patted him on the shoulder with a gesture almost peculiar to
the soothing of a sick child, and said: "It was a burglar. Obviously it
was a burglar."

"A burglar with a bad cold," observed Father Brown, "that might assist
you to trace him in the neighbourhood."

The Major shook his head in a sombre manner. "He must be far beyond
trace now, I fear," he said.

Then, as the restless man with the revolver turned again towards the
door in the garden, he added in a husky, confidential voice: "I doubt
whether I should send for the police, for fear my friend here has been a
little too free with his bullets, and got on the wrong side of the law.
He's lived in very wild places; and, to be frank with you, I think he
sometimes fancies things."

"I think you once told me," said Brown, "that he believes some Indian
secret society is pursuing him."

Major Putnam nodded, but at the same time shrugged his shoulders. "I
suppose we'd better follow him outside," he said. "I don't want any
more--shall we say, sneezing?"

They passed out into the morning light, which was now even tinged
with sunshine, and saw Colonel Cray's tall figure bent almost double,
minutely examining the condition of gravel and grass. While the Major
strolled unobtrusively towards him, the priest took an equally indolent
turn, which took him round the next corner of the house to within a yard
or two of the projecting dustbin.

He stood regarding this dismal object for some minute and a half--, then
he stepped towards it, lifted the lid and put his head inside. Dust and
other discolouring matter shook upwards as he did so; but Father
Brown never observed his own appearance, whatever else he observed. He
remained thus for a measurable period, as if engaged in some mysterious
prayers. Then he came out again, with some ashes on his hair, and walked
unconcernedly away.

By the time he came round to the garden door again he found a group
there which seemed to roll away morbidities as the sunlight had already
rolled away the mists. It was in no way rationally reassuring; it was
simply broadly comic, like a cluster of Dickens's characters. Major
Putnam had managed to slip inside and plunge into a proper shirt and
trousers, with a crimson cummerbund, and a light square jacket over
all; thus normally set off, his red festive face seemed bursting with a
commonplace cordiality. He was indeed emphatic, but then he was talking
to his cook--the swarthy son of Malta, whose l