“Quite so,” he said.  “And here I see the corners that were snipped off.”  And to the indignation of his colleague he began to count them.

“That’s all right,” he said, with an apologetic smile.  “Twenty-three sheets cut and twenty-two corners cut off them.  And as I see you are impatient we will rejoin the others.”

“Who is to tell his wife?” asked Dr. Harris.  “Will you go and tell her now, while I send a servant for the police?”

“As you will,” said Father Brown indifferently.  And he went out to the hall door.

Here also he found a drama, though of a more grotesque sort.  It showed nothing less than his big friend Flambeau in an attitude to which he had long been unaccustomed, while upon the pathway at the bottom of the steps was sprawling with his boots in the air the amiable Atkinson, his billycock hat and walking cane sent flying in opposite directions along the path.  Atkinson had at length wearied of Flambeau’s almost paternal custody, and had endeavoured to knock him down, which was by no means a smooth game to play with the Roi des Apaches, even after that monarch’s abdication.

Flambeau was about to leap upon his enemy and secure him once more, when the priest patted him easily on the shoulder.

“Make it up with Mr. Atkinson, my friend,” he said.  “Beg a mutual pardon and say `Good night.’  We need not detain him any longer.”  Then, as Atkinson rose somewhat doubtfully and gathered his hat and stick and went towards the garden gate, Father Brown said in a more serious voice:  “Where is that Indian?”

They all three (for the doctor had joined them) turned involuntarily towards the dim grassy bank amid the tossing trees purple with twilight, where they had last seen the brown man swaying in his strange prayers.  The Indian was gone.

“Confound him,” cried the doctor, stamping furiously.  “Now I know that it was that nigger that did it.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in magic,” said Father Brown quietly.

“No more I did,” said the doctor, rolling his eyes.  “I only know that I loathed that yellow devil when I thought he was a sham wizard.  And I shall loathe him more if I come to think he was a real one.”

“Well, his having escaped is nothing,” said Flambeau.  “For we could have proved nothing and done nothing against him.  One hardly goes to the parish constable with a story of suicide imposed by witchcraft or auto-suggestion.”

Meanwhile Father Brown had made his way into the house, and now went to break the news to the wife of the dead man.

When he came out again he looked a little pale and tragic, but what passed between them in that interview was never known, even when all was known.

Flambeau, who was talking quietly with the doctor, was surprised to see his friend reappear so soon at his elbow; but Brown took no notice, and merely drew the doctor apart.  “You have sent for the police, haven’t you?” he asked.