less hours he unconsciously sank deeper
into the secrets of Reed House than his professional friend. He had that
knack of friendly silence which is so essential to gossip; and saying
scarcely a word, he probably obtained from his new acquaintances all
that in any case they would have told. The butler indeed was naturally
uncommunicative. He betrayed a sullen and almost animal affection
for his master; who, he said, had been very badly treated. The chief
offender seemed to be his highness's brother, whose name alone would
lengthen the old man's lantern jaws and pucker his parrot nose into a
sneer. Captain Stephen was a ne'er-do-weel, apparently, and had drained
his benevolent brother of hundreds and thousands; forced him to fly from
fashionable life and live quietly in this retreat. That was all Paul,
the butler, would say, and Paul was obviously a partisan.

The Italian housekeeper was somewhat more communicative, being, as Brown
fancied, somewhat less content. Her tone about her master was faintly
acid; though not without a certain awe. Flambeau and his friend were
standing in the room of the looking-glasses examining the red sketch
of the two boys, when the housekeeper swept in swiftly on some domestic
errand. It was a peculiarity of this glittering, glass-panelled place
that anyone entering was reflected in four or five mirrors at once; and
Father Brown, without turning round, stopped in the middle of a sentence
of family criticism. But Flambeau, who had his face close up to the
picture, was already saying in a loud voice, "The brothers Saradine, I
suppose. They both look innocent enough. It would be hard to say which
is the good brother and which the bad." Then, realising the lady's
presence, he turned the conversation with some triviality, and strolled
out into the garden. But Father Brown still gazed steadily at the red
crayon sketch; and Mrs. Anthony still gazed steadily at Father Brown.

She had large and tragic brown eyes, and her olive face glowed darkly
with a curious and painful wonder--as of one doubtful of a stranger's
identity or purpose. Whether the little priest's coat and creed touched
some southern memories of confession, or whether she fancied he knew
more than he did, she said to him in a low voice as to a fellow plotter,
"He is right enough in one way, your friend. He says it would be hard
to pick out the good and bad brothers. Oh, it would be hard, it would be
mighty hard, to pick out the good one