"How in blazes do you know all these horrors?" cried Flambeau.

The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his
clerical opponent.

"Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose," he said. "Has
it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear
men's real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil?
But, as a matter of fact, another part of my trade, too, made me
sure you weren't a priest."

"What?" asked the thief, almost gaping.

"You attacked reason," said Father Brown. "It's bad theology."

And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three
policemen came out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an
artist and a sportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great
bow.

"Do not bow to me, mon ami," said Valentin with silver
clearness. "Let us both bow to our master."

And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex
priest blinked about for his umbrella.



The Secret Garden