the　street；　with　the　front　door　in　the　middle；　it　was　two　stories　high；　and　contained　nearly　all　the　important　rooms。　　The　short　tail　piece；　which　ran　out　at　the　back　immediately　opposite　the　front　door；　was　one　story　high；　and　consisted　only　of　two　long　rooms；　the　one　leading　into　the　other。　　The　first　of　these　two　rooms　was　the　study　in　which　the　celebrated　Mr。　Quinton　wrote　his　wild　Oriental　poems　and　romances。　　The　farther　room　was　a　glass　conservatory　full　of　tropical　blossoms　of　quite　unique　and　almost　monstrous　beauty；　and　on　such　afternoons　as　these　glowing　with　gorgeous　sunlight。　　Thus　when　the　hall　door　was　open；　many　a　passer…by　literally　stopped　to　stare　and　gasp；　for　he　looked　down　a　perspective　of　rich　apartments　to　something　really　like　a　transformation　scene　in　a　fairy　play：　purple　clouds　and　golden　suns　and　crimson　stars　that　were　at　once　scorchingly　vivid　and　yet　transparent　and　far　away。　　　　　Leonard　Quinton；　the　poet；　had　himself　most　carefully　arranged　this　effect；　and　it　is　doubtful　whether　he　so　perfectly　expressed　his　personality　in　any　of　his　poems。　　For　he　was　a　man　who　drank　and　bathed　in　colours；　who　indulged　his　lust　for　colour　somewhat　to　the　neglect　of　formeven　of　good　form。　　This　it　was　that　had　turned　his　genius　so　wholly　to　eastern　art　and　imagery；　to　those　bewildering　carpets　or　blinding　embroideries　in　which　all　the　colours　seem　fallen　into　a　fortunate　chaos；　having　nothing　to　typify　or　to　teach。　　He　had　attempted；　not　perhaps　with　complete　artistic　success；　but　with　acknowledged　imagination　and　invention；　to　compose　epics　and　love　stories　reflecting　the　riot　of　violent　and　even　cruel　colour；　tales　of　tropical　heavens　of　burning　gold　or　blood…red　copper；　of　eastern　heroes　who　rode　with　twelve…turbaned　mitres　upon　elephants　painted　purple　or　peacock　green；　of　gigantic　jewels　that　a　hundred　negroes　could　not　carry；　but　which　burned　with　ancient　and　strange…hued　fires。　　　　　In　short　（to　put　the　matter　from　the　more　common　point　of　view）；　he　dealt　much　in　eastern　heavens；　rather　worse　than　most　western　hells；　in　eastern　monarchs；　whom　we　might　possibly　call　maniacs；　and　in　eastern　jewels　which　a　Bond　Street　jeweller　（if　the　hundred　staggering　negroes　brought　them　into　his　shop）　might　possibly　not　regard　as　genuine。　　Quinton　was　a　genius；　if　a　morbid　one；　and　even　his　morbidity　appeared　more　in　his　life　than　in　his　work。　　In　temperament　he　was　weak　and　waspish；　and　his　health　had　suffered　heavily　from　oriental　experiments　with　opium。　　His　wife　a　handsome；　hard…working；　and；　indeed；　over…worked　woman　objected　to　the　opium；　but　objected　much　more　to　a　live　Indian　hermit　in　white　and　yellow　robes；　whom　her　husband　insisted　on　entertaining　for　months　together；　a　Virgil　to　guide　his　spirit　through　the　heavens　and　the　hells　of　the　east。　　　　　It　was　out　of　this　artistic　household　that　Father　Brown　and　his　friend　stepped　on　to　the　door…step；　and　to　judge　from　their　faces；　they　stepped　out　of　it　with　much　relief。　　Flambeau　had　known　Quinton　in　wild　student　days　in　Paris；　and　they　had　renewed　the　acquaintance　for　a　week…end；　but　apart　from　Flambeau's　more　responsible　developments　of　late；　he　did　not　get　on　well　with　the　poet　now。　　Choking　oneself　with　opium　and　writing　little　erotic　verses　on　vellum　was　not　his　notion　of　how　a　gentleman　should　go　to　the　devil。　　As　the　two　paused　on　the　door…step；　before　taking　a　turn　in　the　garden；　the　front　garden　gate　was　thrown　open　with　violence；　and　a　young　man　with　a　billycock　hat　on　the　back　of　his　head　tumbled　up　the　steps　in　his　eagerness。　　He　was　a　dissipated…looking　youth　with　a　gorgeous　red　necktie　all　awry；　as　if　he　had　slept　in　it；　and　he　kept　fidgeting　and　lashing　about　with　one　of　those　little　jointed　canes。　　　　　〃I　say；〃　he　said　breathlessly；　〃I　want　to　see　old　Quinton。　　I　must　see　him。　　Has　he　gone？〃　　　　　〃Mr。　Quinton　is　in；　I　believe；〃　said　Father　Brown；　cleaning　his　pipe；　〃but　I　do　not　know　if　you　can　see　him。　　The　doctor　is　with　him　at　present。〃　　　　　The　young　man；　who　seemed　not　to　be　perfectly　sober；　stumbled　into　the　hall；　and　at　the　same　moment　the　doctor　came　out　of　Quinton's　study；　shutting　the　door　and　beginning　to　put　on　his　gloves。　　　　　〃See　Mr。　Quinton？〃　said　the　doctor　coolly。　　〃No；　I'm　afraid　you　can't。　　In　fact；　you　mustn't　on　any　account。　　Nobody　must　see　him；　I've　just　given　him　his　sleeping　draught。〃　　　　　〃No；　but　look　here；　old　chap；〃　said　the　youth　in　the　red　tie；　trying　affectionately　to　capture　the　doctor　by　the　lapels　of　his　coat。　　〃Look　here。　　I'm　simply　sewn　up；　I　tell　you。　　I〃　　　　　〃It's　no　good；　Mr。　Atkinson；〃　said　the　doctor；　forcing　him　to　fall　back；　〃when　you　can　alter　the　effects　of　a　drug　I'll　alter　my　decision；〃　and；　settling　on　his　hat；　he　stepped　out　into　the　sunlight　with　the　other　two。　　He　was　a　bull…necked；　good…tempered　little　man　with　a　small　moustache；　inexpressibly　ordinary；　yet　giving　an　impression　of　capacity。　　　　　The　young　man　in　the　billycock；　who　did　not　seem　to　be　gifted　with　any　tact　in　dealing　with　people　beyond　the　general　idea　of　clutching　hold　of　their　coats；　stood　outside　the　door；　as　dazed　as　if　he　had　been　thrown　out　bodily；　and　silently　watched　the　other　three　walk　away　together　through　the　garden。　　　　　〃That　was　a　sound；　spanking　lie　I　told　just　now；〃　remarked　the　medical　man；　laughing。　　〃In　point　of　fact；　poor　Quinton　doesn't　have　his　sleeping　draught　for　nearly　half　an　hour。　　But　I'm　not　going　to　have　him　bothered　with　that　little　beast；　who　only　wants　to　borrow　money　that　he　wouldn't　pay　back　if　he　could。　　He's　a　dirty　little　scamp；　though　he　is　Mrs。　Quinton's　brother；　and　she's　as　fine　a　woman　as　ever　walked。〃　　　　　〃Yes；〃　said　Father　Brown。　　〃She's　a　good　woman。〃　　　　　〃So　I　propose　to　hang　about　the　garden　till　the　creature　has　cleared　off；〃　went　on　the　doctor；　〃and　then　I'll　go　in　to　Quinton　with　the　medicine。　　Atkinson　can't　get　in；　because　I　locked　the　door。〃　　　　　〃In　that　case；　Dr。　Harris；〃　said　Flambeau；　〃we　might　as　well　walk　round　at　the　back　by　the　end　of　the　conservatory。　　There's　no　entrance　to　it　that　way；　but　it's　worth　seeing；　even　from　the　outside。〃　　　　　〃Yes；　and　I　might　get　a　squint　at　my　patient；〃　laughed　the　doctor；　〃for　he　prefers　to　lie　on　an　ottoman　right　at　the　end　of　the　conservatory　amid　all　those　blood…red　poinsettias；　it　would　give　me　the　creeps。　　But　what　are　you　doing？〃　　　　　Father　Brown　had　stopped　for　a　moment；　and　picked　up　out　of　the　long　grass；　where　it　had　almost　been　wholly　hidden；　a　queer；　crooked　Oriental　knife；　inlaid　exquisitely　in　coloured　stones　and　metals。　　　　　〃What　is　this？〃　asked　Father　Brown；　regarding　it　with　some　disfavour。　　　　　〃Oh；　Quinton's；　I　suppose；〃　said　Dr。　Harris　carelessly；　〃he　has　all　sorts　of　Chinese　knickknacks　about　the　place。　　Or　perhaps　it　belongs　to　that　mild　Hindoo　of　his　whom　he　keeps　on　a　string。〃　　　　　〃What　Hindoo？〃　asked　Father　Brown；　still　staring　at　the　dagger　in　his　hand。　　　　　〃Oh；　some　Indian　conjuror；〃　said　the　doctor　lightly；　〃a　fraud；　of　course。〃　　　　　〃You　don't　believe　in　magic？〃　asked　Father　Brown；　without　looking　up。　　　　　〃O　crickey！　magic！〃　said　the　doctor。　　　　　〃It's　very　beautiful；〃　said　the　priest　in　a　low；　dreaming　voice；　〃the　colours　are　very　beautiful。　　But　it's　the　wrong　shape。〃　　　　　〃What　for？〃　asked　Flambeau；　staring。　　　　　〃For　anything。　　It's　the　wrong　shape　in　the　abstract。　　Don't　you　ever　feel　that　about　Eastern　art？　　The　colours　are　intoxicatingly　lovely；　but　the　shapes　are　mean　and　bad　deliberately　mean　and　bad。　　I　have　seen　wicked　things　in　a　Turkey　carpet。〃　　　　　〃Mon　Dieu！〃　cried　Flambeau；　laughing。　　　　　〃They　are　letters　and　symbols　in　a　language　I　don't　know；　but　I　know　they　stand　for　evil　words；〃　went　on　the　priest；　his　voice　growing　lower　and　lower。　　〃The　lines　go　wrong　on　purposelike　serpents　doubling　to　escape。〃　　　　　〃What　the　devil　are　you　talking　about？〃　said　the　doctor　with　a　loud　laugh。　　　　　Flambeau　spoke　quietly　to　him　in　answer。　　〃The　Father　sometimes　gets　this　mystic's　cloud　on　him；〃　he　said；　〃but　I　give　you　fair　warning　that　I　have　never　known　him　to　have　it　except　when　there　was　some　evil　quite　near。〃　　　　　〃Oh；　rats！〃　said　the　scientist。　　　　　〃Why；　look　at　it；〃　cried　Father　Brown；　holding　out　the　crooked　knife　at　arm's　length；　as　if　it　were　some　glittering　snake。　〃Don't　you　see　it　is　the　wrong　shape？　　Don't　you　see　that　it　has　no　hearty　and　plain　purpose？　　It　does　not　point　like　a　spear。　　It　does　not　sweep　like　a　scythe。　　It　does　not　look　like　a　weapon。　　It　looks　like　an　instrument　of　torture。〃　　　　　〃Well；　as　you　don't　seem　to　like　it；〃　said　the　jolly　Harris；　〃it　had　better　be　taken　back　to　its　owner。　　Haven't　we　come　to　the　end　of　this　confounded　conservatory　yet？　　This　house　is　the　wrong　shape；　if　you　like。〃　　　　　〃You　don't　understand；〃　said　Father　Brown；　shaking　his　head。　〃The　shape　of　this　house　is　quaintit　is　even　laughable。　　But　there　is　nothing　wrong　about　it。〃　　　　　As　they　spoke　they　came　round　the　curve　of　glass　that　ended　the　conservatory；　an　uninterrupted　curve；　for　there　was　neither　door　nor　window　by　which　to　enter　at　that　end。　　The　glass；　however；　was　clear；　and　the　sun　still　bright；　though　beginning　to　set；　and　they　could　see　not　only　the　flamboyant　blossoms　inside；　but　the　frail　figure　of　the　poet　in　a　brown　velvet　coat　lying　languidly　on　the　sofa；　having；　apparently；　fallen　half　asleep　over　a　book。　　He　was　a　p