?"

And the tall man answered in a low voice: "On the beach."

The small man nodded, and after a short silence said: "Where does a wise
man hide a leaf?"

And the other answered: "In the forest."

There was another stillness, and then the tall man resumed: "Do you mean
that when a wise man has to hide a real diamond he has been known to
hide it among sham ones?"

"No, no," said the little man with a laugh, "we will let bygones be
bygones."

He stamped his cold feet for a second or two, and then said: "I'm
not thinking of that at all, but of something else; something rather
peculiar. Just strike a match, will you?"

The big man fumbled in his pocket, and soon a scratch and a flare
painted gold the whole flat side of the monument. On it was cut in black
letters the well-known words which so many Americans had reverently
read: "Sacred to the Memory of General Sir Arthur St. Clare, Hero and
Martyr, who Always Vanquished his Enemies and Always Spared Them, and
Was Treacherously Slain by Them At Last. May God in Whom he Trusted both
Reward and Revenge him."

The match burnt the big man's fingers, blackened, and dropped. He was
about to strike another, but his small companion stopped him. "That's
all right, Flambeau, old man; I saw what I wanted. Or, rather, I didn't
see what I didn't want. And now we must walk a mile and a half along
the road to the next inn, and I will try to tell you all about it. For
Heaven knows a man should have a fire and ale when he dares tell such a
story."

They descended the precipitous path, they relatched the rusty gate, and
set off at a stamping, ringing walk down the frozen forest road. They
had gone a full quarter of a mile before the smaller man spoke again. He
said: "Yes; the wise man hides a pebble on the beach. But what does he
do if there is no beach? Do you know anything of that great St. Clare
trouble?"

"I know nothing about English generals, Father Brown," answered the
large man, laughing, "though a little about English policemen. I only
know that you have dragged me a precious long dance to all the shrines
of this fellow, whoever he is. One would think he got buried in
six different places. I've seen a memorial to General St. Clare in
Westminster Abbey. I've seen a ramping equestrian statue of General
St. Clare on the Embankment. I've seen a medallion of St. Clare in the
street he was born in, and another in the street he lived in; and now
you drag me after dark to his c