Father Brown smiled. "In that case," he said, "there can't be any
objection to my sleeping in your delightful summer-house."

"The idea is utterly ridiculous," replied the Admiral, beating a tattoo
on the back of his chair.

"Please forgive me for everything," said Brown in his most sympathetic
tone, "including spilling the wine. But it seems to me you are not quite
so easy about the flaming tower as you try to be."

Admiral Pendragon sat down again as abruptly as he had risen; but he sat
quite still, and when he spoke again it was in a lower voice. "You do
it at your own peril," he said; "but wouldn't you be an atheist to keep
sane in all this devilry?"

Some three hours afterwards Fanshaw, Flambeau and the priest were still
dawdling about the garden in the dark; and it began to dawn on the other
two that Father Brown had no intention of going to bed either in the
tower or the house.

"I think the lawn wants weeding," said he dreamily. "If I could find a
spud or something I'd do it myself."

They followed him, laughing and half remonstrating; but he replied with
the utmost solemnity, explaining to them, in a maddening little sermon,
that one can always find some small occupation that is helpful to
others. He did not find a spud; but he found an old broom made of twigs,
with which he began energetically to brush the fallen leaves off the
grass.

"Always some little thing to be done," he said with idiotic
cheerfulness; "as George Herbert says: 'Who sweeps an Admiral's garden
in Cornwall as for Thy laws makes that and the action fine.' And now,"
he added, suddenly slinging the broom away, "Let's go and water the
flowers."

With the same mixed emotions they watched him uncoil some considerable
lengths of the large garden hose, saying with an air of wistful
discrimination: "The red tulips before the yellow, I think. Look a bit
dry, don't you think?"

He turned the little tap on the instrument, and the water shot out
straight and solid as a long rod of steel.

"Look out, Samson," cried Flambeau; "why, you've cut off the tulip's
head."

Father Brown stood ruefully contemplating the decapitated plant.

"Mine does seem to be a rather kill or cure sort of watering," he
admitted, scratching his head. "I suppose it's a pity I didn't find the
spud. You should have seen me with the spud! Talking of tools, you've
got that swordstick, Flambeau, you always carry? That's right; and Sir
Cecil could have that sword the