Father Brown was made of two men. There was a man of action, who was as modest as a primrose10 and as punctual as a clock; who went his small round of duties and never dreamed of altering it. There was also a man of reflection, who was much simpler but much stronger, who could not easily be stopped; whose thought was always (in the only intelligent sense of the words) free thought. He could not help, even unconsciously, asking himself all the questions that there were to be asked, and answering as many of them as he could; all that went on like his breathing or circulation. But he never consciously carried his actions outside the sphere of his own duty; and in this case the two attitudes were aptly tested. He was just about to resume his trudge11 in the twilight12, telling himself it was no affair of his, but instinctively13 twisting and untwisting twenty theories about what the odd noises might mean. Then the grey sky-line brightened into silver, and in the broadening light he realized that he had been to the house which belonged to an Anglo-Indian Major named Putnam; and that the Major had a native cook from Malta who was of his communion. He also began to remember that pistol-shots are sometimes serious things; accompanied with consequences with which he was legitimately14 concerned. He turned back and went in at the garden gate, making for the front door.
Half-way down one side of the house stood out a projection15 like a very low shed; it was, as he afterwards discovered, a large dustbin. Round the corner of this came a figure, at first a mere17 shadow in the haze18, apparently19 bending and peering about. Then, coming nearer, it solidified20 into a figure that was, indeed, rather unusually solid. Major Putnam was a bald-headed, bull-necked man, short and very broad, with one of those rather apoplectic21 faces that are produced by a prolonged attempt to combine the oriental climate with the occidental luxuries. But the face was a good-humoured one, and even now, though evidently puzzled and inquisitive22, wore a kind of innocent grin. He had a large palm-leaf hat on the back of his head (suggesting a halo that was by no means appropriate to the face), but otherwise he was clad only in a very vivid suit of striped scarlet23 and yellow pyjamas24; which, though glowing enough to behold25, must have been, on a fresh morning, pretty chilly26 to wear. He had evidently come out of his house in a hurry, and the priest was not surprised when he called out without further ceremony: “Did you hear that noise?”
“Yes,” answered Father Brown; “I thought I had better look in, in case anything was the matter.”
The Major looked at him rather queerly with his good-humoured gooseberry eyes. “What do you think the noise was?” he asked.
“It sounded like a gun or something,” replied the other, with some hesitation27; “but it seemed to have a singular sort of echo.”
The Major was still looking at him quietly, but with protruding28 eyes, when the front door was flung open, releasing a flood of gaslight on the face of the fading mist; and another figure in pyjamas sprang or tumbled out into the garden. The figure was much longer, leaner, and more athletic29; the pyjamas, though equally tropical, were comparatively tasteful, being of white with a light lemon-yellow stripe. The man was haggard, but handsome, more sunburned than the other; he had an aquiline30 profile and rather deep-sunken eyes, and a slight air of oddity arising from the combination of coal-black hair with a much lighter31 moustache. All this Father Brown absorbed in detail more at leisure. For the moment he only saw one thing about the man; which was the revolver in his hand.
“Cray!” exclaimed the Major, staring at him; “did you fire that shot?”
“Yes, I did,” retorted the black-haired gentleman hotly; “and so would you in my place. If you were chased everywhere by devils and nearly—”
The Major seemed to intervene rather hurriedly. “This is my friend Father Brown,” he said. And then to Brown: “I don’t know whether you’ve met Colonel Cray of the Royal Artillery32.”
“I have heard of him, of course,” said the priest innocently. “Did you—did you hit anything?”
“I thought so,” answered Cray with gravity.
“Did he—” asked Major Putnam in a lowered voice, “did he fall or cry out, or anything?”
Colonel Cray was regarding his host with a strange and steady stare. “I’ll tell you exactly what he did,” he said. “He sneezed.”
Father Brown’s hand went half-way to his head, with the gesture of a man remembering somebody’s name. He knew now what it was that was neither soda-water nor the snorting of a dog.
“Well,” ejaculated the staring Major, “I never heard before that a service revolver was a thing to be sneezed at.”
“Nor I,” said Father Brown faintly. “It’s lucky you didn’t turn your artillery on him or you might have given him quite a bad cold.” Then, after a bewildered pause, he said: “Was it a burglar?”
“Let us go inside,” said Major Putnam, rather sharply, and led the way into his house.
The interior exhibited a paradox33 often to be marked in such morning hours: that the rooms seemed brighter than the sky outside; even after the Major had turned out the one gaslight in the front hall. Father Brown was surprised to see the whole dining-table set out as for a festive34 meal, with napkins in their rings, and wine-glasses of some six unnecessary shapes set beside every plate. It was common enough, at that time of the morning, to find the remains35 of a banquet over-night; but to find it freshly spread so early was unusual.
While he stood wavering in the hall Major Putnam rushed past him and sent a raging eye over the whole oblong of the tablecloth36. At last he spoke37, spluttering: “All the silver gone!” he gasped38. “Fish-knives and forks gone. Old cruet-stand gone. Even the old silver cream-jug gone. And now, Father Brown, I am ready to answer your question of whether it was a burglar.”
“They’re simply a blind,” said Cray stubbornly. “I know better than you why people persecute39 this house; I know better than you why—”
The Major patted him on the shoulder with a gesture almost peculiar40 to the soothing41 of a sick child, and said: “It was a burglar. Obviously it was a burglar.”
“A burglar with a bad cold,” observed Father Brown, “that might assist you to trace him in the neighbourhood.”
The Major shook his head in a sombre manner. “He must be far beyond trace now, I fear,” he said.
Then, as the restless man with the revolver turned again towards the door in the garden, he added in a husky, confidential42 voice: “I doubt whether I should send for the police, for fear my friend here has been a little too free with his bullets, and got on the wrong side of the law. He’s lived in very wild places; and, to be frank with you, I think he sometimes fancies things.”
“I think you once told me,” said Brown, “that he believes some Indian secret society is pursuing him.”
Major Putnam nodded, but at the same time shrugged43 his shoulders. “I suppose we’d better follow him outside,” he said. “I don’t want any more—shall we say, sneezing?”
They passed out into the morning light, which was now even tinged44 with sunshine, and saw Colonel Cray’s tall figure bent45 almost double, minutely examining the condition of gravel46 and grass. While the Major strolled unobtrusively towards him, the priest took an equally indolent turn, which took him round the next corner of the house to within a yard or two of the projecting dustbin.
He stood regarding this dismal47 object for some minute and a half—, then he stepped towards it, lifted the lid and put his head inside. Dust and other discolouring matter shook upwards48 as he did so; but Father Brown never observed his own appearance, whatever else he observed. He remained thus for a measurable period, as if engaged in some mysterious prayers. Then he came out again, with some ashes on his hair, and walked unconcernedly away.
By the time he came round to the garden door again he found a group there which seemed to roll away morbidities as the sunlight had already rolled away the mists. It was in no way rationally reassuring49; it was simply broadly comic, like a cluster of Dickens’s characters. Major Putnam had managed to slip inside and plunge50 into a proper shirt and trousers, with a crimson51 cummerbund, and a light square jacket over all; thus normally set off, his red festive face seemed bursting with a commonplace cordiality. He was indeed emphatic52, but then he was talking to his cook—the swarthy son of Malta, whose lean, yellow and rather careworn53 face contrasted quaintly54 with his snow-white cap and costume. The cook might well be careworn, for cookery was the Major’s hobby. He was one of those amateurs who always know more than the professional. The only other person he even admitted to be a judge of an omelette was his friend Cray—and as Brown remembered this, he turned to look for the other officer. In the new presence of daylight and people clothed and in their right mind, the sight of him was rather a shock. The taller and more elegant man was still in his night-garb, with tousled black hair, and now crawling about the garden on his hands and knees, still looking for traces of the burglar; and now and again, to all appearance, striking the ground with his hand in anger at not finding him. Seeing him thus quadrupedal in the grass, the priest raised his eyebrows55 rather sadly; and for the first time guessed that “fancies things” might be an euphemism56.
The third item in the group of the cook and the epicure57 was also known to Father Brown; it was Audrey Watson, the Major’s ward16 and housekeeper58; and at this moment, to judge by her apron59, tucked-up sleeves and resolute60 manner, much more the housekeeper than the ward.
“It serves you right,” she was saying: “I always told you not to have that old-fashioned cruet-stand.”
“I prefer it,” said Putnam, placably. “I’m old-fashioned myself; and the things keep together.”
“And vanish together, as you see,” she retorted. “Well, if you are not going to bother about the burglar, I shouldn’t bother about the lunch. It’s Sunday, and we can’t send for vinegar and all that in the town; and you Indian gentlemen can’t enjoy what you call a dinner without a lot of hot things. I wish to goodness now you hadn’t asked Cousin Oliver to take me to the musical service. It isn’t over till half-past twelve, and the Colonel has to leave by then. I don’t believe you men can manage alone.”
“Oh yes, we can, my dear,” said the Major, looking at her very amiably61. “Marco has all the sauces, and we’ve often done ourselves well in very rough places, as you might know by now. And it’s time you had a treat, Audrey; you mustn’t be a housekeeper every hour of the day; and I know you want to hear the music.”
“I want to go to church,” she said, with rather severe eyes.
She was one of those handsome women who will always be handsome, because the beauty is not in an air or a tint62, but in the very structure of the head and features. But though she was not yet middle-aged63 and her auburn hair was of a Titianesque fullness in form and colour, there was a look in her mouth and around her eyes which suggested that some sorrows wasted her, as winds waste at last the edges of a Greek temple. For indeed the little domestic difficulty of which she was now speaking so decisively was rather comic than tragic65. Father Brown gathered, from the course of the conversation, that Cray, the other gourmet66, had to leave before the usual lunch-time; but that Putnam, his host, not to be done out of a final feast with an old crony, had arranged for a special dejeuner to be set out and consumed in the course of the morning, while Audrey and other graver persons were at morning service. She was going there under the escort of a relative and old friend of hers, Dr Oliver Oman, who, though a scientific man of a somewhat bitter type, was enthusiastic for music, and would go even to church to get it. There was nothing in all this that could conceivably concern the tragedy in Miss Watson’s face; and by a half conscious instinct, Father Brown turned again to the seeming lunatic grubbing about in the grass.
When he strolled across to him, the black, unbrushed head was lifted abruptly67, as if in some surprise at his continued presence. And indeed, Father Brown, for reasons best known to himself, had lingered much longer than politeness required; or even, in the ordinary sense, permitted.
“Well!” cried Cray, with wild eyes. “I suppose you think I’m mad, like the rest?”
“I have considered the thesis,” answered the little man, composedly. “And I incline to think you are not.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Cray quite
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