Father Brown’s figure remained quite dark and still; but in that instant he had lost his head.  His head was always most valuable when he had lost it.  In such moments he put two and two together and made four million.  Often the Catholic Church (which is wedded to common sense) did not approve of it.  Often he did not approve of it himself.  But it was real inspiration—­important at rare crises—­when whosoever shall lose his head the same shall save it.

“I think, sir,” he said civilly, “that you have some silver in your pocket.”

The tall gentleman stared.  “Hang it,” he cried, “if I choose to give you gold, why should you complain?”

“Because silver is sometimes more valuable than gold,” said the priest mildly; “that is, in large quantities.”

The stranger looked at him curiously.  Then he looked still more curiously up the passage towards the main entrance.  Then he looked back at Brown again, and then he looked very carefully at the window beyond Brown’s head, still coloured with the after-glow of the storm.  Then he seemed to make up his mind.  He put one hand on the counter, vaulted over as easily as an acrobat and towered above the priest, putting one tremendous hand upon his collar.

“Stand still,” he said, in a hacking whisper.  “I don’t want to threaten you, but—­”

“I do want to threaten you,” said Father Brown, in a voice like a rolling drum, “I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched.”

“You’re a rum sort of cloak-room clerk,” said the other.

“I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,” said Brown, “and I am ready to hear your confession.”

The other stood gasping for a few moments, and then staggered back into a chair.

The first two courses of the dinner of The Twelve True Fishermen had proceeded with placid success.  I do not possess a copy of the menu; and if I did it would not convey anything to anybody.  It was written in a sort of super-French employed by cooks, but quite unintelligible to Frenchmen.  There was a tradition in the club that the hors d’oeuvres should be various and manifold to the point of madness.  They were taken seriously because they were avowedly useless extras, like the whole dinner and the whole club.  There was also a tradition that the soup course should be light and unpretending—­a sort of simple and austere vigil for the feast of fish that was to come.  The talk was that strange, slight talk which governs the British Empire, which governs it in secret, and yet would scarcely enlighten an ordinary Englishman even if he could overhear it.  Cabinet ministers on both sides were alluded to by their Christian names with a sort of bored benignity.  The Radical Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom the whole Tory party was supposed to be cursing for his extortions, was praised for his minor poetry, or his saddle in the hunting field.  The Tory leader,