On the occasion of their annual dinner the Fishermen were in the
habit of exposing all their treasures, as if they were in a
private house, especially the celebrated set of fish knives and
forks which were, as it were, the insignia of the society, each
being exquisitely wrought in silver in the form of a fish, and
each loaded at the hilt with one large pearl. These were always
laid out for the fish course, and the fish course was always the
most magnificent in that magnificent repast. The society had a
vast number of ceremonies and observances, but it had no history
and no object; that was where it was so very aristocratic. You
did not have to be anything in order to be one of the Twelve
Fishers; unless you were already a certain sort of person, you
never even heard of them. It had been in existence twelve years.
Its president was Mr. Audley. Its vice-president was the Duke of
Chester.

If I have in any degree conveyed the atmosphere of this
appalling hotel, the reader may feel a natural wonder as to how I
came to know anything about it, and may even speculate as to how
so ordinary a person as my friend Father Brown came to find himself
in that golden galley. As far as that is concerned, my story is
simple, or even vulgar. There is in the world a very aged rioter
and demagogue who breaks into the most refined retreats with the
dreadful information that all men are brothers, and wherever this
leveller went on his pale horse it was Father Brown's trade to
follow. One of the waiters, an Italian, had been struck down with
a paralytic stroke that afternoon; and his Jewish employer,
marvelling mildly at such superstitions, had consented to send for
the nearest Popish priest. With what the waiter confessed to
Father Brown we are not concerned, for the excellent reason that