"Of all these crooked things, the crookedest was the shape of that piece
of paper. It was crookeder than the dagger that killed him."

"You mean the paper on which Quinton confessed his suicide," said
Flambeau.

"I mean the paper on which Quinton wrote, 'I die by my own hand,'"
answered Father Brown. "The shape of that paper, my friend, was the
wrong shape; the wrong shape, if ever I have seen it in this wicked
world."

"It only had a corner snipped off," said Flambeau, "and I understand
that all Quinton's paper was cut that way."

"It was a very odd way," said the other, "and a very bad way, to my
taste and fancy. Look here, Flambeau, this Quinton--God receive his
soul!--was perhaps a bit of a cur in some ways, but he really was an
artist, with the pencil as well as the pen. His handwriting, though hard
to read, was bold and beautiful. I can't prove what I say; I can't prove
anything. But I tell you with the full force of conviction that he could
never have cut that mean little piece off a sheet of paper. If he had
wanted to cut down paper for some purpose of fitting in, or binding
up, or what not, he would have made quite a different slash with the
scissors. Do you remember the shape? It was a mean shape. It was a wrong
shape. Like this. Don't you remember?"

And he waved his burning cigar before him in the darkness, making
irregular squares so rapidly that Flambeau really seemed to see them as
fiery hieroglyphics upon the darkness--hieroglyphics such as his friend
had spoken of, which are undecipherable, yet can have no good meaning.

"But," said Flambeau, as the priest put his cigar in his mouth again
and leaned back, staring at the roof, "suppose somebody else did use the
scissors. Why should somebody else, cutting pieces off his sermon paper,
make Quinton commit suicide?"

Father Brown was still leaning back and staring at the roof, but he took
his cigar out of his mouth and said: "Quinton never did commit suicide."

Flambeau stared at him. "Why, confound it all," he cried, "then why did
he confess to suicide?"

The priest leant forward again, settled his elbows on his knees, looked
at the ground, and said, in a low, distinct voice: "He never did confess
to suicide."

Flambeau laid his cigar down. "You mean," he said, "that the writing was
forged?"

"No," said Father Brown. "Quinton wrote it all right."

"Well, there you are," said the aggravated Flambeau; "Quinton wrote, 'I
die by my own hand,' wit