is not a story of crime," he said; "rather it is the story of a
strange and crooked honesty. We are dealing with the one man on earth,
perhaps, who has taken no more than his due. It is a study in the savage
living logic that has been the religion of this race.

"That old local rhyme about the house of Glengyle--

As green sap to the simmer trees
Is red gold to the Ogilvies--

was literal as well as metaphorical. It did not merely mean that the
Glengyles sought for wealth; it was also true that they literally
gathered gold; they had a huge collection of ornaments and utensils in
that metal. They were, in fact, misers whose mania took that turn.
In the light of that fact, run through all the things we found in the
castle. Diamonds without their gold rings; candles without their gold
candlesticks; snuff without the gold snuff-boxes; pencil-leads without
the gold pencil-cases; a walking stick without its gold top; clockwork
without the gold clocks--or rather watches. And, mad as it sounds,
because the halos and the name of God in the old missals were of real
gold; these also were taken away."

The garden seemed to brighten, the grass to grow gayer in the
strengthening sun, as the crazy truth was told. Flambeau lit a cigarette
as his friend went on.

"Were taken away," continued Father Brown; "were taken away--but not
stolen. Thieves would never have left this mystery. Thieves would have
taken the gold snuff-boxes, snuff and all; the gold pencil-cases, lead
and all. We have to deal with a man with a peculiar conscience, but
certainly a conscience. I found that mad moralist this morning in the
kitchen garden yonder, and I heard the whole story.

"The late Archibald Ogilvie was the nearest approach to a good man
ever born at Glengyle. But his bitter virtue took the turn of the
misanthrope; he moped over the dishonesty of his ancestors, from which,
somehow, he generalised a dishonesty of all men. More especially he
distrusted philanthropy or free-giving; and he swore if he could
find one man who took his exact rights he should have all the gold of
Glengyle. Having delivered this defiance to humanity he shut himself
up, without the smallest expectation of its being answered. One day,
however, a deaf and seemingly senseless lad from a distant village
brought him a belated telegram; and Glengyle, in his acrid pleasantry,
gave him a new farthing. At least he thought he had done so, but when
he turned over his cha