‘That’s his strongest point,’ replied the young man. ‘Not even one quick meeting. Of course, he is against my other theatrical tastes as well.’

Father Brown quickly followed up the new opening, and learnt much that he wanted to know. The young man was almost entirely into dramatic poetry. He had written tragedies in verse which had been liked by good judges. He was no fool with fear of stage; indeed he was no fool of any kind. He had some really original ideas about acting Shakespeare; it was easy to understand his having been extremely glad by finding the brilliant lady [36] at the Grange. And even the priest’s intellectual sympathy softenedthe rebelof Potter’s Pond so much that at their parting [37] he actually smiled.

It was that smile which made Father Brown realize that the young man was really unhappy. So long as he frowned, it might well have been only low spirit [38]; but when he smiled it was somehow a more real sign of sadness.

The priest continued to think about that conversation with the poet. An inner feeling told himthat the strong young man was eaten from within by some grief [39]greater even than the ordinary story of ordinary parents being a difficultyto the course of true love. It was all the more so, because there were not any other reasons. The boy already had literary and dramatic success; his books might be said to be very popular. Nor did he drink or spend away his well-earned money [40]. At his well-knownvisits at the Blue Lion he drank only one glass of light ale; and he seemed to be rather careful with his money. Father Brown thought of another possible difficulty in connection with Hurrel’s large earnings and small expenses; and his brow darkened [41].

The conversation of Miss Carstairs-Carew, on whom he called next [42], was made to paint the priest’s son in the darkest colours [43]. But because it was about him having all the vices which Father Brown was quite sure the young man did not have [44], he put it down to a usualmix of Puritanism and gossip. The lady, though big, was quite elegant, however, and offered the visitor a small glass of port-wine and a piece of seed-cake, in the manner of everybody’s oldest great-aunts, before he managed to avoid a speech about the general fall of morals and manners [45].

His next place of visit was very much of a contrast [46]; because he went down a dark and dirty street, where Miss Carstairs-Carew would have refused to follow him; and then into a small house made noisier by a high voice on a top floor… From this he left, with a rather confused expression along with a very excited man who had a blue chin and a black with a trace of bottle-green jacket, shouting loudly:‘He did not disappear! Maltravers never disappeared! He appeared:he appeared dead and I’ve appeared alive. But where’s all the rest of the company? Where’s that man, that monster, who on purposestole my lines, spoiled my best scenes and ruined my career? I was the best Tubal that ever walked the stage. He played Shylock – he didn’t need to act much for that! And so with the greatest opportunity of my whole career [47]. I could show you cuttings from newspapers [48] on my acting of Fortinbras – ’

‘I’m quite sure they were great and very well-deserved,’ said the little priest. ‘I understood the company had left the village before Maltravers died. But it’s all right. It’s quite all right.’ And he began to walk down the street with speed again.

‘He was to act Polonius [49],’ continued the unstoppable speakerbehind him. Father Brown suddenly stopped dead [50].

‘Oh,’ he said very slowly, ‘he was to act Polonius.’

‘That villain Hankin!’ screamed the actor. ‘Follow him. Follow him to the ends of the earth [51]! Of course he’d left the village; trust him for that [52]. Follow him – find him; and may the curses – ’But the priest was again running away down the street.

Two much simpler and perhaps more practical conversations were after this emotional scene. First the priest went into the bank, where he spent ten minutes with the manager; and then made a very polite call to the old and nice clergyman. Here again all seemed very much as described, without changeand that cannot be changedas one might think; a touch or two of faith from more harsh traditions, in the small crucifix on the wall, the big Bible on the bookshelf and the old gentleman starting with regret that people don’t respect Sunday enough; but all with a flavour of politeness, a little delicacy and style.

The clergyman also gave his guest a glass of port-wine; but with it he gave an old British biscuit instead of seed-cake. The priest had again the weird feeling that everything was almost too perfect, and that he was living a century before his time. Only on one point the nice old clergyman refused to be nicer than that; he kindly but firmly said that he would not meet a stage player. However, Father Brown put down his glass of port-wine with thanks; and went off to meet his friend the doctor at the corner of the street; from wherethey were to go together to the offices of Mr Carver, the lawyer.

‘I suppose your trip was not interesting,’ began the doctor, ‘and you've found it a very boring village.’

Father Brown’s reply was quick and almost shrill. ‘Don’t call your village boring. I am sure it’s a very unusual village indeed [53].’

‘I’ve been working with the only unusual thing that ever happened here, I should think,’ noticed Dr Mulborough. ‘And even that happened to somebody from outside. I may tell you they managed the exhumation quietly last night; and I did the autopsy this morning. In plain words we’ve been digging up a body that’s simply full of poison.’

‘A body full of poison,’ repeated Father Brown. ‘Believe me, your village has something much more unusual than that.’

There was sudden silence, and then also a sudden sound of the old bell on the doorstep of the lawyer’s house; and that legal gentleman invited them in, and he presented them to a white-haired, yellow-faced gentleman with a scar, who was the Admiral.

By this time the atmosphere of the village stuck hard in the mindof the little priest; but he knew that the lawyer was indeed the sort of lawyer who gives advice to people like Miss Carstairs-Carew. But though he was an old bird, he looked like something more than that. Perhaps it was becauseof the uniformity of background; but the priest had again the strange feeling that he himself was put back into the early nineteenth century, rather than that the lawyer had survived into the early twentieth [54]. His collar and tie looked almost like a pillar as he put his long chin into them; but they were clean and neat; and there was even something about him of anold dandy. In short, he was what is called well-preserved, even if partly by being like a stone.