashes. Nevertheless, he spoke quite sensibly, as if therernwere no Gaelic souls on earth.rnrn“Gentlemen,” he said, “you did not find the strange body of Becker inrnthe garden. You did not find any strange body in the garden. In facernof Dr. Simon’s rationalism, I still affirm that Becker was only partlyrnpresent. Look here!” (pointing to the black bulk of the mysteriousrncorpse) “you never saw that man in your lives. Did you ever see thisrnman?”rnrnHe rapidly rolled away the bald, yellow head of the unknown, and put inrnits place the white-maned head beside it. And there, complete, unified,rnunmistakable, lay Julius K. Brayne.rnrn“The murderer,” went on Brown quietly, “hacked off his enemy’s head andrnflung the sword far over the wall. But he was too clever to fling thernsword only. He flung the head over the wall also. Then he had only tornclap on another head to the corpse, and (as he insisted on a privaterninquest) you all imagined a totally new man.”rnrn“Clap on another head!” said O’Brien staring. “What other head? Headsrndon’t grow on garden bushes, do they?”rnrn“No,” said Father Brown huskily, and looking at his boots; “therernis only one place where they grow. They grow in the basket of thernguillotine, beside which the chief of police, Aristide Valentin, wasrnstanding not an hour before the murder. Oh, my friends, hear me a minuternmore before you tear me in pieces. Valentin is an honest man, if beingrnmad for an arguable cause is honesty. But did you never see in thatrncold, grey eye of his that he is mad! He would do anything, anything, tornbreak what he calls the superstition of the Cross. He has fought forrnit and starved for it, and now he has murdered for it. Brayne’s crazyrnmillions had hitherto been scattered among so many sects that they didrnlittle to alter the balance of things. But Valentin heard a whisper thatrnBrayne, like so many scatter-brained sceptics, was drifting to us; andrnthat was quite a different thing. Brayne would pour supplies into thernimpoverished and pugnacious Church of France; he would support sixrnNationalist newspapers like _The Guillotine_. The battle was alreadyrnbalanced on a point, and the fanatic took flame at the risk. He resolvedrnto destroy the millionaire, and he did it as one would expect therngreatest of detectives to commit his only crime. He abstracted thernsevered head of Becker on some criminological excuse, and took it homernin his official box. He had that last argument with Brayne, that LordrnGalloway did not hear the end of; that failing, he led him out into thernsealed garden, talked about swordsmanship, used twigs and a sabre forrnillustration, and--”rnrnIvan of the Scar sprang up. “You lunatic,” he yelled; “you’ll go to myrnmaster now, if I take you by--”rnrn“Why, I was going there,” said Brown heavily; “I must ask him tornconfess, and all that.”rnrnDriving the unhappy Brown before them like a hostage or sacrifice, theyrnrushed together into the sudden stillness of Valentin’s study.rnrnThe great detective sat at his desk apparently too occupied to hearrntheir turbulent entrance. They paused a moment, and then something inrnthe look of that upright and elegant back made the doctor run forwardrnsuddenly. A touch and a glance showed him that there was a small box ofrnpills at Valentin’s elbow, and that Valentin was dead in his chair; andrnon the blind face of the suicide was more than the pride of Cato.