He could not remember for certain whether he had liked her or disliked her; there was so much both to like and dislike.  But she had been a person to him, and the unbearable pathos of details and habit stabbed him with all the small daggers of bereavement.  He remembered her pretty face and priggish speeches with a sudden secret vividness which is all the bitterness of death.  In an instant like a bolt from the blue, like a thunderbolt from nowhere, that beautiful and defiant body had been dashed down the open well of the lift to death at the bottom.  Was it suicide?  With so insolent an optimist it seemed impossible.  Was it murder?  But who was there in those hardly inhabited flats to murder anybody?  In a rush of raucous words, which he meant to be strong and suddenly found weak, he asked where was that fellow Kalon.  A voice, habitually heavy, quiet and full, assured him that Kalon for the last fifteen minutes had been away up on his balcony worshipping his god.  When Flambeau heard the voice, and felt the hand of Father Brown, he turned his swarthy face and said abruptly: 

“Then, if he has been up there all the time, who can have done it?”

“Perhaps,” said the other, “we might go upstairs and find out.  We have half an hour before the police will move.”

Leaving the body of the slain heiress in charge of the surgeons, Flambeau dashed up the stairs to the typewriting office, found it utterly empty, and then dashed up to his own.  Having entered that, he abruptly returned with a new and white face to his friend.

“Her sister,” he said, with an unpleasant seriousness, “her sister seems to have gone out for a walk.”

Father Brown nodded.  “Or, she may have gone up to the office of that sun man,” he said.  “If I were you I should just verify that, and then let us all talk it over in your office.  No,” he added suddenly, as if remembering something, “shall I ever get over that stupidity of mine?  Of course, in their office downstairs.”

Flambeau stared; but he followed the little father downstairs to the empty flat of the Staceys, where that impenetrable pastor took a large red-leather chair in the very entrance, from which he could see the stairs and landings, and waited.  He did not wait very long.  In about four minutes three figures descended the stairs, alike only in their solemnity.  The first was Joan Stacey, the sister of the dead woman—­evidently she had been upstairs in the temporary temple of Apollo; the second was the priest of Apollo himself, his litany finished, sweeping down the empty stairs in utter magnificence—­something in his white robes, beard and parted hair had the look of Dore’s Christ leaving the Pretorium; the third was Flambeau, black browed and somewhat bewildered.

Miss Joan Stacey, dark, with a drawn face and hair prematurely touched with grey, walked straight to her own desk and set out her papers with a practical flap.  The mere action rallied everyone else to sanity.  If Miss Joan Stacey was a criminal, she was a cool one.  Father Brown regarded her for some time with an odd little smile, and then, without taking his eyes off her, addressed himself to somebody else.