“Flambeau!” he cried, and shook his friend by both hands again and again, much to the astonishment of that sportsman, as he came on shore with his fishing tackle.  “Flambeau,” he said, “so you’re not killed?”

“Killed!” repeated the angler in great astonishment.  “And why should I be killed?”

“Oh, because nearly everybody else is,” said his companion rather wildly.  “Saradine got murdered, and Antonelli wants to be hanged, and his mother’s fainted, and I, for one, don’t know whether I’m in this world or the next.  But, thank God, you’re in the same one.”  And he took the bewildered Flambeau’s arm.

As they turned from the landing-stage they came under the eaves of the low bamboo house, and looked in through one of the windows, as they had done on their first arrival.  They beheld a lamp-lit interior well calculated to arrest their eyes.  The table in the long dining-room had been laid for dinner when Saradine’s destroyer had fallen like a stormbolt on the island.  And the dinner was now in placid progress, for Mrs. Anthony sat somewhat sullenly at the foot of the table, while at the head of it was Mr. Paul, the major domo, eating and drinking of the best, his bleared, bluish eyes standing queerly out of his face, his gaunt countenance inscrutable, but by no means devoid of satisfaction.

With a gesture of powerful impatience, Flambeau rattled at the window, wrenched it open, and put an indignant head into the lamp-lit room.

“Well,” he cried.  “I can understand you may need some refreshment, but really to steal your master’s dinner while he lies murdered in the garden—­”

“I have stolen a great many things in a long and pleasant life,” replied the strange old gentleman placidly; “this dinner is one of the few things I have not stolen.  This dinner and this house and garden happen to belong to me.”

A thought flashed across Flambeau’s face.  “You mean to say,” he began, “that the will of Prince Saradine—­”

“I am Prince Saradine,” said the old man, munching a salted almond.

Father Brown, who was looking at the birds outside, jumped as if he were shot, and put in at the window a pale face like a turnip.

“You are what?” he repeated in a shrill voice.

“Paul, Prince Saradine, A vos ordres,” said the venerable person politely, lifting a glass of sherry.  “I live here very quietly, being a domestic kind of fellow; and for the sake of modesty I am called Mr. Paul, to distinguish me from my unfortunate brother Mr. Stephen.  He died, I hear, recently—­in the garden.  Of course, it is not my fault if enemies pursue him to this place.  It is owing to the regrettable irregularity of his life.  He was not a domestic character.”

He relapsed into silence, and continued to gaze at the opposite wall just above the bowed and sombre head of the woman.  They saw plainly the family likeness that had haunted them in the dead man.  Then his old shoulders began to heave and shake a little, as if he were choking, but his face did not alter.