“Still I hardly follow,” replied the official.
“Well,” said Flambeau, with decision, “I mean that we’ve only found out one thing about Lord Glengyle. He was a maniac.”
The black silhouette of Gow with his top hat and spade passed the window, dimly outlined against the darkening sky. Father Brown stared passively at it and answered:
“I can understand there must have been something odd about the man, or he wouldn’t have buried himself alive—nor been in such a hurry to bury himself dead. But what makes you think it was lunacy?”
“Well,” said Flambeau, “you just listen to the list of things Mr. Craven has found in the house.”
“We must get a candle,” said Craven, suddenly. “A storm is getting up, and it’s too dark to read.”
“Have you found any candles,” asked Brown smiling, “among your oddities?”
Flambeau raised a grave face, and fixed his dark eyes on his friend.
“That is curious, too,” he said. “Twenty-five candles, and not a trace of a candlestick.”
In the rapidly darkening room and rapidly rising wind, Brown went along the table to where a bundle of wax candles lay among the other scrappy exhibits. As he did so he bent accidentally over the heap of red-brown dust; and a sharp sneeze cracked the silence.
“Hullo!” he said, “snuff!”
He took one of the candles, lit it carefully, came back and stuck it in the neck of the whisky bottle. The unrestful night air, blowing through the