hing specially irritating in the small
prayer-book in Oman's dark-gloved hand. "I didn't know that was in your
line," he said rather rudely.

Oman laughed mildly, but without offence. "This is more so, I know," he
said, laying his hand on the big book he had dropped, "a dictionary of
drugs and such things. But it's rather too large to take to church."
Then he closed the larger book, and there seemed again the faintest
touch of hurry and embarrassment.

"I suppose," said the priest, who seemed anxious to change the subject,
"all these spears and things are from India?"

"From everywhere," answered the doctor. "Putnam is an old soldier, and
has been in Mexico and Australia, and the Cannibal Islands for all I
know."

"I hope it was not in the Cannibal Islands," said Brown, "that he learnt
the art of cookery." And he ran his eyes over the stew-pots or other
strange utensils on the wall.

At this moment the jolly subject of their conversation thrust his
laughing, lobsterish face into the room. "Come along, Cray," he cried.
"Your lunch is just coming in. And the bells are ringing for those who
want to go to church."

Cray slipped upstairs to change; Dr Oman and Miss Watson betook
themselves solemnly down the street, with a string of other churchgoers;
but Father Brown noticed that the doctor twice looked back and
scrutinized the house; and even came back to the corner of the street to
look at it again.

The priest looked puzzled. "He can't have been at the dustbin," he
muttered. "Not in those clothes. Or was he there earlier today?"

Father Brown, touching other people, was as sensitive as a barometer;
but today he seemed about as sensitive as a rhinoceros. By no social
law, rigid or implied, could he be supposed to linger round the lunch
of the Anglo-Indian friends; but he lingered, covering his position with
torrents of amusing but quite needless conversation. He was the more
puzzling because he did not seem to want any lunch. As one after another
of the most exquisitely balanced kedgerees of curries, accompanied with
their appropriate vintages, were laid before the other two, he only
repeated that it was one of his fast-days, and munched a piece of bread
and sipped and then left untasted a tumbler of cold water. His talk,
however, was exuberant.

"I'll tell you what I'll do for you," he cried--, "I'll mix you a salad!
I can't eat it, but I'll mix it like an angel! You've got a lettuce
there."

"Unfortunately