is Lord Falconroy."

"Then why the blazes didn't he say so?" demanded the staring Usher.

"He felt his plight and recent panic were hardly patrician," replied
the priest, "so he tried to keep the name back at first. But he was
just going to tell it you, when"--and Father Brown looked down at his
boots--"when a woman found another name for him."

"But you can't be so mad as to say," said Greywood Usher, very white,
"that Lord Falconroy was Drugger Davis."

The priest looked at him very earnestly, but with a baffling and
undecipherable face.

"I am not saying anything about it," he said. "I leave all the rest to
you. Your pink paper says that the title was recently revived for him;
but those papers are very unreliable. It says he was in the States in
youth; but the whole story seems very strange. Davis and Falconroy are
both pretty considerable cowards, but so are lots of other men. I would
not hang a dog on my own opinion about this. But I think," he went on
softly and reflectively, "I think you Americans are too modest. I think
you idealize the English aristocracy--even in assuming it to be so
aristocratic. You see a good-looking Englishman in evening-dress; you
know he's in the House of Lords; and you fancy he has a father. You
don't allow for our national buoyancy and uplift. Many of our most
influential noblemen have not only risen recently, but--"

"Oh, stop it!" cried Greywood Usher, wringing one lean hand in
impatience against a shade of irony in the other's face.

"Don't stay talking to this lunatic!" cried Todd brutally. "Take me to
my friend."

Next morning Father Brown appeared with the same demure expression,
carrying yet another piece of pink newspaper.

"I'm afraid you neglect the fashionable press rather," he said, "but
this cutting may interest you."

Usher read the headlines, "Last-Trick's Strayed Revellers: Mirthful
Incident near Pilgrim's Pond." The paragraph went on: "A laughable
occurrence took place outside Wilkinson's Motor Garage last night.
A policeman on duty had his attention drawn by larrikins to a man
in prison dress who was stepping with considerable coolness into the
steering-seat of a pretty high-toned Panhard; he was accompanied by a
girl wrapped in a ragged shawl. On the police interfering, the young
woman threw back the shawl, and all recognized Millionaire Todd's
daughter, who had just come from the Slum Freak Dinner at the Pond,
where all the choicest guests were in a sim