Well, and what do you want, I wonder!"

Lord Pooley was a gentleman, and, like most of the few remaining
to our race, was worried--especially about money. He was half grey

and half flaxen, and he had the eyes of fever and a high-bridged,
frost-bitten nose.

"Only a word," said Father Brown. "I have come to prevent
a man being killed."

Lord Pooley bounded off his chair as if a spring had
flung him from it. "I'm damned if I'll stand any more of this!"

he cried. "You and your committees and parsons and petitions!
Weren't there parsons in the old days, when they fought without gloves?

Now they're fighting with the regulation gloves, and there's not
the rag of a possibility of either of the boxers being killed."

"I didn't mean either of the boxers," said the little priest.
"Well, well, well!" said the nobleman, with a touch of frosty humour.

"Who's going to be killed? The referee?"
"I don't know who's going to be killed," replied Father Brown,

with a reflective stare. "If I did I shouldn't have to
spoil your pleasure. I could simply get him to escape.

I never could see anything wrong about prize-fights. As it is,
I must ask you to announce that the fight is off for the present."

"Anything else?" jeered the gentleman with feverish eyes.
"And what do you say to the two thousand people who have come to see it?"

"I say there will be one thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine
of them left alive when they have seen it," said Father Brown.

Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau. "Is your friend mad?" he asked.
"Far from it," was the reply.

"And took here," resumed Pooley in his restless way,
"it's worse than that. A whole pack of Italians have turned up

to back Malvoli--swarthy, savage fellows of some country, anyhow.
You know what these Mediterranean races are like. If I send out word

that it's off we shall have Malvoli storming in here at the head of
a whole Corsican clan."

"My lord, it is a matter of life and death," said the priest.
"Ring your bell. Give your message. And see whether it is Malvoli

who answers."
The nobleman struck the bell on the table with an odd air

of new curiosity. He said to the clerk who appeared almost instantly
in the doorway: "I have a serious announcement to make to the audience

shortly. Meanwhile, would you kindly tell the two champions that
the fight will have to be put off."

The clerk stared for some seconds as if at a demon and vanished.
"What authority have you for what you say?" asked Lord Pooley

abruptly. "Whom did you consult?"
"I consulted a bandstand," said Father Brown, scratching his head.

"But, no, I'm wrong; I consulted a book, too. I picked it up
on a bookstall in London--very cheap, too."

He had taken out of his pocket a small, stout, leather-bound volume,
and Flambeau, looking over his shoulder, could see that it was some

book of old travels, and had a leaf turned down for reference.
"`The only form in which Voodoo--'" began Father Brown, reading aloud.

"In which what?" inquired his lordship.
"`In which Voodoo,'" repeated the reader, almost with relish,

"`is widely organized outside Jamaica itself is in the form known as
the Monkey, or the God of the Gongs, which is powerful in many parts of

the two American continents, especially among half-breeds, many of whom
look exactly like white men. It differs from most other forms

of devil-worship and human sacrifice in the fact that the blood
is not shed formally on the altar, but by a sort of assassination

among the crowd. The gongs beat with a deafening din as
the doors of the shrine open and the monkey-god is revealed;

almost the whole congregation rivet ecstatic eyes on him. But after--'"
The door of the room was flung open, and the fashionable negro

stood framed in it, his eyeballs rolling, his silk hat still insolently
tilted on his head. "Huh!" he cried, showing his apish teeth.

"What this? Huh! Huh! You steal a coloured gentleman's prize--
prize his already--yo' think yo' jes' save that white 'Talian trash--"

"The matter is only deferred," said the nobleman quietly.
"I will be with you to explain in a minute or two."

"Who you to--" shouted Nigger Ned, beginning to storm.
"My name is Pooley," replied the other, with a creditable coolness.

"I am the organizing secretary, and I advise you just now
to leave the room."

"Who this fellow?" demanded the dark champion, pointing to the
priest disdainfully.

"My name is Brown," was the reply. "And I advise you just now
to leave the country."

The prize-fighter stood glaring for a few seconds, and then,
rather to the surprise of Flambeau and the others, strode out,

sending the door to with a crash behind him.
"Well," asked Father Brown rubbing his dusty hair up,

"what do you think of Leonardo da Vinci? A beautiful Italian head."
"Look here," said Lord Pooley, "I've taken a considerable responsibility,

on your bare word. I think you ought to tell me more about this."
"You are quite right, my lord," answered Brown. "And it won't take

long to tell." He put the little leather book in his overcoat pocket.
"I think we know all that this can tell us, but you shall look at it

to see if I'm right. That negro who has just swaggered out is one of
the most dangerous men on earth, for he has the brains of a European,

with the instincts of a cannibal. He has turned what was clean,
common-sense butchery among his fellow-barbarians into a very modern

and scientific secret society of assassins. He doesn't know I know it,
nor, for the matter of that, that I can't prove it."

There was a silence, and the little man went on.
"But if I want to murder somebody, will it really be the best plan

to make sure I'm alone with him?"
Lord Pooley's eyes recovered their frostytwinkle as he

looked at the little clergyman. He only said: "If you want to
murder somebody, I should advise it."

Father Brown shook his head, like a murderer of much riper experience.
"So Flambeau said," he replied, with a sigh. "But consider.

The more a man feels lonely the less he can be sure he is alone.
It must mean empty spaces round him, and they are just what

make him obvious. Have you never seen one ploughman from the heights,
or one shepherd from the valleys? Have you never walked along a cliff,

and seen one man walking along the sands? Didn't you know when he's
killed a crab, and wouldn't you have known if it had been a creditor?

No! No! No! For an intelligentmurderer, such as you or I might be,
it is an impossible plan to make sure that nobody is looking at you."

"But what other plan is there?"
"There is only one," said the priest. "To make sure

that everybody is looking at something else. A man is throttled
close by the big stand at Epsom. Anybody might have seen it done

while the stand stood empty--any tramp under the hedges or motorist
among the hills. But nobody would have seen it when the stand

was crowded and the whole ring roaring, when the favourite was
coming in first--or wasn't. The twisting of a neck-cloth,

the thrusting of a body behind a door could be done in an instant--
so long as it was that instant. It was the same, of course,"

he continued turning to Flambeau, "with that poor fellow
under the bandstand. He was dropped through the hole (it wasn't

an accidental hole) just at some very dramatic moment of the entertainment,
when the bow of some great violinist or the voice of some great singer

opened or came to its climax. And here, of course, when the knock-out
blow came--it would not be the only one. That is the little trick