The Italian housekeeper was somewhat more communicative, being, as Brown fancied, somewhat less content.  Her tone about her master was faintly acid; though not without a certain awe.  Flambeau and his friend were standing in the room of the looking-glasses examining the red sketch of the two boys, when the housekeeper swept in swiftly on some domestic errand.  It was a peculiarity of this glittering, glass-panelled place that anyone entering was reflected in four or five mirrors at once; and Father Brown, without turning round, stopped in the middle of a sentence of family criticism.  But Flambeau, who had his face close up to the picture, was already saying in a loud voice, “The brothers Saradine, I suppose.  They both look innocent enough.  It would be hard to say which is the good brother and which the bad.”  Then, realising the lady’s presence, he turned the conversation with some triviality, and strolled out into the garden.  But Father Brown still gazed steadily at the red crayon sketch; and Mrs. Anthony still gazed steadily at Father Brown.

She had large and tragic brown eyes, and her olive face glowed darkly with a curious and painful wonder—­as of one doubtful of a stranger’s identity or purpose.  Whether the little priest’s coat and creed touched some southern memories of confession, or whether she fancied he knew more than he did, she said to him in a low voice as to a fellow plotter, “He is right enough in one way, your friend.  He says it would be hard to pick out the good and bad brothers.  Oh, it would be hard, it would be mighty hard, to pick out the good one.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Father Brown, and began to move away.

The woman took a step nearer to him, with thunderous brows and a sort of savage stoop, like a bull lowering his horns.

“There isn’t a good one,” she hissed.  “There was badness enough in the captain taking all that money, but I don’t think there was much goodness in the prince giving it.  The captain’s not the only one with something against him.”

A light dawned on the cleric’s averted face, and his mouth formed silently the word “blackmail.”  Even as he did so the woman turned an abrupt white face over her shoulder and almost fell.  The door had opened soundlessly and the pale Paul stood like a ghost in the doorway.  By the weird trick of the reflecting walls, it seemed as if five Pauls had entered by five doors simultaneously.

“His Highness,” he said, “has just arrived.”

In the same flash the figure of a man had passed outside the first window, crossing the sunlit pane like a lighted stage.  An instant later he passed at the second window and the many mirrors repainted in successive frames the same eagle profile and marching figure.  He was erect and alert, but his hair was white and his complexion of an odd ivory yellow.  He had that short, curved Roman nose which generally goes with long, lean cheeks and chin, but these were