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 what Valentin 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 to steal it; that was the most natural thing in all
natural 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 anybody 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 crime seemed clear enough; and while the detective pitied
the priest for his helplessness, he almost despised Flambeau for
condescending to so gullible a victim. But when Valentin thought
of all that had happened in between, of all that had led him to
his triumph, he racked his brains for the smallest rhyme or reason
in it. What had the stealing of a blue-and-silver cross from a
priest from Essex to do with chucking soup at wall paper? 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 had grasped the
criminal, but still he could not grasp the clue.

The two figures that they 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