“I need not tell you more,” said Father Brown.  “They tried him in the wilderness and destroyed him; and then, for the honour of England and of his daughter, they took an oath to seal up for ever the story of the traitor’s purse and the assassin’s sword blade.  Perhaps—­Heaven help them—­they tried to forget it.  Let us try to forget it, anyhow; here is our inn.”

“With all my heart,” said Flambeau, and was just striding into the bright, noisy bar when he stepped back and almost fell on the road.

“Look there, in the devil’s name!” he cried, and pointed rigidly at the square wooden sign that overhung the road.  It showed dimly the crude shape of a sabre hilt and a shortened blade; and was inscribed in false archaic lettering, “The Sign of the Broken Sword.”

“Were you not prepared?” asked Father Brown gently.  “He is the god of this country; half the inns and parks and streets are named after him and his story.”

“I thought we had done with the leper,” cried Flambeau, and spat on the road.

“You will never have done with him in England,” said the priest, looking down, “while brass is strong and stone abides.  His marble statues will erect the souls of proud, innocent boys for centuries, his village tomb will smell of loyalty as of lilies.  Millions who never knew him shall love him like a father—­this man whom the last few that knew him dealt with like dung.  He shall be a saint; and the truth shall never be told of him, because I have made up my mind at last.  There is so much good and evil in breaking secrets, that I put my conduct to a test.  All these newspapers will perish; the anti-Brazil boom is already over; Olivier is already honoured everywhere.  But I told myself that if anywhere, by name, in metal or marble that will endure like the pyramids, Colonel Clancy, or Captain Keith, or President Olivier, or any innocent man was wrongly blamed, then I would speak.  If it were only that St. Clare was wrongly praised, I would be silent.  And I will.”

They plunged into the red-curtained tavern, which was not only cosy, but even luxurious inside.  On a table stood a silver model of the tomb of St. Clare, the silver head bowed, the silver sword broken.  On the walls were coloured photographs of the same scene, and of the system of wagonettes that took tourists to see it.  They sat down on the comfortable padded benches.

“Come, it’s cold,” cried Father Brown; “let’s have some wine or beer.”

“Or brandy,” said Flambeau.

The Three Tools of Death