As he stood in unusual perplexity in the middle of the village street, between the inn and the church, he felt a mild shock of surprise at seeing a recently familiar but rather unexpected figure advancing up the street. Mr. Boon, the journalist, looking very haggard in the sunshine, which showed up his shabby raiment like that of a scarecrow, had his dark and deep-set eyes (rather close together on either side of the long drooping nose) fixed on the priest. The latter looked twice before he realized that the heavy dark moustache hid something like a grin or at least a grim smile.
‘I thought you were going away,’ said Father Brown a little sharply. ‘I thought you left by that train two hours ago.’
‘Well, you see I didn’t,’ said Boon.
‘Why have you come back?’ asked the priest almost ster
