He made a punch with the ferrule of his umbrella to represent the policeman, and remained moodily staring up the river. Then he made a slight movement with his hand and, stepping quickly across, stooped over the corpse.
“Ah,” he said, straightening himself and letting out a great breath. “The tobacconist! Why in the world didn’t I remember that about the tobacconist?”
“What is the matter with you?” demanded Smith in some exasperation; for Father Brown was rolling his eyes and muttering, and he had uttered the word “tobacconist” as if it were a terrible word of doom.
“Did you notice,” said the priest, after a pause, “something rather curious about his face?”
“Curious, my God!” said Evan, with a retrospective shudder. “Anyhow, his throat was cut. ...”
“I said his face,” said the cleric
