offin in the village churchyard. I am
beginning to be a bit tired of his magnificent personality, especially
as I don't in the least know who he was. What are you hunting for in all
these crypts and effigies?"

"I am only looking for one word," said Father Brown. "A word that isn't
there."

"Well," asked Flambeau; "are you going to tell me anything about it?"

"I must divide it into two parts," remarked the priest. "First there is
what everybody knows; and then there is what I know. Now, what everybody
knows is short and plain enough. It is also entirely wrong."

"Right you are," said the big man called Flambeau cheerfully. "Let's
begin at the wrong end. Let's begin with what everybody knows, which
isn't true."

"If not wholly untrue, it is at least very inadequate," continued Brown;
"for in point of fact, all that the public knows amounts precisely to
this: The public knows that Arthur St. Clare was a great and successful
English general. It knows that after splendid yet careful campaigns
both in India and Africa he was in command against Brazil when the great
Brazilian patriot Olivier issued his ultimatum. It knows that on that
occasion St. Clare with a very small force attacked Olivier with a very
large one, and was captured after heroic resistance. And it knows that
after his capture, and to the abhorrence of the civilised world, St.
Clare was hanged on the nearest tree. He was found swinging there after
the Brazilians had retired, with his broken sword hung round his neck."

"And that popular story is untrue?" suggested Flambeau.

"No," said his friend quietly, "that story is quite true, so far as it
goes."

"Well, I think it goes far enough!" said Flambeau; "but if the popular
story is true, what is the mystery?"

They had passed many hundreds of grey and ghostly trees before the
little priest answered. Then he bit his finger reflectively and said:
"Why, the mystery is a mystery of psychology. Or, rather, it is a
mystery of two psychologies. In that Brazilian business two of the most
famous men of modern history acted flat against their characters. Mind
you, Olivier and St. Clare were both heroes--the old thing, and no
mistake; it was like the fight between Hector and Achilles. Now, what
would you say to an affair in which Achilles was timid and Hector was
treacherous?"

"Go on," said the large man impatiently as the other bit his finger
again.

"Sir Arthur St. Clare was a soldier of the old religiou