attic
window stood open.

"Don't you see," he explained, pointing a little awkwardly like a child,
"he was thrown down from there?"

Gilder frowningly scrutinised the window, and then said: "Well, it is
certainly possible. But I don't see why you are so sure about it."

Brown opened his grey eyes wide. "Why," he said, "there's a bit of rope
round the dead man's leg. Don't you see that other bit of rope up there
caught at the corner of the window?"

At that height the thing looked like the faintest particle of dust
or hair, but the shrewd old investigator was satisfied. "You're quite
right, sir," he said to Father Brown; "that is certainly one to you."

Almost as he spoke a special train with one carriage took the curve
of the line on their left, and, stopping, disgorged another group
of policemen, in whose midst was the hangdog visage of Magnus, the
absconded servant.

"By Jove! they've got him," cried Gilder, and stepped forward with quite
a new alertness.

"Have you got the money!" he cried to the first policeman.

The man looked him in the face with a rather curious expression and
said: "No." Then he added: "At least, not here."

"Which is the inspector, please?" asked the man called Magnus.

When he spoke everyone instantly understood how this voice had stopped
a train. He was a dull-looking man with flat black hair, a colourless
face, and a faint suggestion of the East in the level slits in his eyes
and mouth. His blood and name, indeed, had remained dubious, ever since
Sir Aaron had "rescued" him from a waitership in a London restaurant,
and (as some said) from more infamous things. But his voice was as vivid
as his face was dead. Whether through exactitude in a foreign language,
or in deference to his master (who had been somewhat deaf), Magnus's
tones had a peculiarly ringing and piercing quality, and the whole group
quite jumped when he spoke.

"I always knew this would happen," he said aloud with brazen blandness.
"My poor old master made game of me for wearing black; but I always said
I should be ready for his funeral."

And he made a momentary movement with his two dark-gloved hands.

"Sergeant," said Inspector Gilder, eyeing the black hands with wrath,
"aren't you putting the bracelets on this fellow; he looks pretty
dangerous."

"Well, sir," said the sergeant, with the same odd look of wonder, "I
don't know that we can."

"What do you mean?" asked the other sharply. "Haven't you arreste