“God!” cried the man by the coffin, “but he hasn’t got a head.”

While the others stood rigid the priest, for the first time, showed a leap of startled concern.

“No head!” he repeated.  “No head?” as if he had almost expected some other deficiency.

Half-witted visions of a headless baby born to Glengyle, of a headless youth hiding himself in the castle, of a headless man pacing those ancient halls or that gorgeous garden, passed in panorama through their minds.  But even in that stiffened instant the tale took no root in them and seemed to have no reason in it.  They stood listening to the loud woods and the shrieking sky quite foolishly, like exhausted animals.  Thought seemed to be something enormous that had suddenly slipped out of their grasp.

“There are three headless men,” said Father Brown, “standing round this open grave.”

The pale detective from London opened his mouth to speak, and left it open like a yokel, while a long scream of wind tore the sky; then he looked at the axe in his hands as if it did not belong to him, and dropped it.

“Father,” said Flambeau in that infantile and heavy voice he used very seldom, “what are we to do?”

His friend’s reply came with the pent promptitude of a gun going off.

“Sleep!” cried Father Brown.  “Sleep.  We have come to the end of the ways.  Do you know what sleep is?  Do you know that every man who sleeps believes in God?  It is a sacrament; for it is an act of faith and it is a food.  And we need a sacrament, if only a natural one.  Something has fallen on us that falls very seldom on men; perhaps the worst thing that can fall on them.”

Craven’s parted lips came together to say, “What do you mean?”

The priest had turned his face to the castle as he answered:  “We have found the truth; and the truth makes no sense.”

He went down the path in front of them with a plunging and reckless step very rare with him, and when they reached the castle again he threw himself upon sleep with the simplicity of a dog.

Despite his mystic praise of slumber, Father Brown was up earlier than anyone else except the silent gardener; and was found smoking a big pipe and watching that expert at his speechless labours in the kitchen garden.  Towards daybreak the rocking storm had ended in roaring rains, and the day came with a curious freshness.  The gardener seemed even to have been conversing, but at sight of the detectives he planted his spade sullenly in a bed and, saying something about his breakfast, shifted along the lines of cabbages and shut himself in the kitchen.  “He’s a valuable man, that,” said Father Brown.  “He does the potatoes amazingly.  Still,” he added, with a dispassionate charity, “he has his faults; which of us hasn’t?  He doesn’t dig this bank quite regularly.  There, for instance,” and he stamped suddenly on one spot.  “I’m really very doubtful about that potato.”