At one of the central tables a very stumpy little priest sat
in complete solitude, and applied himself to a pile of whitebait
with the gravest sort of enjoyment. His daily living being very plain,
he had a peculiar taste for sudden and isolated luxuries; he was
an abstemious epicure. He did not lift his eyes from his plate,
round which red pepper, lemons, brown bread and butter, etc.,
were rigidly ranked, until a tall shadow fell across the table,
and his friend Flambeau sat down opposite. Flambeau was gloomy.

"I'm afraid I must chuck this business," said he heavily.
"I'm all on the side of the French soldiers like Dubosc,
and I'm all against the French atheists like Hirsch; but it seems to me
in this case we've made a mistake. The Duke and I thought it as well
to investigate the charge, and I must say I'm glad we did."

"Is the paper a forgery, then?" asked the priest

"That's just the odd thing," replied Flambeau. "It's exactly like
Hirsch's writing, and nobody can point out any mistake in it.
But it wasn't written by Hirsch. If he's a French patriot
he didn't write it, because it gives information to Germany.
And if he's a German spy he didn't write it, well--because it doesn't
give information to Germany."

"You mean the information is wrong?" asked Father Brown.

"Wrong," replied the other, "and wrong exactly where Dr Hirsch
would have been right--about the hiding-place of his own secret formula
in his own official department. By favour of Hirsch and the authorities,
the Duke and I have actually been allowed to inspect the secret drawer