Buckingham　Palace；　asked　to　be　provided　with　a　room　and　writing　materials。　Mr。　Lever　was　torn　in　two。　　He　was　a　kind　man；　and　had　also　that　bad　imitation　of　kindness；　the　dislike　of　any　difficulty　or　scene。　At　the　same　time　the　presence　of　one　unusual　stranger　in　his　hotel　that　evening　was　like　a　speck　of　dirt　on　something　just　cleaned。　There　was　never　any　borderland　or　anteroom　in　the　Vernon　Hotel；　no　people　waiting　in　the　hall；　no　customers　coming　in　on　chance。　There　were　fifteen　waiters。　　There　were　twelve　guests。　　It　would　be　as　startling　to　find　a　new　guest　in　the　hotel　that　night　as　to　find　a　new　brother　taking　breakfast　or　tea　in　one's　own　family。　Moreover；　the　priest's　appearance　was　second…rate　and　his　clothes　muddy；　a　mere　glimpse　of　him　afar　off　might　precipitate　a　crisis　in　the　club。　　Mr。　Lever　at　last　hit　on　a　plan　to　cover；　since　he　might　not　obliterate；　the　disgrace。　　When　you　enter　（as　you　never　will）　the　Vernon　Hotel；　you　pass　down　a　short　passage　decorated　with　a　few　dingy　but　important　pictures；　and　come　to　the　main　vestibule　and　lounge　which　opens　on　your　right　into　passages　leading　to　the　public　rooms；　and　on　your　left　to　a　similar　passage　pointing　to　the　kitchens　and　offices　of　the　hotel。　　Immediately　on　your　left　hand　is　the　corner　of　a　glass　office；　which　abuts　upon　the　loungea　house　within　a　house；　so　to　speak；　like　the　old　hotel　bar　which　probably　once　occupied　its　place。　　　　　In　this　office　sat　the　representative　of　the　proprietor　（nobody　in　this　place　ever　appeared　in　person　if　he　could　help　it）；　and　just　beyond　the　office；　on　the　way　to　the　servants'　quarters；　was　the　gentlemen's　cloak　room；　the　last　boundary　of　the　gentlemen's　domain。　　But　between　the　office　and　the　cloak　room　was　a　small　private　room　without　other　outlet；　sometimes　used　by　the　proprietor　for　delicate　and　important　matters；　such　as　lending　a　duke　a　thousand　pounds　or　declining　to　lend　him　sixpence。　　It　is　a　mark　of　the　magnificent　tolerance　of　Mr。　Lever　that　he　permitted　this　holy　place　to　be　for　about　half　an　hour　profaned　by　a　mere　priest；　scribbling　away　on　a　piece　of　paper。　　The　story　which　Father　Brown　was　writing　down　was　very　likely　a　much　better　story　than　this　one；　only　it　will　never　be　known。　　I　can　merely　state　that　it　was　very　nearly　as　long；　and　that　the　last　two　or　three　paragraphs　of　it　were　the　least　exciting　and　absorbing。　　　　　For　it　was　by　the　time　that　he　had　reached　these　that　the　priest　began　a　little　to　allow　his　thoughts　to　wander　and　his　animal　senses；　which　were　commonly　keen；　to　awaken。　　The　time　of　darkness　and　dinner　was　drawing　on；　his　own　forgotten　little　room　was　without　a　light；　and　perhaps　the　gathering　gloom；　as　occasionally　happens；　sharpened　the　sense　of　sound。　　As　Father　Brown　wrote　the　last　and　least　essential　part　of　his　document；　he　caught　himself　writing　to　the　rhythm　of　a　recurrent　noise　outside；　just　as　one　sometimes　thinks　to　the　tune　of　a　railway　train。　　When　he　became　conscious　of　the　thing　he　found　what　it　was：　only　the　ordinary　patter　of　feet　passing　the　door；　which　in　an　hotel　was　no　very　unlikely　matter。　　Nevertheless；　he　stared　at　the　darkened　ceiling；　and　listened　to　the　sound。　　After　he　had　listened　for　a　few　seconds　dreamily；　he　got　to　his　feet　and　listened　intently；　with　his　head　a　little　on　one　side。　　Then　he　sat　down　again　and　buried　his　brow　in　his　hands；　now　not　merely　listening；　but　listening　and　thinking　also。　　　　　The　footsteps　outside　at　any　given　moment　were　such　as　one　might　hear　in　any　hotel；　and　yet；　taken　as　a　whole；　there　was　something　very　strange　about　them。　　There　were　no　other　footsteps。　It　was　always　a　very　silent　house；　for　the　few　familiar　guests　went　at　once　to　their　own　apartments；　and　the　well…trained　waiters　were　told　to　be　almost　invisible　until　they　were　wanted。　　One　could　not　conceive　any　place　where　there　was　less　reason　to　apprehend　anything　irregular。　　But　these　footsteps　were　so　odd　that　one　could　not　decide　to　call　them　regular　or　irregular。　Father　Brown　followed　them　with　his　finger　on　the　edge　of　the　table；　like　a　man　trying　to　learn　a　tune　on　the　piano。　　　　　First；　there　came　a　long　rush　of　rapid　little　steps；　such　as　a　light　man　might　make　in　winning　a　walking　race。　　At　a　certain　point　they　stopped　and　changed　to　a　sort　of　slow；　swinging　stamp；　numbering　not　a　quarter　of　the　steps；　but　occupying　about　the　same　time。　　The　moment　the　last　echoing　stamp　had　died　away　would　come　again　the　run　or　ripple　of　light；　hurrying　feet；　and　then　again　the　thud　of　the　heavier　walking。　　It　was　certainly　the　same　pair　of　boots；　partly　because　（as　has　been　said）　there　were　no　other　boots　about；　and　partly　because　they　had　a　small　but　unmistakable　creak　in　them。　　Father　Brown　had　the　kind　of　head　that　cannot　help　asking　questions；　and　on　this　apparently　trivial　question　his　head　almost　split。　　He　had　seen　men　run　in　order　to　jump。　　He　had　seen　men　run　in　order　to　slide。　　But　why　on　earth　should　a　man　run　in　order　to　walk？　　Or；　again；　why　should　he　walk　in　order　to　run？　Yet　no　other　description　would　cover　the　antics　of　this　invisible　pair　of　legs。　　The　man　was　either　walking　very　fast　down　one…half　of　the　corridor　in　order　to　walk　very　slow　down　the　other　half；　or　he　was　walking　very　slow　at　one　end　to　have　the　rapture　of　walking　fast　at　the　other。　　Neither　suggestion　seemed　to　make　much　sense。　His　brain　was　growing　darker　and　darker；　like　his　room。　　　　　Yet；　as　he　began　to　think　steadily；　the　very　blackness　of　his　cell　seemed　to　make　his　thoughts　more　vivid；　he　began　to　see　as　in　a　kind　of　vision　the　fantastic　feet　capering　along　the　corridor　in　unnatural　or　symbolic　attitudes。　　Was　it　a　heathen　religious　dance？　Or　some　entirely　new　kind　of　scientific　exercise？　　Father　Brown　began　to　ask　himself　with　more　exactness　what　the　steps　suggested。　Taking　the　slow　step　first：　it　certainly　was　not　the　step　of　the　proprietor。　　Men　of　his　type　walk　with　a　rapid　waddle；　or　they　sit　still。　　It　could　not　be　any　servant　or　messenger　waiting　for　directions。　　It　did　not　sound　like　it。　　The　poorer　orders　（in　an　oligarchy）　sometimes　lurch　about　when　they　are　slightly　drunk；　but　generally；　and　especially　in　such　gorgeous　scenes；　they　stand　or　sit　in　constrained　attitudes。　　No；　that　heavy　yet　springy　step；　with　a　kind　of　careless　emphasis；　not　specially　noisy；　yet　not　caring　what　noise　it　made；　belonged　to　only　one　of　the　animals　of　this　earth。　　It　was　a　gentleman　of　western　Europe；　and　probably　one　who　had　never　worked　for　his　living。　　　　　Just　as　he　came　to　this　solid　certainty；　the　step　changed　to　the　quicker　one；　and　ran　past　the　door　as　feverishly　as　a　rat。　The　listener　remarked　that　though　this　step　was　much　swifter　it　was　also　much　more　noiseless；　almost　as　if　the　man　were　walking　on　tiptoe。　　Yet　it　was　not　associated　in　his　mind　with　secrecy；　but　with　something　elsesomething　that　he　could　not　remember。　　He　was　maddened　by　one　of　those　half…memories　that　make　a　man　feel　half…witted。　　Surely　he　had　heard　that　strange；　swift　walking　somewhere。　　Suddenly　he　sprang　to　his　feet　with　a　new　idea　in　his　head；　and　walked　to　the　door。　　His　room　had　no　direct　outlet　on　the　passage；　but　let　on　one　side　into　the　glass　office；　and　on　the　other　into　the　cloak　room　beyond。　　He　tried　the　door　into　the　office；　and　found　it　locked。　　Then　he　looked　at　the　window；　now　a　square　pane　full　of　purple　cloud　cleft　by　livid　sunset；　and　for　an　instant　he　smelt　evil　as　a　dog　smells　rats。　　　　　The　rational　part　of　him　（whether　the　wiser　or　not）　regained　its　supremacy。　　He　remembered　that　the　proprietor　had　told　him　that　he　should　lock　the　door；　and　would　come　later　to　release　him。　He　told　himself　that　twenty　things　he　had　not　thought　of　might　explain　the　eccentric　sounds　outside；　he　reminded　himself　that　there　was　just　enough　light　left　to　finish　his　own　proper　work。　Bringing　his　paper　to　the　window　so　as　to　catch　the　last　stormy　evening　light；　he　resolutely　plunged　once　more　into　the　almost　completed　record。　　He　had　written　for　about　twenty　minutes；　bending　closer　and　closer　to　his　paper　in　the　lessening　light；　then　suddenly　he　sat　upright。　　He　had　heard　the　strange　feet　once　more。　　　　　This　time　they　had　a　third　oddity。　　Previously　the　unknown　man　had　walked；　with　levity　indeed　and　lightning　quickness；　but　he　had　walked。　　This　time　he　ran。　　One　could　hear　the　swift；　soft；　bounding　steps　coming　along　the　corridor；　like　the　pads　of　a　fleeing　and　leaping　panther。　　Whoever　was　coming　was　a　very　strong；　active　man；　in　still　yet　tearing　excitement。　　Yet；　when　the　sound　had　swept　up　to　the　office　like　a　sort　of　whispering　whirlwind；　it　suddenly　changed　again　to　the　old　slow；　swaggering　stamp。　　　　　Father　Brown　flung　down　his　paper；　and；　knowing　the　office　door　to　be　locked；　went　at　once　into　the　cloak　room　on　the　other　side。　The　attendant　of　this　place　was　temporarily　absent；　probably　because　the　only　guests　were　at　dinner　and　his　office　was　a　sinecure。　　After　groping　through　a　grey　forest　of　overcoats；　he　found　that　the　dim　cloak　room　opened　on　the　lighted　corridor　in　the　form　of　a　sort　of　counter　or　half…door；　like　most　of　the　counters　across　which　we　have　all　handed　umbrellas　and　received　tickets。　　There　was　a　light　immediately　above　the　semicircular　arch　of　this　opening。　　It　threw　little　illumination　on　Father　Brown　himse