im to have it except when there was some evil quite
near."

"Oh, rats!" said the scientist.

"Why, look at it," cried Father Brown, holding out the crooked knife at
arm's length, as if it were some glittering snake. "Don't you see it is
the wrong shape? Don't you see that it has no hearty and plain purpose?
It does not point like a spear. It does not sweep like a scythe. It does
not look like a weapon. It looks like an instrument of torture."

"Well, as you don't seem to like it," said the jolly Harris, "it had
better be taken back to its owner. Haven't we come to the end of this
confounded conservatory yet? This house is the wrong shape, if you
like."

"You don't understand," said Father Brown, shaking his head. "The shape
of this house is quaint--it is even laughable. But there is nothing
wrong about it."

As they spoke they came round the curve of glass that ended the
conservatory, an uninterrupted curve, for there was neither door nor
window by which to enter at that end. The glass, however, was clear, and
the sun still bright, though beginning to set; and they could see not
only the flamboyant blossoms inside, but the frail figure of the poet
in a brown velvet coat lying languidly on the sofa, having, apparently,
fallen half asleep over a book. He was a pale, slight man, with loose,
chestnut hair and a fringe of beard that was the paradox of his face,
for the beard made him look less manly. These traits were well known
to all three of them; but even had it not been so, it may be doubted
whether they would have looked at Quinton just then. Their eyes were
riveted on another object.

Exactly in their path, immediately outside the round end of the glass
building, was standing a tall man, whose drapery fell to his feet in
faultless white, and whose bare, brown skull, face, and neck gleamed in
the setting sun like splendid bronze. He was looking through the glass
at the sleeper, and he was more motionless than a mountain.

"Who is that?" cried Father Brown, stepping back with a hissing intake
of his breath.

"Oh, it is only that Hindoo humbug," growled Harris; "but I don't know
what the deuce he's doing here."

"It looks like hypnotism," said Flambeau, biting his black moustache.

"Why are you unmedical fellows always talking bosh about hypnotism?"
cried the doctor. "It looks a deal more like burglary."

"Well, we will speak to it, at any rate," said Flambeau, who was always
for action. One long stride too