Guided Sleep Meditation & Sleep Hypnosis from Sleep Cove - Bedtime Story - Father Brown and the Blue Cross (a detective mystery)

Episode Date: August 7, 2020

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And now to the episode. Hello and welcome to Sleep Cove. Please listen in a place where you can comfortably get to sleep. This bedtime story is the short story taken from The Innocence of Father Brown. The character Father Brown is a detective-solving Roman Catholic priest who was written about in a series of short stories, which is now on television, as Father Brown the series, which is shown on the BBC and also shown all around the world. It's a bit of a Miss Marple type character who solves, murders and other exciting crimes.

So I hope you like the short. story which introduces this character. For the people who refer the meditations and eminosis, there'll be a couple of tracks next week. So please follow and subscribe to keep track of the new episodes. This episode is also sponsored by Sleep Cycle. Sleep Cycle is the app to help you improve your sleep. It tracks and analyzes your sleep and helps you wake you up.

There's a free and a paid premium version and I recommend you download it straight away as it's helped me with my sleep patterns as well. By using your phone's microphone, sleep cycle wakes you up when you're in your lightest part of your sleep. So you wake up easily and refreshed without that sleep jet lag hitting your brain. I'll definitely recommend it because I've been using it. it for the last two weeks. There's also free features such as sleep analysis, insights and training, as well as premium features including sleep eight tracks. Go to sleep cycle.com slash sleep today to start improving your sleep for free. Remember to go to sleep cycle.com slash sleep if you want to get access to sleep cycle premium for seven days absolutely free.

Or just click the link in my show notes and you'll be directed to the app download. You can cancel for free at any time. That's sleepcycle.com slash sleep and start improving your sleep tonight for free. The Blue Cross, taken from the innocence of Father Brown, between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of sea. the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk-like flies Among whom the man we must follow Was by no means conspicuous

Nor wished to be There was nothing notable about him Except a slight contrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes And the official gravity of his face His clothes included a slight pale grey jacket, a blue waistcoat and a silver straw hat with a grey blue ribbon. His lean face was dark by contrast and ended in a curt blank beard that looked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan rough. He was smoking a cigarette with the seriousness of an idler. there was nothing about him to indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver

that the white waistcoat covered a police card or that the straw hat covered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe for this was valentine himself the head of the paris police and the most famous investigator of the world and he was coming from Brussels to London to make the greatest arrest of the century. Flambeau was in England. The police of three countries attract the great criminal at last from Ghent to Brussels.

From Brussels to the Hook of Holland and it was conjected but he would take some advantage of the unfamiliarity and the confusion of the euturistic congrats. that was taking place in London. Probably he would travel as some minor clerk

or secretary connected with it. But of course Valentin could not be certain. Nobody could be certain about Flombo. It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceased keeping the world in a turmoil. And when he ceased, as they said after the death of Roland,

there was a question. quiet upon the earth. But in his best days, I mean, of course, his worst, Flambeau was a figure of statuesque and international as the Kaiser. Almost every morning the daily paper announced that he had escaped the consequences of one extraordinary crime by committing another. He was a gascon of gigantic stature and, and bodily daring, and the wildest tales were told of his outbursts of athletic humour, how he turned the judged instruction upside down and stood him on his head to clear his mind, how he ran down the rue de Rivoli with a policeman under each arm.

It is due to him to say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed, in such bloodless, though indignified scenes. His real crimes were chiefly those of ingenious and wholesale robbery, but each of his thefts was almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ran the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers.

These he served by the simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people's doors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept an unaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose letter bag was intercepted

by the extraordinary trick of photographing his messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. A sweeping simplicity, however marked many of his experiments. It is said that he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night, merely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is certain that he invented a portable pillar box

which he put upon at corners in quiet suburbs on the chance of strangers, dropping postal orders into it. Lastly, he was known to be a startling acrobat. Despite his huge figure, he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the treetops like a monkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, was perfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him.

But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentine's and Dears was still in process of settlement. There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentine's quick eye had caught a tall apple woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerably tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. For all along his train

there was nobody that could be disguised as flambeau any more than a cat could be disguised as a giraffe about the people on the boat he had already satisfied himself and the people picked up at Harwich or on the journey limited themselves with certainty to six there was a short railway official

travelling up to the terminus. Three fairly short market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards. One very short widow lady coming up from a small Essex town and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentine gave it up

and was left. The little priest was so much the essence of these eastern flats. He had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling. He had eyes as empty as the North Sea. He had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out their local stagnation with many such creatures blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France,

and could have no love for priests, but he could have a pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anyone. He had a large shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-carve simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful

because he had something made of real silver with blue stones in one of his brown paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived somehow at Tottenham with all his parcels and came back for his umbrella. When he did at last, Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everyone about it.

But to whomever he taught, Valentin kept his eyes open for someone else. He looked out steadily for anyone rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to six feet, for Flambeau, was four inches above it. He arrived at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure, that he had not missed the criminal so far. He then went to Scotland Yard to regularise his position and arrange for help in case of need. He then lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in the streets of London.

As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, He paused and suddenly stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical of London, full of an accidental stillness. The tall flat houses looked at once prosperous and uninhabited. The square of Shubbery in the centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific islet. One of the four sides was much higher than the rest. like a dais. And the line of the side was broken by one of London's admirable accidents,

a restaurant that looked as if it had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonably attractive object, with dwarf plants and pots and long, striped blinds of lemon, yellow and white. It stood specially high above the street, and in the usual patchwork way of London a flight of steps from the street ran up to meet the door almost as a fire escape

might run up to a first floor window Valentin stood and smoked in front of the yellow white blinds and considered them long the most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen a few clouds in heaven do come together into the staring shape of one human eye.

A tree does stand up in the landscape of a doubtful journey in the exact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation. I have seen both these things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in the instant of victory and a man named William does quite accidentally

murder a man named Williamson. It does sound like some sort of sort of infanticide. In short, there is life, an element of alphine coincidence, which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss. As it has been well expressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen. Aristide Valentine was unfathomably French, and the French intelligence is intelligence, specially and solely. He was not a thinking machine, for that is a brainless phrase of modern fatalism and materialism. A machine is only a machine because it can't think, but he was a thinking man and a plain man

at the same time. All his wonderful successes that look like could, had been gained by plodding logic by clear and commonplace French thought. The French electrify the world, not by starting any paradox. They electrify it by carrying out a truism. They carry a truism so far, as in the French Revolution. But exactly because Valentin understood reason, he understood the limits of reason. only a man who knows nothing of reason talks of reasoning

without strong, undisputed first principles here he had no strong first principles Flambeau had been missed at Harwich and if he was in London at all he might be anything from a tall tramp on Woodward and Common to a tall toastmaster

at the Hotel Metropole In such a naked state of necessance Valentin had a view and a method of his own In such cases he reckoned on the unforeseen In such cases which you could not follow the train of the reasonable He coldly and carefully followed the train of the unreasonable Instead of going to the right places Banks, police stations, rendezvous

he systematically went to the wrong places, knocked at every empty house, turned down every cul-de-sac, went up every lane, blocked with rubbish, and went round every crescent that led them uselessly out of the way. He defended this crazy course quite logically.

He said that if one had a clue, this was the worst way, but if one had no clue at all, it was the best, because there was just the chance that an oddity that caught the eye of the pursuer might be the same that had caught the eye of the pursuit. Somewhere a man must begin, and it had better be just where another man might stop. Something about that flight of steps up to the shop, something about the quietitude and the quaintness of the restaurant,

roused all the detective's rare romantic fancy and made him resolve to strike up at random. He went up the steps and sitting down at a table by the window asked for a cup of black coffee. It was halfway through the morning and he had not breakfasted. The slight litter of other breakfasts stood about on the table to remind him of his hunger and adding a poached egg to his order,

he proceeded musingly to shake some white sugar into his coffee, thinking all the time about Flambeau. He remembered how Flambeau had escaped, once by a pair of nail scissors, and once by a house on fire, once by having to pay for an unstamped letter, and once by getting people to look through a telescope at a comet that might destroy the world.

He thought his detective brain as good as the criminals, which was true, but he fully realised the disadvantage. The criminal is the creative artist, and the detective only the critic. He said with a sour smile, and lifted his coffee cup to his lips slowly and put it down very quickly. He had put salt in it.

He looked at the vessel from which the silvery powder had come. It was certainly a sugar basin, as unmistakably meant for sugar, as a champagne bottle, for champagne. He wondered why there should be kept salt in it. He looked to see if there were any more unorthodox vessels. Yes, there were two salt-saddles, quite full. Perhaps there was some speciality in the condiment in the salt cellars. He tasted it

it was sugar. Then he looked round at the restaurant with a refreshed air of interest to see if there were any other traces of that singular artistic taste which puts the sugar in the salt cellars and the salt in the sugar basin. except for an odd splash of some dark fluid on one of the white-papered walls, the whole place appeared neat, cheerful and ordinary. He rang the bell for the waiter. When the official hurried up, fuzzy-haired and somewhat blear-eyed at the early hour, the detective who was not without an appreciation of the simpler forms of humour,

asked him to taste the sugar and see if it was up to the high reputation of the hotel the result was the waiter yawned suddenly and woke up do you play this delicate joke on your customers every morning inquired Valentine

just changing the salt and the sugar never pull on you as a jest the waiter when this irony grew clearer stammering really assured her that the establishment had certainly no such intention. It must be a most curious mistake. He picked up the sugar basin and looked at it.

He picked up the salt cellar and looked at it. His face growing more and more bewildered. At last he abruptly excused himself and hurriedly away, returned in a few seconds with the proprietor. The proprietor also. examined the sugar basin and then the salt cellar. The proprietor looked also bewildered. Suddenly the waiter seemed to grow inarticulate with a rush of words. I zinc, he stuttered. I zinc, it is those two clergymen.

What two clergymen? The two clergymen, said the waiter, that threw the soup at the wall. through the soup at the wall, repeated Valentine, feeling sure this must be some singular Italian metaphor. Yes, yes, said the attendant excitedly, and pointed at the dark splash on the white paper, threw it all over the wall. Valentine looked his query at the proprietor, who came to his rescue with fuller reports. Yes, sir, he said it's quite true. though I don't suppose it has anything to do with the sugar and salt. Two clergymen came in and drank soup here very early. As soon as the shutters were taking down,

they both were very quiet, respectable people. One of them paid the bill and went out, the other who seemed a slower coach altogether, was some minutes longer getting his things together, but he went out at last. Only the instant before he stepped into the street He deliberately picked up his soup Which he had only half emptied

And through the soup slap on the wall I was in the back room myself And so was the waiter So I could only rush out in time to find the wall Splashed and the shop empty It didn't do any particular damage But it was confounded cheek And I tried to catch the man in the street

They were too far off though I only noticed they went round the next corner into Carr's stairs street The detective was on his feet Hat settled and stick in hand He had already decided that in the universal darkness of his mind He could follow the first odd finger that pointed And this finger was odd enough

Paying his bill And clashing the glass doors behind him He was soon swinging round into the other street. It was fortunate that even in such fevered moments, his eyes were cool and quick.

Something in a shop front went by him like a mere flash. Yet he went back to look at it. The shop was a popular greengrocer and fruitiers. An array of goods set out in the open air and plainly

ticketed with their names and prices. In the two most prominent compartments were two heaps of oranges and nuts respectively. On the heap of nuts lay a scrap of cardboard on which was written in bold blue chalk best tangerines, oranges, two a penny. On the oranges was the equally and clear exact description.

Finest Brazil nuts four pants a pound. Mr Valentin looked at these two placards and fancied he had met this highly subtle form of humour before and that somewhat recently he drew the attention of the red-faced fruit at tear

who was looking rather suddenly up and down the street to this inaccuracy in his advertisements. The fruit sale said nothing but sharply put each card into its proper place. The detective leaning elegantly on his walking cane continued to scrutinise the shop. At last he said,

Pray excuse my apparent irrelevance, my good sir, but I should like to ask you a question in experimental psychology and the association of ideas. The red-faced shopman regarded him with an eye of menace, but he continued gaily swinging his cane. Why, he pursued, why are two tickets were only placed in a greengrocer's shop, like a shovel hat that has come to London for a holiday? Or in case I do not make myself clear, what is the mystical association

which connects the ideas of nuts marked as oranges with the idea of two clergymen, one tall and the other short? The eyes of the tradesmen stood out of his head like a snail's. he really seemed for an instant likely to fling himself upon the stranger. At last he stammered angrily. I don't know what you have to do with it, but if you're one of their friends you can tell them from me that are not their silly heads off,

parsons or no parsons, if they've upset my apples again. Indeed, said the detective with great sympathy, did they upset your apples? One of him did, said the heated. shotman, rolled him over the street, I'd have caught the fool, but for having to pick him up. Which way did these parsons go? asked Valentine. Up their second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square, said the other promptly. Thanks, replied Valentine, and vanished like a fairy.

On the other side of the second square, he found a policeman and said, This is urgent, Constable. Have you seen two clergymen in shovel hats? The policeman began to chuckle heavily. I have sir, and if you ask me, one of them was drunk. He stood in the middle of the road that bewildered that. Which way did they go? snapped Valentine. They took one of them yellow buses over there, and to the man.

Then that go to Hampstead. Valentine produced his official car. and said very rapidly, call up two of your men to come with me in pursuit and cross the road with such contagious energy that the ponderous policeman was moved to those most agile obedience. In a minute and a half the French detective was joined on the opposite pavement by an inspector

and a man in plain clothes. Well sir began the former with smiling importance and what may Valentine Point. pointed suddenly with his cane. I'll tell you on the top of that omnibus, he said, and was darting and dodging across the tangle of traffic, when all three sank panting on the top seats of the yellow vehicle. The inspector said, we could go four times as quick in a taxi.

Quite true, replied their leader placidly. If only we had an idea of where we were going. Well, where are you going, as the other stage? Valentine smoked frowningly for a few seconds, and removing his cigarette, he said, If you know what a man's doing, get in front of him. But if you want to guess what he's doing, keep behind him. Stray when he strays, stop when he stops. Travel as slowly as he, Then you may see what he saw and may act as he acted. All we can do is the keep. keep our eyes skinned for a queer thing.

What sort of queer thing do you mean? asked the inspector. Any sort of queer thing answered Valentine, and relapsed into obstinate silence. The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed like hours on end. The great detective will not explain further and perhaps his assistants felt a silent and growing doubt of his errand. Perhaps also they felt a slight and growing desire for lunch, for the hours crept long past the normal lunch and hour, and the long roads of the North London suburbs seemed to shoot out in length, after length, like an infernal telescope. It was one of those journeys on which a man perpetually feels that now at last he must have come to the end of the universe. and when he finds he has only come to the beginning

of Tufnal Park London died in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs and then was uncountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant tow-towls it was like passing through 13 separate vulgar cities

all just touching each other but though the winter twilight was a threatening the road ahead of them, the Parisian detective still sat silent and watchful, eyeing the frontage of the streets that slid by on either side. By the time they had left Camden Town behind them, the policeman was nearly asleep at least. They gave something like a jump as Valentine leapt erect. Struck a hand on each man's shoulder and shouted to the driver.

to stop. They tumble down the steps into the road without realising why they had been dislodged. When they looked round for enlightenment, they found Valentine triumphantly pointing his finger towards a window on the left side of the road. It was a large window, forming part of the long facade of a gilt and palatial public house. It was the part reserved for respectable dining and labelled restive restaurant. This window, like all the rest, along the frontage of the hotel, was as frosted and figured glass, but in the middle of it was a big black smash like a star in the ice. Ockyue at last, cried Valentine, waving his stick, the place with the broken window.

What window, what clue? asked his principal assistant. Why? What proof is there, but this has anything to do with them. Valentine almost broke his bamboo stick with rage. Proof, he cried. Good God, the man is looking for proof. Well, of course, the chances are 20 to 1. That has nothing to do with them. But what else can we do? Do you see him he must follow one wild possibility, or else go home to bed? He banged his way into the restaurant, followed by his companions, and they were seated at a late luncheon at a little table, and looked at the star of smashed glass from the inside, not that it was very informative to them even then. Got your window broken, I see, said Valentine to the waiter as he paid the bill.

Yes, sir, answered the attendant, bending busily over the change, to watch Valentine's silently added on an enormous tip. The waiter straighted himself with mild but unmistakable animation. Ah, yes sir, he said. Very odd thing that, sir. Indeed, tell us about it, said the detective, with careless curiosity. Well, two gents and black came in, said the waiter. Two were these foreign parsons that are running about.

They had a cheap and quiet little lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other was just going out to join him when I looked at my change again and found he had paid me more than three times too much. Here I says to the chap, who is nearly out of the door, you've paid me too much.

Oh, he says very cool, have we? Yes, I says, and picks up the bill to show them. Well, that was a knockout. What do you mean? said Valentine. well I would have sworn on seven bibles that I'd put four shillings on that bill but now I saw I'd put fourteen shillings as plain as paint well cried Valentine moving slowly but with burning eyes

and then the person at the door he says all serene solely to confuse your accounts but it will pay for the window what window I says but one I'm going to break he says, and he smashed that blessed pain with his umbrella. All these inquiries made an exclamation, and the inspector said under his breath, Are we after escape lunatics? The waiter went on with some relish for this ridiculous story. I was so not silly for a second, I couldn't do anything.

The man marched out of the place and joined his friend just round the corner. Then they went so quick at Bullock Street that I couldn't catch them, though I ran round the bars to do it. Bullock Street said the detective, and shot up that thorough affair as quickly as the strange couple he pursued. Their journeys now took them through bare brick ways like tunnels, streets with few lights, even with few windows. streets that seemed built on the blank backs of everything and everywhere. Dusk was deepening and it was not easy for the London policeman to guess in what direction they were treading. The inspector however was pretty certain that they would eventually strike some part of Hampstead Heath. Abruptly one bulging gaslit window broke the blue twilight like a blue twilight like a

bull's-eye lantern, and Valentine stopped an instant before a little garish sweet-stuff shop. After an instant's hesitation, he went in. He stood amid the gaudy colours of the confectionery with entire gravity and bought 13 chocolate cigars with a certain care. He was clearly preparing an opening, but he did not need one. An angular young woman in the shop regarded his elegant appearance with a merely automatic inquiry. But when she saw the door behind him blocked with the blue uniform of the inspector,

her eyes seemed to wake up. Oh, she said, if you've come about that parcel, I've sent it off already. Parcel, repeated Valentine, and it was his turn to look inquiring. I mean the person, pass all the gentlemen left. The clergyman, gentlemen, for goodness sake, said of

Antine, leaning forward with his first confession of eagerness, for heaven's sake, tell us what happened exactly. Well, said the woman a little doubtfully, the clergyman came in about half an hour ago and bought some peppermints and talked a bit, and then went off towards the heath. but a second after that one of them runs back into the shop and says Have I left a parcel? Well I looked everywhere and couldn't see one So he says never mind But if it should turn up

Please post it to this address And he left me the address And a shilling for my trouble And sure enough Though I thought I'd looked everywhere I'd find he'd left a brown paper parcel so I posted it to the place he said I can't remember the address now

it was somewhere in Westminster but as the thing seems so important I thought perhaps the police had come about it so they had said Valentine shortly is Hampstead Heath near here straight on for 15 minutes said the woman and you'll come right out on the open Valentine sprang out of the shop and began to run

The other detectives followed him at a reluctant trot The street they threaded was so narrow And shut in by shadows That they came out unexpectedly Into the void common and vast sky They were startled to find the evening Still so light and clear A perfect dome of peacock green

sank into gold amid the blackening trees and the dark violet distances. The glowing green tint was just deep enough to pick out in points of crystal one or two stars. All that was left at the daylight lay in a golden glitter across the edge of Hampstead and that popular hollow which is called the Vale of Heath.

The holiday makers who roam this region had not wholly dispersed. A few couples sat shapelessly on benches, and here and there a distant girl still shrieked in one of the swings. The glory of heaven deepened and darkened around the sublime vulgarity of man, and standing on the slope, looking across the valley, Valentine beheld the thing he sought.

From the black and breaking groups in that distance was one especially black which did not break. A group of two figures clerically clad. Though they seemed as small insects, Valentine could see that one of them was much smaller than the other. Though the other had a student stoop and inconspicuous manner, he could see that the man was well over six feet high. He shut his teeth and went forward,

whirling his stick impatiently by the time he had substantially diminished the distance and magnified the two black figures as in a vast microscope he could perceive something else something which startled him and yet which he knew

he had somehow expected whoever was the tall priest there could be no doubt about the identity of the short one It was his friend of the Harwich train, the stumpy little cure of Essex, whom he had warned about his brown paper parcels. Now, so far as this went, everything fitted in finally and rashly enough. Valentine had learned by his inquiries that morning that a father Brown from Essex was bringing up a silver cross with sapphires, a relic of considerable value, to show some of the foreign priests at the Congress.

This undoubtedly was the silver with blue stones, and Father Brown undoubtedly was the little greenhorn in the train. Now there was nothing wonderful about the fact that Valentine had found out. Flambeau had also found out. Flambeau found out everything. Also, there was nothing wonderful in the fact that when Flambeau heard of a sapphire cross, He should try and steal it.

That was the most natural thing in all history. And most certainly there was nothing wonderful about the fact that Flambeau should have it all his own way, with such a silly sheep as the man with the umbrella and the parcels. He was the sort of man whom anyone could lead on a string to the North Pole. It was not surprising that an actor like Flambeau dressed as another priest, could lead him to Hampstead Heath. So far the crimes seemed clear enough, and while the detective pitied the priest for his helplessness,

he almost despised Fumbo for condescending to such a gullible victim. But when Valentine thought of all that had happened in between, of all that had led him to his triumph, he racked his brains for the smartest rhyme or reason in it. Why had the stealing of a blue and silver cross from a priest from Essex to do with chucking soup at a wallpaper? What had it to do with calling nuts oranges or with paying for windows first and breaking them afterwards? He had come to the end of his chase, yet somehow he had missed the middle of it. When he failed, which was seldom, he had usually grasped.

the clue, but nevertheless missed the criminal. Here he'd grasped the criminal, but still he could not grasp the clue. The two figures that were followed were crawling like black flies across the huge green contour of a hill. They were evidently sunk in conversation and perhaps did not notice where they were going, but they were certainly going to the wilder and more silent heights of the heath. as their pursuers gained on them the latter had to use the undignified attitudes of the dear stalker to crouch behind clumps of trees

and even to crawl prostate in deep grass by these ungainly ingenuities the hunters even came close enough to the quarry to hear the murmur of the discussion but no word could be distinguished except the word reason recurring frequently in a high and almost childish voice. Once over an abrupt tip of land and a dense tangle of thickets,

the detectives actually lost the two figures they were following. They did not find the trail again for an agonising ten minutes, and then it led round the brow of a great dome of hill overlooking an amphitheatre of rich and desolate, sunset scenery. Under a tree in this commanding yet neglected spot was an old ramshackle, wooden seat. On this seat sat the two priests still in serious speech together. The gorgeous green and gold still clung to the darkening horizon, but the dome above was turning slowly from peacock green to peacock blue

and the stars detached themselves more and more like solid jewels mutely motioning to the others Valentine contrived to creep up behind the big branching tree and standing there in deathly silence heard the words of the strange priests

for the first time after he had listened for a minute and a half he was gripped by devilish doubt. Perhaps he had dragged the two English policemen to the wastes of a nocturnal heath on an errand no saner than seeking figs on its thistles. For the two priests were talking exactly like priests,

piously with learning and leisure about the most aerial agnigmas of theology. The little Essex priest spoke them more simply, with its round face, turned to the strengthening stars. The other talked with his head bowed, as if he was not even worthy to look at them. But no more innocently clerical conversation could have been heard in any white Italian cloister or black Spanish cathedral. The first he heard was the tale of one of vice. are the brown sentences, which ended what they really meant in the Middle Ages, by the heavens being incorruptible.

The taller priest nodded, his bowed head and said, Ah yes, these modern infidels appeal to their reason, but who can look at those millions of worlds and not feel that there may well be wonderful universes above us where reason is utterly unreasonable? No, said the other priest. Reason is always reasonable, even in the last limbo. In the lost borderland of things, I know that people charge the church with lowering reason, but it is just the other way. Alone on earth, the church makes reason really supreme. Alone on earth, the church affirms that God himself is bound by reason. The other priest raised his austere face to the spangled sky and said,

Yet who knows if that infinite universe? Only infinite physically, said the little priest turning sharply in his seat, not infinite in the sense of escaping from the laws of truth. Valentine behind his tree was tearing his fingernails with silent fury. he seemed almost to hear the sniggers of the English detectives whom he had brought so far on a fantastic guess only to listen to the metaphysical gossip of two mild old parsons

in his impatience he lost the equally elaborate answer of the tall cleric while he listened again it was again Father Brown who was speaking. Reason and justice gripped the remotest and loneliest star. Look at those stars. Don't they look as if they are single diamonds with sapphires?

Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please. Think of forests, of adamant, with leaves of brilliance. Think the moon as a blue moon. a single alifistine sapphire, but don't fancy that all that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason and justice of conduct. On plains of opal,

under cliffs cut out of pearl, you would still find a notice board, thou shall not steal. Valentine was just in the act of rising from his rigid and crouching attitude, and creeping away as softly as might be, felled by the one great folly of his life, but someone in the very silence of the tall priest

made him stop until the latter spoke. When at last he did speak, he said simply, his head bowed and his hands on his knees. Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than our reason, higher than our reason. The mystery of heaven is unfathomable, and I for one can only bow my head, with brow yet bent, and without changing by the faintest shade his attitude or voice, he added, just hand over that sapphire cross of yours, will you? You're all alone here, and I could pull you to pieces like a straw doll. The utterly unaltered voice in attitude,

added a strange violence to that shocking change of speech. But the garter of the relic only seemed to turn his head by the smallest section of the compass. He seemed still to have a somewhat foolish face turned to the stars. Perhaps he had not understood, or perhaps he had understood, and sat rigid with terror.

Yes, said the tall priest in the same low voice. and in the same still posture. Yes, I am Flombo. Then after a pause, he said, Come, will he give me that cross? No, said the other, and the monosyllable had an odd sound. Flombo suddenly flung off all his pontifical pretensions.

The great robber leaned back in his seat and laughed low but long. No, he cried. You won't give it to me, you proud prelate. You won't give it to me, you little celibate simpleton. Shall I tell you why you won't give it to me? Because I've got it already in my own breast pocket. The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face in the dusk

and said with the timid eagerness of the private secretary, Are you sure? Flambo yelled with delight. Really, you're as good as a three-act farce, he cried. Yes, you turn up. I'm quite sure. I had the sense to make a duplicate of the right parcel. And now, my friend, you've got the duplicate, and I've got the jewels.

And old Dodge, Father Brown, a very old Dodge. Yes, said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair. with a strange vagueness of manner. Yes, I've heard of it before. The Colossus of Crian leaned over to the little rustic priest with a sort of sudden interest. You've heard of it? he asked. Where have you heard of it?

Well, I mustn't tell you his name, of course, said the little man simply. He was a penitent, you know. He lived prosperously for about 20 years entirely on duplicate brown paper parcels. And so, you see, when I began to suspect you, I thought of this poor chap's way of doing it at once. Began to suspect me, repeated the outlaw with increased intensity. Did you really have the gumption to suspect me,

just because I brought you up to this bare part of the heath? No, no, said Brown, with an air of an apology. you see I suspected you when we first met is that little bulge at the sleeve where you people have the spiked bracelet How in Tartarus cried Flambeau Did you ever hear of the spiked bracelet Oh one's little flock

You know said Father Brown Arching his eyebrows rather blankly When I was first to curate in Harlepool There were three men with spike bracelets So, I suspected you from the first. Don't you see, I made sure that the cross should go safe anyhow? I'm afraid I watched you, you know. So at last, I saw you change the parcels.

Then, don't you see, I changed them back again. And then I left the right one behind. Left it behind, repeated flambeau. And for the first time there was another note in his voice, besides his triumph. Well, it was like this, said the little priest, speaking in the same unaffected way. I went back to the sweet shop and asked if I'd left a parcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knew I hadn't, but when I went away again, I did. So instead of running after me, with the valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster.

Then he added rather sadly I learnt that too from a poor fellow in Hartlepool He used to do it with handbags He stole at railway stations But he's in a monastery now Oh one gets to know you know he added Rubbing his head again

With the same sort of desperate apology We can't help being priests People come and tell us all these things Flambo tore a brown paper parcel out of his inner pocket and tore it into pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He sprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture and cried, I don't believe you, I don't believe a bumpkin like you could manage all that. I believe you've still got the stuff on you and if you don't give it up, why we're all alone, I'll take it

by force. No, said Father Brown simply, and stood up also. You won't take it by force. First, because I really haven't got it, and second, because we are not alone. Flambo stopped in his stride forward. Behind that tree, said Father Brown pointing, are two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive. How did they come here, do you ask? Why, I brought them, of course. How did I do it? Well, I'll tell you if you like. Lord bless you. We have to know 20 such things when we work among our criminal classes. While I wasn't sure you were a thief and it would never do to make a scandal against one of our own clergy, so I tested you to see if anything would make you show yourself. A man generally makes a small scene if he finds salt in the world. in his coffee. If he doesn't, he has some reason for keeping quiet. I changed the salt and the

sugar, and kept you quiet. The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger, but he held back, as by his spell, he was stunned with utmost curiosity. Well, went on Father Brown with lumbering lucidity. As he wouldn't leave any tracks for the police, of course someone had to. At every place we went to, I took care to do something that would get us talked about for the rest of the day. It didn't do much harm. A splashed wall, split apples, a broken window, but I saved the cross, as the cross will always be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn't stop it with the donkey's whistle. With the what?

flambo. I'm glad you've never heard of it, said the priest making a face. It's a foul thing. I'm sure you're too good of a man for a whistler. I couldn't have counted it, even with the spots myself. I am not strong enough in the legs. What on earth are you talking about? said the other. Well, I did think you'd know the spots, said Father Brown, agreeably surprised. Oh, you can't have gone so very wrong yet. How in blazers do you know all these horrors? cried Flambeau. The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of the clerical opponent. Oh, being a celibate simpleton, I suppose, he said, has it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men's real sins

is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? but as a matter of fact another part of my trade too made me sure you weren't a priest what asked the thief almost gaping you attacked reason said father brown it's bad theology and even as he turned away to collect his property the three policemen came out from under the twilight trees flambeau was an artist and a sportsman he stepped back and swept Valentine a great blow. Do not bow to me, Mona Me, said Valentine with silver clearness. Let us both bow to our master. And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little priest blinked about for his umbrella.