disguise, could not cover, and that was his singular height. If
Valentin'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. But all along his train there was
nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than a cat
could be a disguised 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 going 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, Valentin gave it up and
almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of
those 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 of their local
stagnation 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
pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody.
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-calf 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