"I know his name is Glass," answered the girl, in great impatience.
"I heard it through the door. They were quarrelling--about money,
I think--for I heard James say again and again, `That's right, Mr Glass,'
or `No, Mr Glass,' and then, `Two or three, Mr Glass.' But we're talking
too much; you must come at once, and there may be time yet."

"But time for what?" asked Dr Hood, who had been studying
the young lady with marked interest. "What is there about Mr Glass
and his money troubles that should impel such urgency?"

"I tried to break down the door and couldn't," answered the girl shortly,
"Then I ran to the back-yard, and managed to climb on to the window-sill
that looks into the room. It was an dim, and seemed to be empty,
but I swear I saw James lying huddled up in a corner, as if he were
drugged or strangled."

"This is very serious," said Father Brown, gathering his errant hat
and umbrella and standing up; "in point of fact I was just putting
your case before this gentleman, and his view--"

"Has been largely altered," said the scientist gravely.
"I do not think this young lady is so Celtic as I had supposed.
As I have nothing else to do, I will put on my hat and stroll
down town with you."

In a few minutes all three were approaching the dreary tail of
the MacNabs' street: the girl with the stern and breathless stride
of the mountaineer, the criminologist with a lounging grace (which was
not without a certain leopard-like swiftness), and the priest at an
energetic trot entirely devoid of distinction. The aspect of this