urs, and I will treat anything you write
for me in strict confidence. But write the whole."

The doctor, who had been listening thoughtfully with his head a little
on one side, looked the priest in the face for an instant, and said:
"All right," and went into the study, closing the door behind him.

"Flambeau," said Father Brown, "there is a long seat there under the
veranda, where we can smoke out of the rain. You are my only friend in
the world, and I want to talk to you. Or, perhaps, be silent with you."

They established themselves comfortably in the veranda seat; Father
Brown, against his common habit, accepted a good cigar and smoked it
steadily in silence, while the rain shrieked and rattled on the roof of
the veranda.

"My friend," he said at length, "this is a very queer case. A very queer
case."

"I should think it was," said Flambeau, with something like a shudder.

"You call it queer, and I call it queer," said the other, "and yet
we mean quite opposite things. The modern mind always mixes up two
different ideas: mystery in the sense of what is marvellous, and mystery
in the sense of what is complicated. That is half its difficulty about
miracles. A miracle is startling; but it is simple. It is simple because
it is a miracle. It is power coming directly from God (or the devil)
instead of indirectly through nature or human wills. Now, you mean that
this business is marvellous because it is miraculous, because it is
witchcraft worked by a wicked Indian. Understand, I do not say that
it was not spiritual or diabolic. Heaven and hell only know by what
surrounding influences strange sins come into the lives of men. But for
the present my point is this: If it was pure magic, as you think,
then it is marvellous; but it is not mysterious--that is, it is not
complicated. The quality of a miracle is mysterious, but its manner
is simple. Now, the manner of this business has been the reverse of
simple."

The storm that had slackened for a little seemed to be swelling again,
and there came heavy movements as of faint thunder. Father Brown let
fall the ash of his cigar and went on:

"There has been in this incident," he said, "a twisted, ugly, complex
quality that does not belong to the straight bolts either of heaven
or hell. As one knows the crooked track of a snail, I know the crooked
track of a man."

The white lightning opened its enormous eye in one wink, the sky shut up
again, and the priest went on: