THE WRONG SHAPE
voice of Quinton, in something between a yawn and a yell of weary laughter.
"Oh, I know what you want. Take it, and leave me in peace. I'm writing a song about peacocks."
Before the door closed half a sovereign came flying through the aperture; and Atkinson, stumbling forward, caught it with singular dexterity.
"So that's settled," said the doctor, and, locking the door savagely, he led the way out into the garden.
"Poor Leonard can get a little peace now," he added to Father Brown; "he's locked in all by himself for an hour or two."
"Yes," answered the priest; "and his voice sounded jolly enough when we left him." Then he looked gravely round the garden, and saw the loose figure of Atkinson standing and jingling the half-sovereign in his pocket, and beyond, in the purple twilight, the figure of the Indian sitting bolt upright upon a bank of grass with his face turned towards the setting sun. Then he said abruptly: "Where is Mrs. Quinton!"
"She has gone up to her room," said the doctor. "That is her shadow on the blind."
Father Brown looked up, and frowningly scrutinised a dark outline at the gas-lit window.
"Yes," he said, "that is her shadow," and he walked a yard or two and threw himself upon a garden seat.
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