e rag of a possibility of either of
the boxers being killed."

"I didn't mean either of the boxers," said the little priest.

"Well, well, well!" said the nobleman, with a touch of frosty humour.
"Who's going to be killed? The referee?"

"I don't know who's going to be killed," replied Father Brown, with a
reflective stare. "If I did I shouldn't have to spoil your pleasure. I
could simply get him to escape. I never could see anything wrong about
prize-fights. As it is, I must ask you to announce that the fight is off
for the present."

"Anything else?" jeered the gentleman with feverish eyes. "And what do
you say to the two thousand people who have come to see it?"

"I say there will be one thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine of them
left alive when they have seen it," said Father Brown.

Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau. "Is your friend mad?" he asked.

"Far from it," was the reply.

"And look here," resumed Pooley in his restless way, "it's worse than
that. A whole pack of Italians have turned up to back Malvoli--swarthy,
savage fellows of some country, anyhow. You know what these
Mediterranean races are like. If I send out word that it's off we shall
have Malvoli storming in here at the head of a whole Corsican clan."

"My lord, it is a matter of life and death," said the priest. "Ring your
bell. Give your message. And see whether it is Malvoli who answers."

The nobleman struck the bell on the table with an odd air of new
curiosity. He said to the clerk who appeared almost instantly in the
doorway: "I have a serious announcement to make to the audience shortly.
Meanwhile, would you kindly tell the two champions that the fight will
have to be put off."

The clerk stared for some seconds as if at a demon and vanished.

"What authority have you for what you say?" asked Lord Pooley abruptly.
"Whom did you consult?"

"I consulted a bandstand," said Father Brown, scratching his head. "But,
no, I'm wrong; I consulted a book, too. I picked it up on a bookstall in
London--very cheap, too."

He had taken out of his pocket a small, stout, leather-bound volume, and
Flambeau, looking over his shoulder, could see that it was some book of
old travels, and had a leaf turned down for reference.

"'The only form in which Voodoo--'" began Father Brown, reading aloud.

"In which what?" inquired his lordship.

"'In which Voodoo,'" repeated the reader, almost with relish, "'is
widely organized outside Jamaica itself i