he slain heiress in charge of the surgeons,
Flambeau dashed up the stairs to the typewriting office, found it
utterly empty, and then dashed up to his own. Having entered that, he
abruptly returned with a new and white face to his friend.

"Her sister," he said, with an unpleasant seriousness, "her sister seems
to have gone out for a walk."

Father Brown nodded. "Or, she may have gone up to the office of that sun
man," he said. "If I were you I should just verify that, and then let
us all talk it over in your office. No," he added suddenly, as if
remembering something, "shall I ever get over that stupidity of mine? Of
course, in their office downstairs."

Flambeau stared; but he followed the little father downstairs to the
empty flat of the Staceys, where that impenetrable pastor took a large
red-leather chair in the very entrance, from which he could see the
stairs and landings, and waited. He did not wait very long. In about
four minutes three figures descended the stairs, alike only in
their solemnity. The first was Joan Stacey, the sister of the dead
woman--evidently she had been upstairs in the temporary temple of
Apollo; the second was the priest of Apollo himself, his
litany finished, sweeping down the empty stairs in utter
magnificence--something in his white robes, beard and parted hair had
the look of Dore's Christ leaving the Pretorium; the third was Flambeau,
black browed and somewhat bewildered.

Miss Joan Stacey, dark, with a drawn face and hair prematurely touched
with grey, walked straight to her own desk and set out her papers with a
practical flap. The mere action rallied everyone else to sanity. If Miss
Joan Stacey was a criminal, she was a cool one. Father Brown regarded
her for some time with an odd little smile, and then, without taking his
eyes off her, addressed himself to somebody else.

"Prophet," he said, presumably addressing Kalon, "I wish you would tell
me a lot about your religion."

"I shall be proud to do it," said Kalon, inclining his still crowned
head, "but I am not sure that I understand."

"Why, it's like this," said Father Brown, in his frankly doubtful way:
"We are taught that if a man has really bad first principles, that must
be partly his fault. But, for all that, we can make some difference
between a man who insults his quite clear conscience and a man with a
conscience more or less clouded with sophistries. Now, do you really
think that murder is wrong at all?"

"Is