The Queer Feet

If you meet a member of that select club, “The Twelve True Fishermen,” entering the Vernon Hotel for the annual club dinner, you will observe,rnas he takes off his overcoat, that his evening coat is green and notrnblack. If (supposing that you have the star-defying audacity to addressrnsuch a being) you ask him why, he will probably answer that he does itrnto avoid being mistaken for a waiter. You will then retire crushed. Butrnyou will leave behind you a mystery as yet unsolved and a tale worthrntelling.rnrnIf (to pursue the same vein of improbable conjecture) you were to meetrna mild, hard-working little priest, named Father Brown, and were to askrnhim what he thought was the most singular luck of his life, he wouldrnprobably reply that upon the whole his best stroke was at the VernonrnHotel, where he had averted a crime and, perhaps, saved a soul, merelyrnby listening to a few footsteps in a passage. He is perhaps a littlernproud of this wild and wonderful guess of his, and it is possible thatrnhe might refer to it. But since it is immeasurably unlikely that yournwill ever rise high enough in the social world to find “The TwelvernTrue Fishermen,” or that you will ever sink low enough among slums andrncriminals to find Father Brown, I fear you will never hear the story atrnall unless you hear it from me.rnrnThe Vernon Hotel at which The Twelve True Fishermen held their annualrndinners was an institution such as can only exist in an oligarchicalrnsociety which has almost gone mad on good manners. It was thatrntopsy-turvy product--an “exclusive” commercial enterprise. That is, itrnwas a thing which paid not by attracting people, but actually by turningrnpeople away. In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunningrnenough to be more fastidious than their customers. They positivelyrncreate difficulties so that their wealthy and weary clients may spendrnmoney and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a fashionablernhotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, societyrnwould meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it. If therernwere an expensive restaurant which by a mere caprice of its proprietorrnwas only open on Thursday afternoon, it would be crowded on Thursdayrnafternoon. The Vernon Hotel stood, as if by accident, in the corner of arnsquare in Belgravia. It was a small hotel; and a very inconvenientrnone. But its very inconveniences were considered as walls protecting arnparticular class. One inconvenience, in particular, was held to be ofrnvital importance: the fact that practically only twenty-four peoplerncould dine in the place at once. The only big dinner table was therncelebrated terrace table, which stood open to the air on a sort ofrnveranda overlooking one of the most exquisite old gardens in London.rnThus it happened that even the twenty-four seats at this table couldrnonly be enjoyed in warm weather; and this making the enjoyment yet morerndifficult made it yet more desired. The existing owner of the hotel wasrna Jew named Lever; and he made nearly a million out of it, by making itrndifficult to get into. Of course he combined with this limitation in thernscope of his enterprise the most careful polish in its performance.rnThe wines and cooking were really as good as any in Europe, and therndemeanour of the attendants exactly mirrored the fixed mood of thernEnglish upper class. The proprietor knew all his waiters like thernfingers on his hand; there were only fifteen of them all told. It wasrnmuch easier to become a Member of Parliament than to become a waiter inrnthat hotel. Each waiter was trained in terrible silence and smoothness,rnas if he were a gentleman’s servant. And, indeed, there was generally atrnleast one waiter to every gentleman who dined.rnrnThe club of The Twelve True Fishermen would not have consented to dinernanywhere but in such a place, for it insisted on a luxurious privacy;rnand would have been quite upset by the mere thought that any other clubrnwas even dining in the same building. On the occasion of their annualrndinner the Fishermen were in the habit of exposing all their treasures,rnas if they were in a private house, especially the celebrated setrnof fish knives and forks which were, as it were, the insignia of thernsociety, each being exquisitely wrought in silver in the form of a fish,rnand each loaded at the hilt with one large pearl. These were alwaysrnlaid out for the fish course, and the fish course was always the mostrnmagnificent in that magnificent repast. The society had a vast numberrnof ceremonies and observances, but it had no history and no object; thatrnwas where it was so very aristocratic. You did not have to be anythingrnin order to be one of the Twelve Fishers; unless you were already arncertain sort of person, you never even heard of them. It had been inrnexistence twelve years. Its president was Mr. Audley. Its vice-presidentrnwas the Duke of Chester.rnrnIf I have in any degree conveyed the atmosphere of this appalling hotel,rnthe reader may feel a natural wonder as to how I came to know anythingrnabout it, and may even speculate as to how so ordinary a person as myrnfriend Father Brown came to find himself in that golden galley. As farrnas that is concerned, my story is simple, or even vulgar. There is inrnthe world a very aged rioter and demagogue who breaks into the mostrnrefined retreats with the dreadful information that all men arernbrothers, and wherever this leveller went on his pale horse it wasrnFather Brown’s trade to follow. One of the waiters, an Italian, hadrnbeen struck down with a paralytic stroke that afternoon; and his Jewishrnemployer, marvelling mildly at such superstitions, had consented to sendrnfor the nearest Popish priest. With what the waiter confessed to FatherrnBrown we are not concerned, for the excellent reason that that clericrnkept it to himself; but apparently it involved him in writing out a noternor statement for the conveying of some message or the righting of somernwrong. Father Brown, therefore, with a meek impudence which he wouldrnhave shown equally in Buckingham Palace, asked to be provided with arnroom and writing materials. Mr. Lever was torn in two. He was a kindrnman, and had also that bad imitation of kindness, the dislike of anyrndifficulty or scene. At the same time the presence of one unusualrnstranger in his hotel that evening was like a speck of dirt on somethingrnjust cleaned. There was never any borderland or anteroom in the VernonrnHotel, no people waiting in the hall, no customers coming in on chance.rnThere were fifteen waiters. There were twelve guests. It would be asrnstartling to find a new guest in the hotel that night as to find arnnew brother taking breakfast or tea in one’s own family. Moreover,rnthe priest’s appearance was second-rate and his clothes muddy; a merernglimpse of him afar off might precipitate a crisis in the club. Mr.rnLever at last hit on a plan to cover, since he might not obliterate, therndisgrace. When you enter (as you never will) the Vernon Hotel, you passrndown a short passage decorated with a few dingy but important pictures,rnand come to the main vestibule and lounge which opens on your rightrninto passages leading to the public rooms, and on your left to a similarrnpassage pointing to the kitchens and offices of the hotel. Immediatelyrnon your left hand is the corner of a glass office, which abuts uponrnthe lounge--a house within a house, so to speak, like the old hotel barrnwhich probably once occupied its place.rnrnIn this office sat the representative of the proprietor (nobody in thisrnplace ever appeared in person if he could help it), and just beyond thernoffice, on the way to the servants’ quarters, was the gentlemen’s cloakrnroom, the last boundary of the gentlemen’s domain. But between thernoffice and the cloak room was a small private room without other outlet,rnsometimes used by the proprietor for delicate and important matters,rnsuch as lending a duke a thousand pounds or declining to lend himrnsixpence. It is a mark of the magnificent tolerance of Mr. Lever thatrnhe permitted this holy place to be for about half an hour profaned by arnmere priest, scribbling away on a piece of paper. The story which FatherrnBrown was writing down was very likely a much better story than thisrnone, only it will never be known. I can merely state that it was veryrnnearly as long, and that the last two or three paragraphs of it were thernleast exciting and absorbing.rnrnFor it was by the time that he had reached these that the priest began arnlittle to allow his thoughts to wander and his animal senses, which wererncommonly keen, to awaken. The time of darkness and dinner was drawingrnon; his own forgotten little room was without a light, and perhaps therngathering gloom, as occasionally happens, sharpened the sense of sound.rnAs Father Brown wrote the last and least essential part of his document,rnhe caught himself writing to the rhythm of a recurrent noise outside,rnjust as one sometimes thinks to the tune of a railway train. When hernbecame conscious of the thing he found what it was: only the ordinaryrnpatter of feet passing the door, which in an hotel was no very unlikelyrnmatter. Nevertheless, he stared at the darkened ceiling, and listened tornthe sound. After he had listened for a few seconds dreamily, he got tornhis feet and listened intently, with his head a little on one side.rnThen he sat down again and buried his brow in his hands, now not merelyrnlistening, but listening and thinking also.rnrnThe footsteps outside at any given moment were such as one might hear inrnany hotel; and yet, taken as a whole, there was something very strangernabout them. There were no other footsteps. It was always a very silentrnhouse, for the few familiar guests went at once to their own apartments,rnand the well-trained waiters were told to be almost invisible untilrnthey were wanted. One could not conceive any place where there was lessrnreason to apprehend anything irregular. But these footsteps were sornodd that one could not decide to call them regular or irregular. FatherrnBrown followed them with his finger on the edge of the table, like a manrntrying to learn a tune on the piano.rnrnFirst, there came a long rush of rapid little steps, such as a light manrnmight make in winning a walking race. At a certain point they stoppedrnand changed to a sort of slow, swinging stamp, numbering not a quarterrnof the steps, but occupying about the same time. The moment the lastrnechoing stamp had died away would come again the run or ripple of light,rnhurrying feet, and then again the thud of the heavier walking. It wasrncertainly the same pair of boots, partly because (as has been said)rnthere were no other boots about, and partly because they had a smallrnbut unmistakable creak in them. Father Brown had the kind of head thatrncannot help asking questions; and on this apparently trivial questionrnhis head almost split. He had seen men run in order to jump. He had seenrnmen run in order to slide. But why on earth should a man run in orderrnto walk? Or, again, why should he walk in order to run? Yet no otherrndescription would cover the antics of this invisible pair of legs. Thernman was either walking very fast down one-half of the corridor in orderrnto walk very slow down the other half; or he was walking very slowrnat one end to have the rapture of walking fast at the other. Neitherrnsuggestion seemed to make much sense. His brain was growing darker andrndarker, like his room.rnrnYet, as he began to think steadily, the very blackness of his cellrnseemed to make his thoughts more vivid; he began to see as in a kind ofrnvision the fantastic feet capering along the corridor in unnatural orrnsymbolic attitudes. Was it a heathen religious dance? Or some entirelyrnnew kind of scientific exercise? Father Brown began to ask himself withrnmore exactness what the steps suggested. Taking the slow step first: itrncertainly was not the step of the proprietor. Men of his type walkrnwith a rapid waddle, or they sit still. It could not be any servant orrnmessenger waiting for directions. It did not sound like it. The poorerrnorders (in an oligarchy) sometimes lurch about when they are slightlyrndrunk, but generally, and especially in such gorgeous scenes, they standrnor sit in constrained attitudes. No; that heavy yet springy step, withrna kind of careless emphasis, not specially noisy, yet not caring whatrnnoise it made, belonged to only one of the animals of this earth. It wasrna gentleman of western Europe, and probably one who had never worked forrnhis living.rnrnJust as he came to this solid certainty, the step changed to the quickerrnone, and ran past the door as feverishly as a rat. The listener remarkedrnthat though this step was much swifter it was also much more noiseless,rnalmost as if the man were walking on tiptoe. Yet it was not associatedrnin his mind with secrecy, but with something else--something that herncould not remember. He was maddened by one of those half-memories thatrnmake a man feel half-witted. Surely he had heard that strange, swiftrnwalking somewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a new idea inrnhis head, and walked to the door. His room had no direct outlet on thernpassage, but let on one side into the glass office, and on the otherrninto the cloak room beyond. He tried the door into the office, andrnfound it locked. Then he looked at the window, now a square pane full ofrnpurple cloud cleft by livid sunset, and for an instant he smelt evil asrna dog smells rats.rnrnThe rational part of him (whether the wiser or not) regained itsrnsupremacy. He remembered that the proprietor had told him that he shouldrnlock the door, and would come later to release him. He told himself thatrntwenty things he had not thought of might explain the eccentric soundsrnoutside; he reminded himself that there was just enough light left tornfinish his own proper work. Bringing his paper to the window so as torncatch the last stormy evening light, he resolutely plunged once morerninto the almost completed record. He had written for about twentyrnminutes, bending closer and closer to his paper in the lessening light;rnthen suddenly he sat upright. He had heard the strange feet once more.rnrnThis time they had a third oddity. Previously the unknown man hadrnwalked, with levity indeed and lightning quickness, but he had walked.rnThis time he ran. One could hear the swift, soft, bounding steps comingrnalong the corridor, like the pads of a fleeing and leaping panther.rnWhoever was coming was a very strong, active man, in still yet tearingrnexcitement. Yet, when the sound had swept up to the office like a sortrnof whispering whirlwind, it suddenly changed again to the old slow,rnswaggering stamp.rnrnFather Brown flung down his paper, and, knowing the office door tornbe locked, went at once into the cloak room on the other side. Thernattendant of this place was temporarily absent, probably because thernonly guests were at dinner and his office was a sinecure. After gropingrnthrough a grey forest of overcoats, he found that the dim cloak roomrnopened on the lighted corridor in the form of a sort of counter orrnhalf-door, like most of the counters across which we have all handedrnumbrellas and received tickets. There was a light immediately abovernthe semicircular arch of this opening. It threw little illumination onrnFather Brown himself, who seemed a mere dark outline against the dimrnsunset window behind him. But it threw an almost theatrical light on thernman who stood outside the cloak room in the corridor.rnrnHe was an elegant man in very plain evening dress; tall, but with an airrnof not taking up much room; one felt that he could have slid along likerna shadow where many smaller men would have been obvious and obstructive.rnHis face, now flung back in the lamplight, was swarthy and vivacious,rnthe face of a foreigner. His figure was good, his manners good humouredrnand confident; a critic could only say that his black coat was a shadernbelow his figure and manners, and even bulged and bagged in an oddrnway. The moment he caught sight of Brown’s black silhouette against thernsunset, he tossed down a scrap of paper with a number and called outrnwith amiable authority: “I want my hat and coat, please; I find I havernto go away at once.”rnrnFather Brown took the paper without a word, and obediently went to lookrnfor the coat; it was not the first menial work he had done in hisrnlife. He brought it and laid it on the counter; meanwhile, the strangerngentleman who had been feeling in his waistcoat pocket, said laughing:“I haven’t got any silver; you can keep this.” And he threw down half arnsovereign, and caught up his coat.rnrnFather Brown’s figure remained quite dark and still; but in that instantrnhe had lost his head. His head was always most valuable when he had lostrnit. In such moments he put two and two together and made four million.rnOften the Catholic Church (which is wedded to common sense) did notrnapprove of it. Often he did not approve of it himself. But it was realrninspiration--important at rare crises--when whosoever shall lose hisrnhead the same shall save it.rnrn“I think, sir,” he said civilly, “that you have some silver in yourrnpocket.”rnrnThe tall gentleman stared. “Hang it,” he cried, “if I choose to give yourngold, why should you complain?”rnrn“Because silver is sometimes more valuable than gold,” said the priestrnmildly; “that is, in large quantities.”rnrnThe stranger looked at him curiously. Then he looked still morerncuriously up the passage towards the main entrance. Then he looked backrnat Brown again, and then he looked very carefully at the window beyondrnBrown’s head, still coloured with the after-glow of the storm. Then hernseemed to make up his mind. He put one hand on the counter, vaultedrnover as easily as an acrobat and towered above the priest, putting onerntremendous hand upon his collar.rnrn“Stand still,” he said, in a hacking whisper. “I don’t want to threatenrnyou, but--”rnrn“I do want to threaten you,” said Father Brown, in a voice like arnrolling drum, “I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, andrnthe fire that is not quenched.”rnrn“You’re a rum sort of cloak-room clerk,” said the other.rnrn“I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,” said Brown, “and I am ready to hearrnyour confession.”rnrnThe other stood gasping for a few moments, and then staggered back intorna chair.rnrnThe first two courses of the dinner of The Twelve True Fishermen hadrnproceeded with placid success. I do not possess a copy of the menu; andrnif I did it would not convey anything to anybody. It was written inrna sort of super-French employed by cooks, but quite unintelligible tornFrenchmen. There was a tradition in the club that the _hors d’œuvres_rnshould be various and manifold to the point of madness. They were takenrnseriously because they were avowedly useless extras, like the wholerndinner and the whole club. There was also a tradition that the souprncourse should be light and unpretending--a sort of simple and austerernvigil for the feast of fish that was to come. The talk was that strange,rnslight talk which governs the British Empire, which governs it inrnsecret, and yet would scarcely enlighten an ordinary Englishman even ifrnhe could overhear it. Cabinet ministers on both sides were alluded tornby their Christian names with a sort of bored benignity. The RadicalrnChancellor of the Exchequer, whom the whole Tory party was supposed tornbe cursing for his extortions, was praised for his minor poetry, or hisrnsaddle in the hunting field. The Tory leader, whom all Liberalsrnwere supposed to hate as a tyrant, was discussed and, on the whole,rnpraised--as a Liberal. It seemed somehow that politicians were veryrnimportant. And yet, anything seemed important about them except theirrnpolitics. Mr. Audley, the chairman, was an amiable, elderly man whornstill wore Gladstone collars; he was a kind of symbol of all thatrnphantasmal and yet fixed society. He had never done anything--not evenrnanything wrong. He was not fast; he was not even particularly rich.rnHe was simply in the thing; and there was an end of it. No party couldrnignore him, and if he had wished to be in the Cabinet he certainly wouldrnhave been put there. The Duke of Chester, the vice-president, was arnyoung and rising politician. That is to say, he was a pleasant youth,rnwith flat, fair hair and a freckled face, with moderate intelligence andrnenormous estates. In public his appearances were always successful andrnhis principle was simple enough. When he thought of a joke he made it,rnand was called brilliant. When he could not think of a joke he said thatrnthis was no time for trifling, and was called able. In private, in arnclub of his own class, he was simply quite pleasantly frank and silly,rnlike a schoolboy. Mr. Audley, never having been in politics, treatedrnthem a little more seriously. Sometimes he even embarrassed the companyrnby phrases suggesting that there was some difference between a Liberalrnand a Conservative. He himself was a Conservative, even in private life.rnHe had a roll of grey hair over the back of his collar, like certainrnold-fashioned statesmen, and seen from behind he looked like the man thernempire wants. Seen from the front he looked like a mild, self-indulgentrnbachelor, with rooms in the Albany--which he was.rnrnAs has been remarked, there were twenty-four seats at the terrace table,rnand only twelve members of the club. Thus they could occupy the terracernin the most luxurious style of all, being ranged along the inner side ofrnthe table, with no one opposite, commanding an uninterrupted view ofrnthe garden, the colours of which were still vivid, though evening wasrnclosing in somewhat luridly for the time of year. The chairman sat inrnthe centre of the line, and the vice-president at the right-hand endrnof it. When the twelve guests first trooped into their seats it was therncustom (for some unknown reason) for all the fifteen waiters to standrnlining the wall like troops presenting arms to the king, while the fatrnproprietor stood and bowed to the club with radiant surprise, as if hernhad never heard of them before. But before the first chink of knife andrnfork this army of retainers had vanished, only the one or two requiredrnto collect and distribute the plates darting about in deathly silence.rnMr. Lever, the proprietor, of course had disappeared in convulsions ofrncourtesy long before. It would be exaggerative, indeed irreverent,rnto say that he ever positively appeared again. But when the importantrncourse, the fish course, was being brought on, there was--how shall Irnput it?--a vivid shadow, a projection of his personality, which toldrnthat he was hovering near. The sacred fish course consisted (to the eyesrnof the vulgar) in a sort of monstrous pudding, about the size and shapernof a wedding cake, in which some considerable number of interestingrnfishes had finally lost the shapes which God had given to them. ThernTwelve True Fishermen took up their celebrated fish knives and fishrnforks, and approached it as gravely as if every inch of the pudding costrnas much as the silver fork it was eaten with. So it did, for all I know.rnThis course was dealt with in eager and devouring silence; and it wasrnonly when his plate was nearly empty that the young duke made the ritualrnremark: “They can’t do this anywhere but here.”rnrn“Nowhere,” said Mr. Audley, in a deep bass voice, turning to the speakerrnand nodding his venerable head a number of times. “Nowhere, assuredly,rnexcept here. It was represented to me that at the Café Anglais--”rnrnHere he was interrupted and even agitated for a moment by the removalrnof his plate, but he recaptured the valuable thread of his thoughts. “Itrnwas represented to me that the same could be done at the Café Anglais.rnNothing like it, sir,” he said, shaking his head ruthlessly, like arnhanging judge. “Nothing like it.”rnrn“Overrated place,” said a certain Colonel Pound, speaking (by the lookrnof him) for the first time for some months.rnrn“Oh, I don’t know,” said the Duke of Chester, who was an optimist, “it’srnjolly good for some things. You can’t beat it at--”rnrnA waiter came swiftly along the room, and then stopped dead. Hisrnstoppage was as silent as his tread; but all those vague and kindlyrngentlemen were so used to the utter smoothness of the unseen machineryrnwhich surrounded and supported their lives, that a waiter doing anythingrnunexpected was a start and a jar. They felt as you and I would feel ifrnthe inanimate world disobeyed--if a chair ran away from us.rnrnThe waiter stood staring a few seconds, while there deepened on everyrnface at table a strange shame which is wholly the product of our time.rnIt is the combination of modern humanitarianism with the horriblernmodern abyss between the souls of the rich and poor. A genuine historicrnaristocrat would have thrown things at the waiter, beginning with emptyrnbottles, and very probably ending with money. A genuine democrat wouldrnhave asked him, with comrade-like clearness of speech, what the devil hernwas doing. But these modern plutocrats could not bear a poor man nearrnto them, either as a slave or as a friend. That something had gone wrongrnwith the servants was merely a dull, hot embarrassment. They did notrnwant to be brutal, and they dreaded the need to be benevolent. Theyrnwanted the thing, whatever it was, to be over. It was over. The waiter,rnafter standing for some seconds rigid, like a cataleptic, turned roundrnand ran madly out of the room.rnrnWhen he reappeared in the room, or rather in the doorway, it was inrncompany with another waiter, with whom he whispered and gesticulatedrnwith southern fierceness. Then the first waiter went away, leaving thernsecond waiter, and reappeared with a third waiter. By the time a fourthrnwaiter had joined this hurried synod, Mr. Audley felt it necessary tornbreak the silence in the interests of Tact. He used a very loud cough,rninstead of a presidential hammer, and said: “Splendid work youngrnMoocher’s doing in Burmah. Now, no other nation in the world couldrnhave--”rnrnA fifth waiter had sped towards him like an arrow, and was whispering inrnhis ear: “So sorry. Important! Might the proprietor speak to you?”rnrnThe chairman turned in disorder, and with a dazed stare saw Mr. Leverrncoming towards them with his lumbering quickness. The gait of the goodrnproprietor was indeed his usual gait, but his face was by no meansrnusual. Generally it was a genial copper-brown; now it was a sicklyrnyellow.rnrn“You will pardon me, Mr. Audley,” he said, with asthmaticrnbreathlessness. “I have great apprehensions. Your fish-plates, they arerncleared away with the knife and fork on them!”rnrn“Well, I hope so,” said the chairman, with some warmth.rnrn“You see him?” panted the excited hotel keeper; “you see the waiter whorntook them away? You know him?”rnrn“Know the waiter?” answered Mr. Audley indignantly. “Certainly not!”rnrnMr. Lever opened his hands with a gesture of agony. “I never send him,” he said. “I know not when or why he come. I send my waiter to take awayrnthe plates, and he find them already away.”rnrnMr. Audley still looked rather too bewildered to be really the man thernempire wants; none of the company could say anything except the man ofrnwood--Colonel Pound--who seemed galvanised into an unnatural life. Hernrose rigidly from his chair, leaving all the rest sitting, screwed hisrneyeglass into his eye, and spoke in a raucous undertone as if he hadrnhalf-forgotten how to speak. “Do you mean,” he said, “that somebody hasrnstolen our silver fish service?”rnrnThe proprietor repeated the open-handed gesture with even greaterrnhelplessness and in a flash all the men at the table were on their feet.rnrn“Are all your waiters here?” demanded the colonel, in his low, harshrnaccent.rnrn“Yes; they’re all here. I noticed it myself,” cried the young duke,rnpushing his boyish face into the inmost ring. “Always count ’em as Irncome in; they look so queer standing up against the wall.”rnrn“But surely one cannot exactly remember,” began Mr. Audley, with heavyrnhesitation.rnrn“I remember exactly, I tell you,” cried the duke excitedly. “There neverrnhave been more than fifteen waiters at this place, and there were nornmore than fifteen tonight, I’ll swear; no more and no less.”rnrnThe proprietor turned upon him, quaking in a kind of palsy of surprise.“You say--you say,” he stammered, “that you see all my fifteen waiters?”rnrn“As usual,” assented the duke. “What is the matter with that!”rnrn“Nothing,” said Lever, with a deepening accent, “only you did not. Forrnone of zem is dead upstairs.”rnrnThere was a shocking stillness for an instant in that room. It may bern(so supernatural is the word death) that each of those idle men lookedrnfor a second at his soul, and saw it as a small dried pea. One ofrnthem--the duke, I think--even said with the idiotic kindness of wealth:“Is there anything we can do?”rnrn“He has had a priest,” said the Jew, not untouched.rnrnThen, as to the clang of doom, they awoke to their own position. For arnfew weird seconds they had really felt as if the fifteenth waiter mightrnbe the ghost of the dead man upstairs. They had been dumb under thatrnoppression, for ghosts were to them an embarrassment, like beggars. Butrnthe remembrance of the silver broke the spell of the miraculous; brokernit abruptly and with a brutal reaction. The colonel flung over his chairrnand strode to the door. “If there was a fifteenth man here, friends,” hernsaid, “that fifteenth fellow was a thief. Down at once to the frontrnand back doors and secure everything; then we’ll talk. The twenty-fourrnpearls of the club are worth recovering.”rnrnMr. Audley seemed at first to hesitate about whether it was gentlemanlyrnto be in such a hurry about anything; but, seeing the duke dash down thernstairs with youthful energy, he followed with a more mature motion.rnrnAt the same instant a sixth waiter ran into the room, and declared thatrnhe had found the pile of fish plates on a sideboard, with no trace ofrnthe silver.rnrnThe crowd of diners and attendants that tumbled helter-skelter down thernpassages divided into two groups. Most of the Fishermen followed thernproprietor to the front room to demand news of any exit. Colonel Pound,rnwith the chairman, the vice-president, and one or two others darted downrnthe corridor leading to the servants’ quarters, as the more likely linernof escape. As they did so they passed the dim alcove or cavern ofrnthe cloak room, and saw a short, black-coated figure, presumably anrnattendant, standing a little way back in the shadow of it.rnrn“Hallo, there!” called out the duke. “Have you seen anyone pass?”rnrnThe short figure did not answer the question directly, but merely said:“Perhaps I have got what you are looking for, gentlemen.”rnrnThey paused, wavering and wondering, while he quietly went to the backrnof the cloak room, and came back with both hands full of shining silver,rnwhich he laid out on the counter as calmly as a salesman. It took thernform of a dozen quaintly shaped forks and knives.rnrn“You--you--” began the colonel, quite thrown off his balance at last.rnThen he peered into the dim little room and saw two things: first, thatrnthe short, black-clad man was dressed like a clergyman; and, second,rnthat the window of the room behind him was burst, as if someone hadrnpassed violently through. “Valuable things to deposit in a cloak room,rnaren’t they?” remarked the clergyman, with cheerful composure.rnrn“Did--did you steal those things?” stammered Mr. Audley, with staringrneyes.rnrn“If I did,” said the cleric pleasantly, “at least I am bringing themrnback again.”rnrn“But you didn’t,” said Colonel Pound, still staring at the brokenrnwindow.rnrn“To make a clean breast of it, I didn’t,” said the other, with somernhumour. And he seated himself quite gravely on a stool. “But you knowrnwho did,” said the, colonel.rnrn“I don’t know his real name,” said the priest placidly, “but I knowrnsomething of his fighting weight, and a great deal about his spiritualrndifficulties. I formed the physical estimate when he was trying tornthrottle me, and the moral estimate when he repented.”rnrn“Oh, I say--repented!” cried young Chester, with a sort of crow ofrnlaughter.rnrnFather Brown got to his feet, putting his hands behind him. “Odd, isn’trnit,” he said, “that a thief and a vagabond should repent, when so manyrnwho are rich and secure remain hard and frivolous, and without fruit forrnGod or man? But there, if you will excuse me, you trespass a little uponrnmy province. If you doubt the penitence as a practical fact, there arernyour knives and forks. You are The Twelve True Fishers, and there arernall your silver fish. But He has made me a fisher of men.”rnrn“Did you catch this man?” asked the colonel, frowning.rnrnFather Brown looked him full in his frowning face. “Yes,” he said, “Irncaught him, with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is longrnenough to let him wander to the ends of the world, and still to bringrnhim back with a twitch upon the thread.”rnrnThere was a long silence. All the other men present drifted awayrnto carry the recovered silver to their comrades, or to consult thernproprietor about the queer condition of affairs. But the grim-facedrncolonel still sat sideways on the counter, swinging his long, lank legsrnand biting his dark moustache.rnrnAt last he said quietly to the priest: “He must have been a cleverrnfellow, but I think I know a cleverer.”rnrn“He was a clever fellow,” answered the other, “but I am not quite surernof what other you mean.”rnrn“I mean you,” said the colonel, with a short laugh. “I don’t want to getrnthe fellow jailed; make yourself easy about that. But I’d give a goodrnmany silver forks to know exactly how you fell into this affair, and howrnyou got the stuff out of him. I reckon you’re the most up-to-date devilrnof the present company.”rnrnFather Brown seemed rather to like the saturnine candour of the soldier.“Well,” he said, smiling, “I mustn’t tell you anything of the man’srnidentity, or his own story, of course; but there’s no particular reasonrnwhy I shouldn’t tell you of the mere outside facts which I found out forrnmyself.”rnrnHe hopped over the barrier with unexpected activity, and sat besidernColonel Pound, kicking his short legs like a little boy on a gate. Hernbegan to tell the story as easily as if he were telling it to an oldrnfriend by a Christmas fire.rnrn“You see, colonel,” he said, “I was shut up in that small room thererndoing some writing, when I heard a pair of feet in this passage doing arndance that was as queer as the dance of death. First came quick, funnyrnlittle steps, like a man walking on tiptoe for a wager; then came slow,rncareless, creaking steps, as of a big man walking about with a cigar.rnBut they were both made by the same feet, I swear, and they came inrnrotation; first the run and then the walk, and then the run again. Irnwondered at first idly and then wildly why a man should act these twornparts at once. One walk I knew; it was just like yours, colonel. Itrnwas the walk of a well-fed gentleman waiting for something, who strollsrnabout rather because he is physically alert than because he is mentallyrnimpatient. I knew that I knew the other walk, too, but I could notrnremember what it was. What wild creature had I met on my travels thatrntore along on tiptoe in that extraordinary style? Then I heard a clinkrnof plates somewhere; and the answer stood up as plain as St. Peter’s. Itrnwas the walk of a waiter--that walk with the body slanted forward, therneyes looking down, the ball of the toe spurning away the ground, therncoat tails and napkin flying. Then I thought for a minute and a halfrnmore. And I believe I saw the manner of the crime, as clearly as if Irnwere going to commit it.”rnrnColonel Pound looked at him keenly, but the speaker’s mild grey eyesrnwere fixed upon the ceiling with almost empty wistfulness.rnrn“A crime,” he said slowly, “is like any other work of art. Don’t lookrnsurprised; crimes are by no means the only works of art that come fromrnan infernal workshop. But every work of art, divine or diabolic, hasrnone indispensable mark--I mean, that the centre of it is simple, howeverrnmuch the fulfilment may be complicated. Thus, in _Hamlet_, let us say,rnthe grotesqueness of the grave-digger, the flowers of the mad girl, thernfantastic finery of Osric, the pallor of the ghost and the grin ofrnthe skull are all oddities in a sort of tangled wreath round one plainrntragic figure of a man in black. Well, this also,” he said, gettingrnslowly down from his seat with a smile, “this also is the plain tragedyrnof a man in black. Yes,” he went on, seeing the colonel look up in somernwonder, “the whole of this tale turns on a black coat. In this, as inrn_Hamlet_, there are the rococo excrescences--yourselves, let us say. Therernis the dead waiter, who was there when he could not be there. There isrnthe invisible hand that swept your table clear of silver and meltedrninto air. But every clever crime is founded ultimately on some one quiternsimple fact--some fact that is not itself mysterious. The mystificationrncomes in covering it up, in leading men’s thoughts away from it. Thisrnlarge and subtle and (in the ordinary course) most profitable crime, wasrnbuilt on the plain fact that a gentleman’s evening dress is the same asrna waiter’s. All the rest was acting, and thundering good acting, too.”rnrn“Still,” said the colonel, getting up and frowning at his boots, “I amrnnot sure that I understand.”rnrn“Colonel,” said Father Brown, “I tell you that this archangel ofrnimpudence who stole your forks walked up and down this passage twentyrntimes in the blaze of all the lamps, in the glare of all the eyes. Herndid not go and hide in dim corners where suspicion might have searchedrnfor him. He kept constantly on the move in the lighted corridors, andrneverywhere that he went he seemed to be there by right. Don’t ask mernwhat he was like; you have seen him yourself six or seven times tonight.rnYou were waiting with all the other grand people in the reception roomrnat the end of the passage there, with the terrace just beyond. Wheneverrnhe came among you gentlemen, he came in the lightning style of a waiter,rnwith bent head, flapping napkin and flying feet. He shot out on to thernterrace, did something to the table cloth, and shot back again towardsrnthe office and the waiters’ quarters. By the time he had come under therneye of the office clerk and the waiters he had become another man inrnevery inch of his body, in every instinctive gesture. He strolled amongrnthe servants with the absent-minded insolence which they have all seenrnin their patrons. It was no new thing to them that a swell from therndinner party should pace all parts of the house like an animal at thernZoo; they know that nothing marks the Smart Set more than a habit ofrnwalking where one chooses. When he was magnificently weary of walkingrndown that particular passage he would wheel round and pace back pastrnthe office; in the shadow of the arch just beyond he was altered as byrna blast of magic, and went hurrying forward again among the TwelvernFishermen, an obsequious attendant. Why should the gentlemen look atrna chance waiter? Why should the waiters suspect a first-rate walkingrngentleman? Once or twice he played the coolest tricks. In thernproprietor’s private quarters he called out breezily for a syphon ofrnsoda water, saying he was thirsty. He said genially that he would carryrnit himself, and he did; he carried it quickly and correctly through thernthick of you, a waiter with an obvious errand. Of course, it could notrnhave been kept up long, but it only had to be kept up till the end ofrnthe fish course.rnrn“His worst moment was when the waiters stood in a row; but even then herncontrived to lean against the wall just round the corner in such a wayrnthat for that important instant the waiters thought him a gentleman,rnwhile the gentlemen thought him a waiter. The rest went like winking. Ifrnany waiter caught him away from the table, that waiter caught a languidrnaristocrat. He had only to time himself two minutes before the fish wasrncleared, become a swift servant, and clear it himself. He put the platesrndown on a sideboard, stuffed the silver in his breast pocket, giving itrna bulgy look, and ran like a hare (I heard him coming) till he came tornthe cloak room. There he had only to be a plutocrat again--a plutocratrncalled away suddenly on business. He had only to give his ticket tornthe cloak-room attendant, and go out again elegantly as he had come in.rnOnly--only I happened to be the cloak-room attendant.”rnrn“What did you do to him?” cried the colonel, with unusual intensity.“What did he tell you?”rnrn“I beg your pardon,” said the priest immovably, “that is where the storyrnends.”rnrn“And the interesting story begins,” muttered Pound. “I think Irnunderstand his professional trick. But I don’t seem to have got hold ofrnyours.”rnrn“I must be going,” said Father Brown.rnrnThey walked together along the passage to the entrance hall, where theyrnsaw the fresh, freckled face of the Duke of Chester, who was boundingrnbuoyantly along towards them.rnrn“Come along, Pound,” he cried breathlessly. “I’ve been looking for yourneverywhere. The dinner’s going again in spanking style, and old Audleyrnhas got to make a speech in honour of the forks being saved. We want tornstart some new ceremony, don’t you know, to commemorate the occasion. Irnsay, you really got the goods back, what do you suggest?”rnrn“Why,” said the colonel, eyeing him with a certain sardonic approval, “Irnshould suggest that henceforward we wear green coats, instead ofrnblack. One never knows what mistakes may arise when one looks so like arnwaiter.”rnrn“Oh, hang it all!” said the young man, “a gentleman never looks like arnwaiter.”rnrn“Nor a waiter like a gentleman, I suppose,” said Colonel Pound, with thernsame lowering laughter on his face. “Reverend sir, your friend must havernbeen very smart to act the gentleman.”rnrnFather Brown buttoned up his commonplace overcoat to the neck, for thernnight was stormy, and took his commonplace umbrella from the stand.rnrn“Yes,” he said; “it must be very hard work to be a gentleman; but, dornyou know, I have sometimes thought that it may be almost as laborious tornbe a waiter.”rnrnAnd saying “Good evening,” he pushed open the heavy doors of that palacernof pleasures. The golden gates closed behind him, and he went at a briskrnwalk through the damp, dark streets in search of a penny omnibus.rnrn