30 лучших рассказов британских писателей / 30 Best British Short Stories

The moment he caught sight of Brown’s black silhouette against the sunset, he tossed down a scrap of paper with a number and called out with amiable authority: �I want my hat and coat, please; I find I have to go away at once.’

Father Brown took the paper without a word, and obediently went to look for the coat; it was not the first menial work he had done in his life. He brought it and laid it on the counter; meanwhile, the strange gentleman who had been feeling in his waistcoat pocket, said laughing: �I haven’t got any silver; you can keep this.

’ And he threw down half a sovereign, and caught up his coat.

Father Brown’s figure remained quite dark and still; but in that instant he had lost his head. His head was always most valuable when he had lost it. In such moments he put two and two together and made four million. Often the Catholic Church (which is wedded to common sense) did not approve of it. Often he did not approve of it himself. But it was real inspiration – important at rare crises – when whosoever shall lose his head the same shall save it.

�I think, sir,’ he said civilly, �that you have some silver in your pocket.’

The tall gentleman stared. �Hang it,’ he cried, �if I choose to give you gold, why should you complain?’

�Because silver is sometimes more valuable than gold,’ said the priest mildly; �that is, in large quantities.’

The stranger looked at him curiously. Then he looked still more curiously up the passage towards the main entrance.

Then he looked back at Brown again, and then he looked very carefully at the window beyond Brown’s head, still coloured with the after-glow of the storm. Then he seemed to make up his mind. He put one hand on the counter, vaulted over as easily as an acrobat and towered above the priest, putting one tremendous hand upon his collar.

�Stand still,’ he said, in a hacking whisper. �I don’t want to threaten you, but–’

�I do want to threaten you,’ said Father Brown, in a voice like a rolling drum, �I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched.

’

�You’re a rum sort of cloak-room clerk,’ said the other.

�I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,’ said Brown, �and I am ready to hear your confession.’

The other stood gasping for a few moments, and then staggered back into a chair.