Father Brown c****d an eyebrow, as if a new thought had surprised him. ‘Why, now I come to think of it,’ he said, ‘there might be better evidence, even out of Shakespeare. He doesn’t often mention Scotchmen. But he was rather fond of making fun of Welshmen.’
The Inspector was searching his friend’s face; for he fancied he recognized an alertness behind its demure expression. ‘By Jove,’ he said. ‘Nobody thought of turning the suspicions that way, anyhow.’
‘Well,’ said Father Brown, with broad-minded calm, ‘you started by talking about fanatics; and how a fanatic could do anything. Well, I suppose we had the honour of entertaining in this bar-parlour yesterday, about the biggest and loudest and most fat-headed fanatic in the modern world. If being a pig-headed i***t with one idea is the wa
