than moonlight. And though the old man's scarlet face and silver
beard had blazed like a bonfire in each room or passage in turn, it did
not leave any warmth behind it. Doubtless this spectral discomfort in
the place was partly due to the very vitality and exuberance of its
owner; he needed no stoves or lamps, he would say, but carried his own
warmth with him. But when Merton recalled the other inmates, he was
compelled to confess that they also were as shadows of their lord.
The moody man-servant, with his monstrous black gloves, was almost a
nightmare; Royce, the secretary, was solid enough, a big bull of a
man, in tweeds, with a short beard; but the straw-coloured beard was
startlingly salted with grey like the tweeds, and the broad forehead was
barred with premature wrinkles. He was good-natured enough also, but it
was a sad sort of good-nature, almost a heart-broken sort--he had the
general air of being some sort of failure in life. As for Armstrong's
daughter, it was almost incredible that she was his daughter; she was so
pallid in colour and sensitive in outline. She was graceful, but there
was a quiver in the very shape of her that was like the lines of an
aspen. Merton had sometimes wondered if she had learnt to quail at the
crash of the passing trains.

"You see," said Father Brown, blinking modestly, "I'm not sure that the
Armstrong cheerfulness is so very cheerful--for other people. You say
that nobody could kill such a happy old man, but I'm not sure; ne nos
inducas in tentationem. If ever I murdered somebody," he added quite
simply, "I dare say it might be an Optimist."

"Why?" cried Merton amused. "Do you think people dislike cheerfulness?"

"People like frequent laughter," answered Father Brown, "but I don't
think they like a permanent smile. Cheerfulness without humour is a very
trying thing."

They walked some way in silence along the windy grassy bank by the rail,
and just as they came under the far-flung shadow of the tall Armstrong
house, Father Brown said suddenly, like a man throwing away a
troublesome thought rather than offering it seriously: "Of course, drink
is neither good nor bad in itself. But I can't help sometimes feeling
that men like Armstrong want an occasional glass of wine to sadden
them."

Merton's official superior, a grizzled and capable detective named
Gilder, was standing on the green bank waiting for the coroner, talking
to Patrick Royce, whose big shoulders and bristly be