The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face
in the dusk, and said, with the timid eagerness of "The Private
Secretary":

"Are--are you sure?"

Flambeau yelled with delight.

"Really, you're as good as a three-act farce," he cried.
"Yes, you turnip, I am quite sure. I had the sense to make a
duplicate of the right parcel, and now, my friend, you've got the
duplicate and I've got the jewels. An old dodge, Father Brown--
a very old dodge."

"Yes," said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair
with the same strange vagueness of manner. "Yes, I've heard of it
before."

The colossus of crime leaned over to the little rustic priest
with a sort of sudden interest.

"You have heard of it?" he asked. "Where have you heard of
it?"

"Well, I mustn't tell you his name, of course," said the
little man simply. "He was a penitent, you know. He had lived
prosperously for about twenty years entirely on duplicate brown
paper parcels. And so, you see, when I began to suspect you, I
thought of this poor chap's way of doing it at once."