“And why?” asked Craven, amused with the little man’s hobby.

“I’m doubtful about it,” said the other, “because old Gow was doubtful about it himself.  He put his spade in methodically in every place but just this.  There must be a mighty fine potato just here.”

Flambeau pulled up the spade and impetuously drove it into the place.  He turned up, under a load of soil, something that did not look like a potato, but rather like a monstrous, over-domed mushroom.  But it struck the spade with a cold click; it rolled over like a ball, and grinned up at them.

“The Earl of Glengyle,” said Brown sadly, and looked down heavily at the skull.

Then, after a momentary meditation, he plucked the spade from Flambeau, and, saying “We must hide it again,” clamped the skull down in the earth.  Then he leaned his little body and huge head on the great handle of the spade, that stood up stiffly in the earth, and his eyes were empty and his forehead full of wrinkles.  “If one could only conceive,” he muttered, “the meaning of this last monstrosity.”  And leaning on the large spade handle, he buried his brows in his hands, as men do in church.

All the corners of the sky were brightening into blue and silver; the birds were chattering in the tiny garden trees; so loud it seemed as if the trees themselves were talking.  But the three men were silent enough.

“Well, I give it all up,” said Flambeau at last boisterously.  “My brain and this world don’t fit each other; and there’s an end of it.  Snuff, spoilt Prayer Books, and the insides of musical boxes—­what—­”

Brown threw up his bothered brow and rapped on the spade handle with an intolerance quite unusual with him.  “Oh, tut, tut, tut, tut!” he cried.  “All that is as plain as a pikestaff.  I understood the snuff and clockwork, and so on, when I first opened my eyes this morning.  And since then I’ve had it out with old Gow, the gardener, who is neither so deaf nor so stupid as he pretends.  There’s nothing amiss about the loose items.  I was wrong about the torn mass-book, too; there’s no harm in that.  But it’s this last business.  Desecrating graves and stealing dead men’s heads—­surely there’s harm in that?  Surely there’s black magic still in that?  That doesn’t fit in to the quite simple story of the snuff and the candles.”  And, striding about again, he smoked moodily.

“My friend,” said Flambeau, with a grim humour, “you must be careful with me and remember I was once a criminal.  The great advantage of that estate was that I always made up the story myself, and acted it as quick as I chose.  This detective business of waiting about is too much for my French impatience.  All my life, for good or evil, I have done things at the instant; I always fought duels the next morning; I always paid bills on the nail; I never even put off a visit to the dentist—­”

Father Brown’s pipe fell out of his mouth and broke into three pieces on the gravel path.  He stood rolling his eyes, the exact picture of an idiot.  “Lord, what a turnip I am!” he kept saying.  “Lord, what a turnip!” Then, in a somewhat groggy kind of way, he began to laugh.