As the sun rose over Westminster, the mysterious, solitary, smoky point of light on the Thames was somewhat confused, but it was all too clear.Gradually, the bright spots broke free from the gray shroud and became more brilliant.Two men crossed Westminster Bridge, a tall man and a short man.They could even be compared wonderfully to the insolent bell-tower of Parliament and the hunched pariah of London's Westminster Abbey, because of the short stature in priestly attire.The tall man, whose official registered name was Mo Hercule Flambeau, was a private eye.He was now on his way to his new office, in a row of new flats facing the entrance to Westminster Abbey.The short man, formally known as Father Jay Brown, ministered at St. Francesco Xavier's Church in Camberwell.He had just left the deathbed in Camberwell to see his friend's new office.

The towering buildings are quite American, and the precision mechanical equipment such as telephones and elevators that have not wiped off the oil are even more American.But the building has just been completed, and there are no residents yet, only three tenants have moved in.The offices above Flambeau's head and below his feet were occupied, as were the two floors above and the three floors below.The first glance at the top of the new apartment complex reveals an even more alluring aspect.Apart from some remnants of scaffolding, outside Flambeau's office stood something dazzling above, a huge gilded statue of a human eye, surrounded by golden light, occupying a space as large as two office windows. .

"What exactly is that?" asked Father Brown, stunned. "Oh, that's a new religion," said Flambeau, laughing, "a new religion that excuses your mistakes by saying you never did something, very much like, I have reason to think so. In fact A man who claims to be (I don't know what his name is, but I know it's never his real name) has claimed the room above me, with two female typists below me, and above me is the fanatic of the new religion. old liar, who worships the sun and proclaims himself the new priest of Apollo." "Let him be careful," said Father Brown. "The sun is the cruelest of all the gods, but what is the meaning of that terrible eye?"

"One of their creeds, as I understand it," replied Flambeau, "is that a man can bear anything if his will is firm. The sun and the open eye are two of their symbols, for they say, A man who is truly healthy can look directly at the sun." "If a man is really healthy," said Father Brown, "he cannot bear to look directly at the sun." "Well, that's all I can tell you about Protestantism," continued Flambeau indifferently. "Of course, the Protestantism also claims to cure all diseases." "Can it cure mental illness?" asked the prim Father Brown curiously.

"What mental illness?" Flambeau asked with a smile. "Oh, it would be nice to be able to think," said his friend. Flambeau was more interested in the office below him than in the splendid sanctuary above.He's a sane southerner who can't think of himself as anything but a Catholic and an atheist; a bright, sickly new religion doesn't much interest him, but he's always been interested in humans , especially good-looking humans.Also, the two ladies downstairs are doing their own thing.The office was owned by a pair of sisters, both slim and dark.One of them was tall and striking, scurrying like a hawk.This kind of woman, from the general description, people always imagine some simple and brisk outlines like weapons. She seems to be cutting a crack in life and advancing bravely.Her eyes were startlingly bright, but they were steel-sharp rather than jewel-like, and her straight, slender figure was too rigid to belittle its grace.Her sister was like her shadow, only dimmer, paler, less noticed.They were all well-trained in little men's black, with cuffs and collars, and there were hundreds of such abrupt and energetic ladies in London offices, but their interest lay in their real rather than apparent positions.

For actually sister Pauline Stacy was a fortune herself, a crest and half-shire heiress.A relentless hatred (especially of modern women) drives her to achieve what she considers to be a harder and nobler existence, whereas before that she was only a daughter of old castles and gardens.In fact, she does not ditch her money, for her romantic or monastic renunciation is intrinsically bound up with her imperious utilitarianism.She has wealth, and she can be said to use the money for practical social affairs, and she has also invested part of the money in her business, which is centered on the typing market; she also donated part of the money to Giving to various groups to promote the cause of women's work development.Her sister and partner, Jane, however, shares this somewhat boring idealism of hers, which no one can be sure of.But Jane's dog-like loyalty, which is somewhat more unwavering than her sister's lofty spirit—with an almost tragic color—is more touching, because Pauline can have nothing to do with tragedy, can be Rationally deny the existence of tragedy.

When Flambeau first entered the building, Pauline's meticulousness, quickness of movement, and cold impatience made him laugh to himself.He lingered in the entrance hall outside the elevator, waiting for the boy who drove the elevator to send strangers to different floors.But the girl with the bright eyes of a falcon blatantly refused to endure such a grandiose delay.She said sharply that she knew all about elevators and that she wouldn't depend on the boys—or the men.Even though her room is only on the third floor, she also tries to tell Flambeau a lot of her basic points in the brief seconds of her ascent, to the effect that she is a modern working woman and likes Modern work equipment, when someone blames mechanical science and asks to return to the romantic atmosphere, her bright black eyes will burn with abstract and empty anger.Everyone, she said, should be able to operate the machine as she can operate the elevator.She seemed to resent the fact that Flambeau opened the elevator door for her, and the gentlemanly Flambeau couldn't help but have mixed feelings about her quick-tempered self-reliance.He laughed and walked to his office.

Pauline, of course, had a lively, practical temper, and there was something decisive and directive in every gesture of her small, graceful hands.Once, Flambeau walked into her office for some typing and found her slamming her sister's glasses to the middle of the floor, stomping on them.She delivered eloquent tirades on morality, denouncing "repulsive notions of medicine" and the acknowledgment of horrific human inadequacies implied by the paraphernalia of modern medicine.She hinted that her sister should never bring such artificial, unhealthy crap here again.She asked if she wished to wear prosthetics, a wig and glass eyes.These things, they said, made the eyes sparkle terribly like crystal.

Flambeau, baffled by this extreme belief, can't help asking Miss Pauline (in a straight French way) why spectacles are a more morbid symbol of defects than elevators, and if science can help us in some Why can't we work hard on one point and help us on the other? "That's quite a difference," said Miss Pauline haughtily, "batteries, motors and other things have traces of manpower - yes, Mr. Flambeau, traces of women too! We women have our turn, too, to improve Those machines that swallow distance, those machines that race against time, that's sublime and glorious - that's real science. But the nasty utensils and plastics that doctors sell - oh, that's just a sign of cowardice .Doctors stay on legs and arms, as if we are born lame and slaves to disease. But I am born free, Mr. Flambeau! People think they need these things just because they train in fear and not Growing up in the training of strength and courage, like those stupid nurses telling children not to look at the sun, so that they dare not look directly without blinking. But why among the bright stars, there is a star that I can't look at What to watch? The sun is not my master, and whenever I open my eyes I will look directly at it."

"Your eyes," said Flambeau, bowing as if to a foreigner, "will make the sun dim." He was happy to flatter this strange, rigid beauty, partly because it made her lose her sight a little. steady.But when he went up the stairs to his office, he took a deep breath, hissed, and thought, "Then she has fallen into the clutches of the golden-eyed magician upstairs." Little was known or cared about Cuarón's new religion, but he had already heard of his peculiar theory of staring at the sun. He soon discovered that the spiritual connection upstairs and downstairs was strong and growing.The self-proclaimed Calon was a marvelous fellow, physically he could have been a Bishop of Apollo.He was as tall as Flambeau, but he was much handsomer with his blond beard and dark blue eyes, and his long hair flowing back like a lion.Physically he was a Nietzschean blond beast, but gifted intellect and spirituality ennobled, brightened, and softened this animal beauty.If he looked like a great Saxon king, the king must have been a saint.In fact his office was situated on the mezzanine of a large building on Victoria Avenue; his staff (young men with the same collar and cuffs) sat in the outer room between him and the balcony, and his name was engraved on a brass plate , gilded symbols of his religion hang above the streets like billboards for an ophthalmologist.No matter how discordant the East End of London was around him, all the vulgarity could not give this man who called himself Caron a realistic pressure and motivation in soul and body.When all is said and done, one can still feel the presence of a great man in the appearance of these charlatans, a charming and irresistible figure even when he wears baggy nylon jackets in the office; And when he bowed to the sun every day in his long cassock and golden hoop, he actually looked so perfect that the jeers of the crowds in the street would sometimes suddenly die from their lips .Three times a day the New Sun cultist stepped out onto his little balcony, facing all of Westminster, and prayed to the radiant God: once in the morning, once in the evening, and once in the midday shock.At this moment, just as the clocks in the Parliament and Church Towers struck noon, Flambeau's friend, Father Brown, looked up and saw for the first time the white priest of the Apollonian Church.

Flambeau had seen enough of the daily salutes of these devotees, and he turned into the porch of the tall building without even asking his friend Father Brown to join him.But Father Brown, whether from a professional interest in the ritual or a personal interest in the folly, stopped and gazed at the balcony where the sun-worshippers stood, as he would gaze at a comically hunched-backed puppet.The Prophet Karon was already standing there, wearing a silver cassock, with his hands raised high.His prayers to the sun sounded so magically penetrating that they could be heard throughout the busy street below.Amidst the din of voices, he focused his attention on the burning disc, and it was unknown whether he could still see any objects or people on the earth at this moment.But there is no doubt that he never saw a priest with a short stature and a round face, who was watching him with squinted eyes with the crowded crowd. This may be the most astonishing difference between these two very different people. Let’s see the difference: Father Brown can’t see anything without squinting, while the Apollonian priest can look up at a fireball at noon without blinking! A burst of sharp and incessant screams interrupted this frenzied roar that was as fast as a rocket flipping.Three people rushed out of the building, and another five people rushed to the door of the building at the same time. For a long time, they seemed to ignore each other, as if there was a sudden and terrifying sense of fear, accompanied by some news that spread across the entire half street. Diffuse.This is the worst of all bad news, because no one knows what happened.Only two remained unmoved in the sudden chaos: the handsome Apollonian priest stood high on the balcony, and the ugly Christian priest stood just below him. At last Flambeau's tall figure and astonishing vigor appeared at the gate of the mansion and brought the disturbance under control.He shouted in his voice as loud as a horn, to hurry and fetch the doctor alone; and when he turned back into the darkness, and squeezed his way through the entrance, his friend Father Brown slid in behind him as if nothing had happened, who He ignored him, too, and even as he ducked his head into the crowd, he could still hear the monotonous but charming language of the priest of the Sun Cult, hearing him chattering about the friend of fountains and flowers, the Joyful God. Father Brown saw Flambeau and six others standing around an enclosed space where the elevators would normally go up and down, but instead of the elevator coming down at this moment, something else fell, a sort of Something that should be transported by an elevator. For the first four minutes Flambeau had gone down to look carefully, and he had seen the brains-out, mangled body of the beautiful woman who denied the existence of tragedy, and he had no doubt that it was Pauline Stacy.And, though he had sent for a doctor, he was still certain: she was dead. He couldn't recall exactly whether he liked her or hated her, both seemed strong.But she had been a living person before him, and a natural sense of grief stabbed him like a dagger, as if he had suffered the pain of bereavement.A bitterness of death suddenly made the previous mystery clear, reminded him of her lovely face and serious words, and in just a moment, the accident happened, like a thunderbolt from the blue sky, like a thunderbolt from nowhere. The downpour.The rebellious beautiful body had fallen into the open elevator, shattered at the bottom.Is this suicide?It seems impossible for an optimist to choose such a shameful way.So murder?But who here would kill in a nearly empty apartment?In a rush of husky words—he wanted to speak louder, but suddenly found his voice was weak—he asked Cuaron where the guy had been, and a deep, quiet, full voice assured him that For the past fifteen minutes, Cuarón has been saluting his God.Flambeau felt Father Brown's hand when he heard the sound.He turned his dark face and said unexpectedly: "If he's up there all the time, who did it?" "Perhaps," said Father Brown, "we can go upstairs and find the murderer. We have half an hour before the police come." After leaving the body of the murdered heiress to the doctor, Flambeau rushed up the stairs, into the office, found it empty, and rushed into his own office again, to the astonishment of his friend to see his The face had never been so pale. "Her sister," said Flambeau, with a heavy heart and serious expression, "her sister seems to have gone for a walk." Father Brown nodded, "I see, she may have gone upstairs to the office of the leader of the Sun Cult," he said, "If I were you, I would go to confirm it immediately, and then we will discuss it in your office For a moment, no," he seemed to think of something, and suddenly added, "Hey, when will I get rid of my stupidity? Of course, let's go to their office downstairs first." Flambeau stared at the little priest, but followed him downstairs, hurrying to the Stacy sisters' empty room.There, the elusive Sun Priest, occupying a large red leather chair—sat at the entrance, with a view of the stairs and landings—was leisurely waiting.In fact, he didn't wait too long. After only four minutes, the three of them walked down the stairs together. The only similarity between the three of them was their serious expressions.In the first place was the dead woman's sister, who had just been upstairs in the temporary "temple" of Apollo; the second was the Apollonian priest himself, who ended his continuous prayer and proudly said: Descending the empty staircase in perfection—he in his white surplice and flowing beard, a painted image of Christ departing; the third was Flambeau, frowning and bewildered. appearance. Miss Jane Stacy had dark skin, a contorted face, and hair that was a little too gray.She went straight to her desk and took out a stack of untouched blank papers. This simple action woke everyone up.If Jane is a criminal, she must be pretty cold-blooded.Father Brown, with a strange smile on his face, stared at her for a while before speaking, without taking his eyes off her. "Prophet," he said, as if addressing Caron, "I want you to talk about your religion." "I will be proud to introduce you," Caron said, bowing his head, still crowned in gold, "but I'm not sure I understand what you mean." "Well, it's like this," said Father Brown, in his frankly skeptical way, "we've all been taught that if a man is morally bad to begin with, a good deal of the fault has to be found on himself." .But even so, we can still distinguish between a man with a clear conscience and a man with a conscience more or less full of sophistry. Now, do you really think that murder is a mistake at all?" "Is this an accusation?" Caron asked very calmly. "No," Brown replied equally calmly, "that's a defense." In the astonishingly long silence of the room, the agitator of the Apollonian really stood up slowly like the sun, and against the special silence at this moment, his light and vitality dominated the whole room, and one could feel He might just as easily have let his charm take over, he realized.His robed attire seemed to hang the room in classical drapery; his heroic movements seemed to spread themselves infinitely into the wider foreground, and the diminutive, dark, modern priest before him seemed One cannot but feel ashamed of oneself: a small figure is a defect, a foreign object, a dark stain in one's highest glory. "We have met at last," said the advocate of the Cult of the Sun. "You and my church are the only reality in this world. I worship the sun and you are its shadow; you are the priest of death and I am the living." My God. You are now doubting and slandering my work, it's all in favor of your clothes and your creed, the whole of your church is a dark police establishment; To tear people apart, whether it's treachery or cruelty. You can declare people guilty and I can declare them innocent; you can convince them that it's evil and I can convince them that it's virtue. "Loyal reader of wicked books, before I shatter your baseless nightmares forever, I have one more piece of advice, one that will not be difficult for you to understand. I don't care whether you judge me guilty or not. What you call disgrace and dreadful hangings are no more frightening to a grown man than a cruel ogre in a children's comic book. You say you are defending me, but I have nothing to do with these mirages of life Don't care, so I'll give you reasons to denounce. There's only one thing that can be said against me here, and I'll say it myself. The dead girl was my love, my bride, the way we were united, not because of that It is lawful to accept the sanction of the over-revered Church—that you have. Our union is based on laws purer and more solemn than you can comprehend. She is with me, from your world to another World, as you tirelessly walk through brick passages and corridors, we walk in palaces of crystal. Well, I know the cops and theologians and others always guess that where there is love there is soon hate, so this Place may form the first point of your denunciation. But the second point is stronger, and I do not spare you, not only the fact that Pauline loves me, but that just this morning, before she died, she left Made a will that gave me and my church half a million sums, and that's true. Come on, where are the handcuffs? Do you think I'd worry about the stupid ways you've dealt with me? Penal labor is like a sidewalk The station awaits her, and the gallows is but a cart hurrying toward her." He spoke with the disorienting authority of an orator, and Flambeau and Jane looked at him in almost admiration.There was nothing but extreme bewilderment on Father Brown's face, and he stared at the ground, frowning in pain.The priest of the Sun Sect leaned peacefully on the hanger, and continued: "In a few short words I have set before you the circumstances against me--the only possible cases against me, and a few more words will smash them to pieces until Not a trace exists. As to whether I killed someone, the facts speak louder than words, the facts are the verdict: I could not have killed. At 12:05 Pauline fell from this floor to the ground, at least a hundred people could have poured in as witnesses at the banquet, attesting that I stood on the balcony of my own room above from noon until a quarter of an hour later—a routine time for me to pray publicly. My clerk (a respectable young man from Clapham, He has nothing to do with me) will attest that I sat out in my office all morning and did not interact with anyone. He will attest that I arrived a full ten minutes before prayer time, fifteen minutes before word of the incident, and I didn't leave my office or balcony the whole time, no one has ever had such a complete alibi. I could call half the people of Westminster to be my witnesses. I think you'd better remove the handcuffs again , the case is over. "But in the end, so that there will be no doubt in the air, I can tell you all you want to know. I don't believe I know yet how my unfortunate friend came to die. You can, if you Blame me for it, if you choose, at least my beliefs and philosophies; but of course you cannot arrest me for it. All students of higher truths know that certain specialists and persons of professed special intellect have been found in history The ability to float in the air—that is, to support oneself in an empty atmosphere, is only part of the main essence that completely subjugates our hidden intelligence. Poor Pauline is impulsive and ambitious, I suppose. To tell the truth , to some extent she overestimated her own mysterious power; she often said to me that when we went down the elevator together, if one's will was strong enough, one could fly as unscathed as a feather Slowly drifting down. I firmly believe that in the ecstasy of a sublime thought, she tried to work a miracle. Her wish or belief, at that critical moment, brought her to death, and the lower laws of matter vengeance horribly. This That's the whole story, gentlemen. I'm very sad, as you think, and very arbitrary and evil. But of course I didn't commit a crime, and this case has nothing to do with me. In the police court record, you'd better put it Call it suicide. But I will call it the heroic failure of scientific progress and the slow ascent to heaven." It was the first time Flambeau had seen Father Brown conquered.He remained there, staring at the ground, frowning in pain.Like being ashamed of something.Advocate Winged words spread a feeling from which it is impossible to escape, but here is a professional skeptic who is morose, ruled by a naturally free and healthy spirit, conquered by a prouder and purer spirit up.At last he spoke, squinting his eyes as if he felt a sting in his body: "Well, if that's the case, sir, you can just go with the will you mentioned, I don't know the poor woman put it Where is it?" "It's on her desk by the door, I think," said Cuarón, in a tone of utter innocence, as if to acquit him completely, "and she specifically told me she'd be writing that will this morning, actually. Saw her writing before I took the elevator to my office." "Was her door open then?" asked the priest, his eyes fixed on a corner of the cushion on the floor. "Yes." Sun Cult Priest Karon said calmly. "Ah, it's always on," said Father Brown, a Catholic priest, continuing to study the cushions. "Here is the will," said stern Miss Jane, in a strange voice.She had come through the door to her sister's desk, holding a large blue page in her hand, with an ugly smile that seemed inappropriate for the occasion and event, and Flambeau looked at her, frowned. With that noble indifference that once made him so successful, the Prophet Calon stood aloof from the will.But Flambeau took the will from the young lady, and read it with great interest.The beginning of this will does begin with the formality of a will, but after the words "I bequeath all my property after death to—" the handwriting ends abruptly, leaving only a series of scribbles and no Any trace of the name of the heir to the estate.Flambeau handed this strange, unfinished will to his friend the priest, who, after looking over it, passed it calmly to the priest of the Cult of the Sun. For a moment, the bishop's robe fluttered, strode aggressively across the room, and looked at Jane furiously, his blue eyes seemed to burst out of their sockets. "What trick are you playing here?" he cried. "That's not all Pauline wrote." Everyone was amazed to hear him speak in a new voice, with the sharp Yankee voice.All his greatness and good English gentlemanliness fell from him like a mantle. "That's the only paper on her desk." Jane said, facing him firmly, with the same beautiful and evil smile on her face. Suddenly he burst out in a stream of blasphemous words, spouting out his doubts.It's so amazing when he peels off the mask, it's like people's real faces are peeled off. "Look there," his thick American accent was on full display as he cursed breathlessly, "maybe I'm an adventurer, but I see you like a murderess. Yes, Gentlemen, here is your explanation of death, without any attempt to levitate, when the poor girl was writing my will, her damned sister came in, snatched her pen, and dragged her down the well, where She threw her down before finishing her will, for God's sake! I think we still need handcuffs." "As you say," said Jane darkly and coolly, "your clerk is a very respectable man who knows the nature of oaths; and he will prove in any court five minutes before my sister fell And I spent the next five minutes typing in your office, and Flambeau can attest that it was there that he found me." There was a dead silence. "Well, then," cried Flambeau, "Pauline was left alone when she fell. It was suicide!" "It was true that she was alone when she fell," said Father Brown, "but it wasn't suicide." "Then how did she die?" asked Flambeau impatiently. "She was murdered." "But she was alone all the time," objected the detective. "It was she who was murdered when she was alone," answered the priest. All the rest stared at him, but he still sat in that dejected manner, with a line of furrows on his broad brow, an expression of uncharacteristic shame and grief.His voice was hollow and mournful. "What I want to know," Cuaron yelled, spitting out an expletive, "when will the police come and take away this bloody evil sister who killed her fellow sister and robbed me of half a million, and that half a million Like the sacred mines—” "Forget it, Prophet," interrupted Flambeau with a sneer, "remember, everything in this world is a mirage." Trying to climb back to his throne, the Master of the Cult of the Sun roared, "It's not just about the money, although that money would equip the cause of the whole world, and that's the wish of a man I love dearly. To Pauline Say, everything is sacred in her eyes—" Father Brown stood up suddenly at this moment, and the chair behind him fell to the ground.His face was deathly pale, burning with hope, his eyes sparkling. "That's it!" he said clearly. "That's how it started, in Pauline's eyes—" The tall prophet cowered before the almost agitated priest: "What do you mean? How dare you?" he babbled. "In Pauline's eyes," repeated the priest, his eyes growing brighter, "go on—go on, in God's name. The foulest crimes driven by demons become the worst crimes when confessed." Take it easy, I beg you to confess. Go on, go on—in Pauline's eyes—” "Let me go, you devil!" Caron raged, struggling like a bound giant, "Who are you, the bloody spy, to weave elaborate cobwebs around me, and then spy on me furtively? Let me go!" "Stop him?" asked Flambeau, shooting for the exit, for Cuarón had already opened the door. "No, let him go." Father Brown sighed, as if coming from the depths of the vast universe. "Let Keith go, because he belongs to God." After he left the room, there was a long silence.It was a long interrogation for Flambeau's intelligence.Miss Jane Stacy was still arranging the papers on the table with great grimness. "Father," said Flambeau at last, "it is my duty, not mere curiosity--to find out (if I can) who has committed the crime." "Which crime?" asked Father Brown. "The one we're dealing with, of course," said his friend impatiently. "We're dealing with two crimes," Brown said. "Crimes of a very different nature — committed by two different offenders." Miss Stacey had arranged her papers and locked the drawer.Father Brown went on, as if paying no attention to her or caring about her actions. "Two crimes," he remarked, "are committed against the same defect of the same person, and to fight for her money, the great crime is hindered by the petty crime, and the petty crime gets the money. .” "Oh, don't talk like a speech," groaned Flambeau, "simply put it in a few words." "I can say it in simple words," replied his friend. Miss Stacey flung her drab black hat carelessly on her head, and looked dryly into a small mirror, frowning in disgust.While they were talking, she unhurriedly picked up her handbag and umbrella and left the room. "There's only one sentence, really, and a very short sentence," said Father Brown. "Pauline Stacy is blind." "Blind!" repeated Flambeau, slowly straightening his tall figure. "There's a tendency in their blood to be blind," said Brown, "and her sister would have worn glasses if Pauline had allowed her; Creeping. She does not admit the blurred vision, or she tries to expel it by willpower, so that her eyes are getting worse from chronic fatigue; but the worst fatigue comes, and it comes with this precious prophet, as He professes to have taught her to gaze at the burning sun with her naked eyes. This is called meeting Apollo. Oh, if there were a little resemblance between these heathens old and new, they would be wiser too! Pagans past knew: There must be a cruel side to naked worship of nature, and they knew that Apollo's eyes could damage and blind a man's." 顿了一顿，神父继续用柔和甚至令人心碎的声音说：“不管那个魔鬼是否故意让她变成瞎子，毫无疑问他故意利用她的失明杀了她，罪行简单得令人恶心。你知道他和她在电梯里不要管理员帮助而上上下下，你也知道电梯滑动得多么畅通而且无声无息。卡隆把电梯停在那姑娘所在的那一层，从开着的门外看到，她正在以她那缓慢摸索着的方式，书写许诺他的遗嘱。他向她兴奋地说他已经为她准备好了电梯，她写完以后就可以出来，然后他摁了一个按钮，无声无息地升到他自己的那一层，穿过他自己的办公室，来到阳台外，当众面临着大街祷告，而那可怜的姑娘做完她的工作后，来到她的情人和电梯接她的地方，一步跨了出去——” “不要！”弗兰博大叫。 “摁了那个按钮，他本应得到50万。”小个子神父在讲到这里话音似乎有几分悲切，他接着说：“但是希望粉碎了，因为这儿碰巧有另外一个人也想要钱，也知道可怜的波琳眼睛的秘密。关于遗嘱有件事我想没人注意到：尽管它没有完成，没有亲笔签名，另一个斯泰西小姐和姐妹俩的一些仆人已经作为证明人签了字，简第一个签了字，说波琳以后能完成它。简的心里怀着一种典型的对法律的蔑视，她希望她的姐姐在没有真正的证明人时签下遗嘱。为什么？我想到失明，而且确实感到她想要波琳独自写完遗嘱，因为她根本就没有想到她会写下这样的遗嘱。 “斯泰西姐妹这样的人通常用自来水笔，但这对波琳是很难做到的，但由于习惯和强大的意志力，也由于她的记忆使她能写得和她没失明时一样好，不足的是她不能辨别什么时候钢笔需要吸水。因此，平时的钢笔被她的妹妹小心地吸满了水——除了这支，这支笔她妹妹故意地不让它注满，残留的墨水只能写几行字，然后全都用完了，这样在人类历史上先知第一次无利可图地进行了一场最残酷最精彩的谋杀，反而丢失50万英镑。” 弗兰博走到开着的门边，听到了官方警察上楼的声音。“你肯定在十分钟内就已经接近卡隆犯罪的事实了。” 布朗神父吃惊了。 “哦，对他，”他说，“不，我不得不更进一步找到简小姐和那支自来水笔，但我跨进前门之前就知道了卡隆是罪犯。” “你肯定是在开玩笑吧！”弗兰博嚷着。 “我十分认真，”神父答道，“我告诉你我知道这是他干的，甚至在我知道他干了什么之前。” "But why?" “这些异教徒的禁欲主义，”布朗沉思着说，“常常由于力量不足而失败，下面街上传来碰撞声和尖叫声时，阿波罗神父一点都不吃惊，也不往下打量，我不知道发生了什么事，但我知道他在期待着。”

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Notes: