a word and sat down heavily in a chair. Then he said, as in a sort of daze: "I missed the others . . . I lost my way. I thought I'd better come back."

The remains of evening refreshments were on the table, and Henry Horne, that lifelong Prohibitionist, poured himself out a wine-glassful of liqueur brandy and drank it at a gulp. "You seem upset," said Father Brown.

Horne had put his hands to his forehead and spoke as from under the shadow of it; he seemed to be speaking to the priest only, in a low voice.

"I may as well tell you. I have seen a ghost."

"A ghost!" repeated Nares in astonishment. "Whose ghost?"

"The ghost of Gideon Wise, the master of this house," answered Horne more firmly, "standing over the abyss into which he fell."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Nares; "no sensible person believes in ghosts."

"That is hardly exact," said Father Brown, smiling a little. "There is really quite as good evidence for many ghosts as there is for most crimes."

"Well, it's my business to run after the criminals," said Nares rather roughly, "and I will leave other people to run away from the ghosts. If anybody at this time of day chooses to be frightened of ghosts, it's his affair."

"I didn't say I was frightened of them, though I dare say I might be," said Father Brown. "No-