THE WRONG SHAPE
The white lightning opened its enormous eye in one wink, the sky shut up again, and the priest went on:
"Of all these crooked things, the crookedest was the shape of that piece of paper. It was crookeder than the dagger that killed him."
"You mean the paper on which Quinton confessed his suicide," said Flambeau.
"I mean the paper on which Quinton wrote, 'I die by my own hand,'" answered Father Brown. "The shape of that paper, my friend, was the wrong shape; the wrong shape, if ever I have seen it in this wicked world."
"It only had a corner snipped off," said Flambeau, "and I understand that all Quinton's paper was cut that way."
"It was a very odd way," said the other, "and a very bad way, to my taste and fancy. Look here, Flambeau, this Quinton—God receive his soul!—was perhaps a bit of a cur in some ways, but he really was an artist, with the pencil as well as the pen. His handwriting, though hard to read, was bold and beautiful. I can't prove what I say; I can't prove anything. But I tell you with the full force of conviction that he could never have cut that mean little piece off a sheet of paper. If he had wanted to cut down paper for some purpose of fitting in, or binding up, or what not, he would have made quite a different slash with the scissors. Do you remember the shape? It was a mean
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