The Wisdom of Father Brown G. K. Chesterton (love novels in english TXT) đ
- Author: G. K. Chesterton
Book online «The Wisdom of Father Brown G. K. Chesterton (love novels in english TXT) đ». Author G. K. Chesterton
Under the pink slip Mr. Usher found a strip of a later paper, headed, âAstounding Escape of Millionaireâs Daughter with Convict. She Had Arranged Freak Dinner. Now Safe inâ ââ
Mr. Greenwood Usher lifted his eyes, but Father Brown was gone.
The Head of CaesarThere is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue of tall houses, rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs. The very steps up to the dark front doors seem as steep as the side of pyramids; one would hesitate to knock at the door, lest it should be opened by a mummy. But a yet more depressing feature in the grey façade is its telescopic length and changeless continuity. The pilgrim walking down it begins to think he will never come to a break or a corner; but there is one exceptionâ âa very small one, but hailed by the pilgrim almost with a shout. There is a sort of mews between two of the tall mansions, a mere slit like the crack of a door by comparison with the street, but just large enough to permit a pigmy alehouse or eating-house, still allowed by the rich to their stable-servants, to stand in the angle. There is something cheery in its very dinginess, and something free and elfin in its very insignificance. At the feet of those grey stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs.
Anyone passing the place during a certain autumn evening, itself almost fairylike, might have seen a hand pull aside the red half-blind which (along with some large white lettering) half hid the interior from the street, and a face peer out not unlike a rather innocent goblinâs. It was, in fact, the face of one with the harmless human name of Brown, formerly priest of Cobhole in Essex, and now working in London. His friend, Flambeau, a semiofficial investigator, was sitting opposite him, making his last notes of a case he had cleared up in the neighbourhood. They were sitting at a small table, close up to the window, when the priest pulled the curtain back and looked out. He waited till a stranger in the street had passed the window, to let the curtain fall into its place again. Then his round eyes rolled to the large white lettering on the window above his head, and then strayed to the next table, at which sat only a navvy with beer and cheese, and a young girl with red hair and a glass of milk. Then (seeing his friend put away the pocketbook), he said softly:
âIf youâve got ten minutes, I wish youâd follow that man with the false nose.â
Flambeau looked up in surprise; but the girl with the red hair also looked up, and with something that was stronger than astonishment. She was simply and even loosely dressed in light brown sacking stuff; but she was a lady, and even, on a second glance, a rather needlessly haughty one. âThe man with the false nose!â repeated Flambeau. âWhoâs he?â
âI havenât a notion,â answered Father Brown. âI want you to find out; I ask it as a favour. He went down thereââ âand he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in one of his undistinguished gesturesâ ââand canât have passed three lampposts yet. I only want to know the direction.â
Flambeau gazed at his friend for some time, with an expression between perplexity and amusement; and then, rising from the table; squeezed his huge form out of the little door of the dwarf tavern, and melted into the twilight.
Father Brown took a small book out of his pocket and began to read steadily; he betrayed no consciousness of the fact that the red-haired lady had left her own table and sat down opposite him. At last she leaned over and said in a low, strong voice: âWhy do you say that? How do you know itâs false?â
He lifted his rather heavy eyelids, which fluttered in considerable embarrassment. Then his dubious eye roamed again to the white lettering on the glass front of the public-house. The young womanâs eyes followed his, and rested there also, but in pure puzzledom.
âNo,â said Father Brown, answering her thoughts. âIt doesnât say âSela,â like the thing in the Psalms; I read it like that myself when I was woolgathering just now; it says âAles.âââ
âWell?â inquired the staring young lady. âWhat does it matter what it says?â
His ruminating eye roved to the girlâs light canvas sleeve, round the wrist of which ran a very slight thread of artistic pattern, just enough to distinguish it from a working-dress of a common woman and make it more like the working-dress of a lady art-student. He seemed to find much food for thought in this; but his reply was very slow and hesitant. âYou see, madam,â he said, âfrom outside the place looksâ âwell, it is a perfectly decent placeâ âbut ladies like you donâtâ âdonât generally think so. They never go into such places from choice, exceptâ ââ
âWell?â she repeated.
âExcept an unfortunate few who donât go in to drink milk.â
âYou are a most singular person,â said the young lady. âWhat is your object in all this?â
âNot to trouble you about it,â he replied, very gently. âOnly to arm myself with knowledge enough to help you, if ever you freely ask my help.â
âBut why should I need help?â
He continued his dreamy monologue. âYou couldnât have come in to
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