Indeed, with all his dignity of a man of the world, Prince Saradine radiated to such sensitive observers as the priest, a certain atmosphere of the restless and even the unreliable.  His face was fastidious, but his eye was wild; he had little nervous tricks, like a man shaken by drink or drugs, and he neither had, nor professed to have, his hand on the helm of household affairs.  All these were left to the two old servants, especially to the butler, who was plainly the central pillar of the house.  Mr. Paul, indeed, was not so much a butler as a sort of steward or, even, chamberlain; he dined privately, but with almost as much pomp as his master; he was feared by all the servants; and he consulted with the prince decorously, but somewhat unbendingly—­ rather as if he were the prince’s solicitor.  The sombre housekeeper was a mere shadow in comparison; indeed, she seemed to efface herself and wait only on the butler, and Brown heard no more of those volcanic whispers which had half told him of the younger brother who blackmailed the elder.  Whether the prince was really being thus bled by the absent captain, he could not be certain, but there was something insecure and secretive about Saradine that made the tale by no means incredible.

When they went once more into the long hall with the windows and the mirrors, yellow evening was dropping over the waters and the willowy banks; and a bittern sounded in the distance like an elf upon his dwarfish drum.  The same singular sentiment of some sad and evil fairyland crossed the priest’s mind again like a little grey cloud.  “I wish Flambeau were back,” he muttered.

“Do you believe in doom?” asked the restless Prince Saradine suddenly.

“No,” answered his guest.  “I believe in Doomsday.”

The prince turned from the window and stared at him in a singular manner, his face in shadow against the sunset.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry,” answered Father Brown.  “The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else.  Somewhere else retribution will come on the real offender.  Here it often seems to fall on the wrong person.”

The prince made an inexplicable noise like an animal; in his shadowed face the eyes were shining queerly.  A new and shrewd thought exploded silently in the other’s mind.  Was there another meaning in Saradine’s blend of brilliancy and abruptness?  Was the prince—­ Was he perfectly sane?  He was repeating, “The wrong person—­the wrong person,” many more times than was natural in a social exclamation.

Then Father Brown awoke tardily to a second truth.  In the mirrors before him he could see the silent door standing open, and the silent Mr. Paul standing in it, with his usual pallid impassiveness.

“I thought it better to announce at once,” he said, with the same stiff respectfulness as of an old family lawyer, “a boat rowed by six men has come to the landing-stage, and there’s a gentleman sitting in the stern.”