The Incredulity of Father Brown
since he had said something about a wicked man being destroyed by a word out of the sky.
Peter Wain leaned forward, the eyes bright in his haggard face, and said:
"I'll bet on that, anyhow. Norman Drage."
"And who in the world is Norman Drage?" asked his uncle.
"That's what I want to know," replied the young man. "I practically asked him, but he has got a wonderful trick of twisting every straight question crooked; it's like lunging at a fencer. He hooked on to me with hints about the flying-ship of the future: but I never trusted him much."
"But what sort of a man is he?" asked Crake.
"He's a mystagogue," said Father Brown, with innocent promptitude. "There are quite a lot of them about; the sort of men about town who hint to you in Paris cafés and cabarets that they've lifted the veil of Isis or know the secret of Stonehenge. In a case like this they're sure to have some sort of mystical explanations."
The smooth, dark head of Mr. Barnard Blake, the lawyer, was inclined politely towards the speaker, but his smile was faintly hostile.
"I should hardly have thought, sir," he said, "that you had any quarrel with mystical explanations."
"On the contrary," replied Father Brown, blinking amiably at him. "That's just why I can
58
