Gilder threw an alarmed glance at the man knocked down; but since that outraged person was already sitting up and wiping a little blood off a substantially uninjured face, he only said shortly:  “What do you mean?”

“It is quite true, as this fellow says,” explained Royce, “that Miss Armstrong fainted with a knife in her hand.  But she had not snatched the knife to attack her father, but to defend him.”

“To defend him,” repeated Gilder gravely.  “Against whom?”

“Against me,” answered the secretary.

Alice looked at him with a complex and baffling face; then she said in a low voice:  “After it all, I am still glad you are brave.”

“Come upstairs,” said Patrick Royce heavily, “and I will show you the whole cursed thing.”

The attic, which was the secretary’s private place (and rather a small cell for so large a hermit), had indeed all the vestiges of a violent drama.  Near the centre of the floor lay a large revolver as if flung away; nearer to the left was rolled a whisky bottle, open but not quite empty.  The cloth of the little table lay dragged and trampled, and a length of cord, like that found on the corpse, was cast wildly across the windowsill.  Two vases were smashed on the mantelpiece and one on the carpet.

“I was drunk,” said Royce; and this simplicity in the prematurely battered man somehow had the pathos of the first sin of a baby.

“You all know about me,” he continued huskily; “everybody knows how my story began, and it may as well end like that too.  I was called a clever man once, and might have been a happy one; Armstrong saved the remains of a brain and body from the taverns, and was always kind to me in his own way, poor fellow!  Only he wouldn’t let me marry Alice here; and it will always be said that he was right enough.  Well, you can form your own conclusions, and you won’t want me to go into details.  That is my whisky bottle half emptied in the corner; that is my revolver quite emptied on the carpet.  It was the rope from my box that was found on the corpse, and it was from my window the corpse was thrown.  You need not set detectives to grub up my tragedy; it is a common enough weed in this world.  I give myself to the gallows; and, by God, that is enough!”

At a sufficiently delicate sign, the police gathered round the large man to lead him away; but their unobtrusiveness was somewhat staggered by the remarkable appearance of Father Brown, who was on his hands and knees on the carpet in the doorway, as if engaged in some kind of undignified prayers.  Being a person utterly insensible to the social figure he cut, he remained in this posture, but turned a bright round face up at the company, presenting the appearance of a quadruped with a very comic human head.

“I say,” he said good-naturedly, “this really won’t do at all, you know.  At the beginning you said we’d found no weapon.  But now we’re finding too many; there’s the knife to stab, and the rope to strangle, and the pistol to shoot; and after all he broke his neck by falling out of a window!  It won’t do.  It’s not economical.”  And he shook his head at the ground as a horse does grazing.