ew　that　they　had　obeyed　and　followed　him　till　a　blast　of　the　night　wind　nearly　flung　them　on　their　faces　in　the　garden。　　Nevertheless　they　had　obeyed　him　like　automata；　for　Craven　found　a　hatchet　in　his　hand；　and　the　warrant　in　his　pocket；　Flambeau　was　carrying　the　heavy　spade　of　the　strange　gardener；　Father　Brown　was　carrying　the　little　gilt　book　from　which　had　been　torn　the　name　of　God。　　　　　The　path　up　the　hill　to　the　churchyard　was　crooked　but　short；　only　under　that　stress　of　wind　it　seemed　laborious　and　long。　　Far　as　the　eye　could　see；　farther　and　farther　as　they　mounted　the　slope；　were　seas　beyond　seas　of　pines；　now　all　aslope　one　way　under　the　wind。　　And　that　universal　gesture　seemed　as　vain　as　it　was　vast；　as　vain　as　if　that　wind　were　whistling　about　some　unpeopled　and　purposeless　planet。　　Through　all　that　infinite　growth　of　grey…blue　forests　sang；　shrill　and　high；　that　ancient　sorrow　that　is　in　the　heart　of　all　heathen　things。　　One　could　fancy　that　the　voices　from　the　under　world　of　unfathomable　foliage　were　cries　of　the　lost　and　wandering　pagan　gods：　gods　who　had　gone　roaming　in　that　irrational　forest；　and　who　will　never　find　their　way　back　to　heaven。　　　　　〃You　see；〃　said　Father　Brown　in　low　but　easy　tone；　〃Scotch　people　before　Scotland　existed　were　a　curious　lot。　　In　fact；　they're　a　curious　lot　still。　　But　in　the　prehistoric　times　I　fancy　they　really　worshipped　demons。　　That；〃　he　added　genially；　〃is　why　they　jumped　at　the　Puritan　theology。〃　　　　　〃My　friend；〃　said　Flambeau；　turning　in　a　kind　of　fury；　〃what　does　all　that　snuff　mean？〃　　　　　〃My　friend；〃　replied　Brown；　with　equal　seriousness；　〃there　is　one　mark　of　all　genuine　religions：　materialism。　　Now；　devil…worship　is　a　perfectly　genuine　religion。〃　　　　　They　had　come　up　on　the　grassy　scalp　of　the　hill；　one　of　the　few　bald　spots　that　stood　clear　of　the　crashing　and　roaring　pine　forest。　　A　mean　enclosure；　partly　timber　and　partly　wire；　rattled　in　the　tempest　to　tell　them　the　border　of　the　graveyard。　　But　by　the　time　Inspector　Craven　had　come　to　the　corner　of　the　grave；　and　Flambeau　had　planted　his　spade　point　downwards　and　leaned　on　it；　they　were　both　almost　as　shaken　as　the　shaky　wood　and　wire。　At　the　foot　of　the　grave　grew　great　tall　thistles；　grey　and　silver　in　their　decay。　　Once　or　twice；　when　a　ball　of　thistledown　broke　under　the　breeze　and　flew　past　him；　Craven　jumped　slightly　as　if　it　had　been　an　arrow。　　　　　Flambeau　drove　the　blade　of　his　spade　through　the　whistling　grass　into　the　wet　clay　below。　　Then　he　seemed　to　stop　and　lean　on　it　as　on　a　staff。　　　　　〃Go　on；〃　said　the　priest　very　gently。　　〃We　are　only　trying　to　find　the　truth。　　What　are　you　afraid　of？〃　　　　　〃I　am　afraid　of　finding　it；〃　said　Flambeau。　　　　　The　London　detective　spoke　suddenly　in　a　high　crowing　voice　that　was　meant　to　be　conversational　and　cheery。　　〃I　wonder　why　he　really　did　hide　himself　like　that。　　Something　nasty；　I　suppose；　was　he　a　leper？〃　　　　　〃Something　worse　than　that；〃　said　Flambeau。　　　　　〃And　what　do　you　imagine；〃　asked　the　other；　〃would　be　worse　than　a　leper？〃　　　　　〃I　don't　imagine　it；〃　said　Flambeau。　　　　　He　dug　for　some　dreadful　minutes　in　silence；　and　then　said　in　a　choked　voice；　〃I'm　afraid　of　his　not　being　the　right　shape。〃　　　　　〃Nor　was　that　piece　of　paper；　you　know；〃　said　Father　Brown　quietly；　〃and　we　survived　even　that　piece　of　paper。〃　　　　　Flambeau　dug　on　with　a　blind　energy。　　But　the　tempest　had　shouldered　away　the　choking　grey　clouds　that　clung　to　the　hills　like　smoke　and　revealed　grey　fields　of　faint　starlight　before　he　cleared　the　shape　of　a　rude　timber　coffin；　and　somehow　tipped　it　up　upon　the　turf。　　Craven　stepped　forward　with　his　axe；　a　thistle…top　touched　him；　and　he　flinched。　　Then　he　took　a　firmer　stride；　and　hacked　and　wrenched　with　an　energy　like　Flambeau's　till　the　lid　was　torn　off；　and　all　that　was　there　lay　glimmering　in　the　grey　starlight。　　　　　〃Bones；〃　said　Craven；　and　then　he　added；　〃but　it　is　a　man；〃　as　if　that　were　something　unexpected。　　　　　〃Is　he；〃　asked　Flambeau　in　a　voice　that　went　oddly　up　and　down；　〃is　he　all　right？〃　　　　　〃Seems　so；〃　said　the　officer　huskily；　bending　over　the　obscure　and　decaying　skeleton　in　the　box。　　〃Wait　a　minute。〃　　　　　A　vast　heave　went　over　Flambeau's　huge　figure。　　〃And　now　I　come　to　think　of　it；〃　he　cried；　〃why　in　the　name　of　madness　shouldn't　he　be　all　right？　　What　is　it　gets　hold　of　a　man　on　these　cursed　cold　mountains？　　I　think　it's　the　black；　brainless　repetition；　all　these　forests；　and　over　all　an　ancient　horror　of　unconsciousness。　　It's　like　the　dream　of　an　atheist。　　Pine…trees　and　more　pine…trees　and　millions　more　pine…trees〃　　　　　〃God！〃　cried　the　man　by　the　coffin；　〃but　he　hasn't　got　a　head。〃　　　　　While　the　others　stood　rigid　the　priest；　for　the　first　time；　showed　a　leap　of　startled　concern。　　　　　〃No　head！〃　he　repeated。　　〃No　head？〃　as　if　he　had　almost　expected　some　other　deficiency。　　　　　Half…witted　visions　of　a　headless　baby　born　to　Glengyle；　of　a　headless　youth　hiding　himself　in　the　castle；　of　a　headless　man　pacing　those　ancient　halls　or　that　gorgeous　garden；　passed　in　panorama　through　their　minds。　　But　even　in　that　stiffened　instant　the　tale　took　no　root　in　them　and　seemed　to　have　no　reason　in　it。　They　stood　listening　to　the　loud　woods　and　the　shrieking　sky　quite　foolishly；　like　exhausted　animals。　　Thought　seemed　to　be　something　enormous　that　had　suddenly　slipped　out　of　their　grasp。　　　　　〃There　are　three　headless　men；〃　said　Father　Brown；　〃standing　round　this　open　grave。〃　　　　　The　pale　detective　from　London　opened　his　mouth　to　speak；　and　left　it　open　like　a　yokel；　while　a　long　scream　of　wind　tore　the　sky；　then　he　looked　at　the　axe　in　his　hands　as　if　it　did　not　belong　to　him；　and　dropped　it。　　　　　〃Father；〃　said　Flambeau　in　that　infantile　and　heavy　voice　he　used　very　seldom；　〃what　are　we　to　do？〃　　　　　His　friend's　reply　came　with　the　pent　promptitude　of　a　gun　going　off。　　　　　〃Sleep！〃　cried　Father　Brown。　　〃Sleep。　　We　have　come　to　the　end　of　the　ways。　　Do　you　know　what　sleep　is？　　Do　you　know　that　every　man　who　sleeps　believes　in　God？　　It　is　a　sacrament；　for　it　is　an　act　of　faith　and　it　is　a　food。　　And　we　need　a　sacrament；　if　only　a　natural　one。　　Something　has　fallen　on　us　that　falls　very　seldom　on　men；　perhaps　the　worst　thing　that　can　fall　on　them。〃　　　　　Craven's　parted　lips　came　together　to　say；　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　　　　　The　priest　had　turned　his　face　to　the　castle　as　he　answered：　〃We　have　found　the　truth；　and　the　truth　makes　no　sense。〃　　　　　He　went　down　the　path　in　front　of　them　with　a　plunging　and　reckless　step　very　rare　with　him；　and　when　they　reached　the　castle　again　he　threw　himself　upon　sleep　with　the　simplicity　of　a　dog。　　　　　Despite　his　mystic　praise　of　slumber；　Father　Brown　was　up　earlier　than　anyone　else　except　the　silent　gardener；　and　was　found　smoking　a　big　pipe　and　watching　that　expert　at　his　speechless　labours　in　the　kitchen　garden。　　Towards　daybreak　the　rocking　storm　had　ended　in　roaring　rains；　and　the　day　came　with　a　curious　freshness。　　The　gardener　seemed　even　to　have　been　conversing；　but　at　sight　of　the　detectives　he　planted　his　spade　sullenly　in　a　bed　and；　saying　something　about　his　breakfast；　shifted　along　the　lines　of　cabbages　and　shut　himself　in　the　kitchen。　　〃He's　a　valuable　man；　that；〃　said　Father　Brown。　　〃He　does　the　potatoes　amazingly。　Still；〃　he　added；　with　a　dispassionate　charity；　〃he　has　his　faults；　which　of　us　hasn't？　　He　doesn't　dig　this　bank　quite　regularly。　There；　for　instance；〃　and　he　stamped　suddenly　on　one　spot。　　〃I'm　really　very　doubtful　about　that　potato。〃　　　　　〃And　why？〃　asked　Craven；　amused　with　the　little　man's　hobby。　　　　　〃I'm　doubtful　about　it；〃　said　the　other；　〃because　old　Gow　was　doubtful　about　it　himself。　　He　put　his　spade　in　methodically　in　every　place　but　just　this。　　There　must　be　a　mighty　fine　potato　just　here。〃　　　　　Flambeau　pulled　up　the　spade　and　impetuously　drove　it　into　the　place。　　He　turned　up；　under　a　load　of　soil；　something　that　did　not　look　like　a　potato；　but　rather　like　a　monstrous；　over…domed　mushroom。　　But　it　struck　the　spade　with　a　cold　click；　it　rolled　over　like　a　ball；　and　grinned　up　at　them。　　　　　〃The　Earl　of　Glengyle；〃　said　Brown　sadly；　and　looked　down　heavily　at　the　skull。　　　　　Then；　after　a　momentary　meditation；　he　plucked　the　spade　from　Flambeau；　and；　saying　〃We　must　hide　it　again；〃　clamped　the　skull　down　in　the　earth。　　Then　he　leaned　his　little　body　and　huge　head　on　the　great　handle　of　the　spade；　that　stood　up　stiffly　in　the　earth；　and　his　eyes　were　empty　and　his　forehead　full　of　wrinkles。　〃If　one　could　only　conceive；〃　he　muttered；　〃the　meaning　of　this　last　monstrosity。〃　　And　leaning　on　the　large　spade　handle；　he　buried　his　brows　in　his　hands；　as　men　do　in　church。　　　　　All　the　corners　of　the　sky　were　brightening　into　blue　and　silver；　the　birds　were　chattering　in　the　tiny　garden　trees；　so　loud　it　seemed　as　if　the　trees　themselves　were　talking。　　But　the　three　men　were　silent　enough。　　　　　〃Well；　I　give　it　all　up；〃　said　Flambeau　at　last　boisterously。　〃My　brain　and　this　world　don't　fit　each　other；　and　there's　an　end　of　it。　　Snuff；　spoilt　Prayer　Books；　and　the　insides　of　musical　boxeswhat〃　　　　　Brown　threw　up　his　bothered　brow　and　rapped　on　the　spade　handle　with　an　intolerance　quite　unusual　with　him。　　〃Oh；　tut；　tut；　tut；　tut！〃　he　cried。　　〃All　that　is　as　plain　as　a　pikestaff。　　I　understood　the　snuff　and　clockw