"I haven't any news exactly." answered Smith; "no news from outside at least. As for views...." And he relapsed into moody silence.
"I should be very glad to hear your views," said the little priest pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind my saying that you seem to have something on your mind."
The young man stirred rather than started and looked at the priest steadily, with a frown that threw his hollow eyes into dense shadow.
"Well, you're right enough," he said at last. "I suppose I shall have to tell somebody. And you seem a safe sort of person to tell."
"Do you know what has happened to Sir Arthur?" asked Father Brown calmly, as if it were the most casual matter in the world.
"Yes," said the secretary harshly, "I think I know what has happened to Sir Arthur."
"A beautiful morning," said a bland voice in his ear; "a beautiful morning for a rather melancholy meeting."
This time the secretary jumped as if he had been shot, as the large shadow of Dr. Abbott fell across his path in the already strong sunshine. Dr. Abbott was still in his dressing-gown; a sumptuous oriental dressing-gown covered with coloured flowers and dragons, looking rather like one of the most brilliant flower beds that were growing under the glowing sun. He also wore large, flat slippers, which was doubtless why he had come so close to the others without being heard. He would normally have seemed the last person for such a light and airy approach, for he was a very big, broad and heavy man, with a powerful benevolent face very much sunburnt, in a frame of old-fashioned grey whiskers and chin beard, which hung about him luxuriantly, like the long, grey curls of his venerable head. His long slits of eyes were rather sleepy and, indeed, he was an elderly gentleman to be up so early; but he had a look at once robust and weather-beaten, as of an old farmer or sea captain who had once been out in all weathers. He was the only old comrade and contemporary of the squire in the company that met at the house.
"It seems truly extraordinary," he said, shaking his head. "Those little houses are like dolls' houses, always open front and back, and there's hardly room to hide anybody, even if they wanted to hide him. And I'm sure they don't. Dalmon and I cross-examined them all yesterday; they're mostly little old women that couldn't hurt a fly. The men are nearly all away harvesting, except the butcher; and Arthur was seen coining out of the butcher's. And nothing could have happened along that stretch by the river, for I was fishing there all day."
Then he looked at Smith and the look in his long eyes seemed for the moment not only sleepy, but a little sly.