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The Wisdom of Father Brown

The Purple Wig
MR EDWARD NUTT, the industrious editor of the Daily Reformer, sat at his desk,
opening letters and marking proofs to the merry tune of a typewriter, worked by a
vigorous young lady.
He was a stoutish, fair man, in his shirt-sleeves; his movements were resolute, his mouth
firm and his tones final; but his round, rather babyish blue eyes had a bewildered and
even wistful look that rather contradicted all this. Nor indeed was the expression
altogether misleading. It might truly be said of him, as for many journalists in authority,
that his most familiar emotion was one of continuous fear; fear of libel actions, fear of
lost advertisements, fear of misprints, fear of the sack.
His life was a series of distracted compromises between the proprietor of the paper (and
of him), who was a senile soap-boiler with three ineradicable mistakes in his mind, and
the very able staff he had collected to run the paper; some of whom were brilliant and
experienced men and (what was even worse) sincere enthusiasts for the political policy of
the paper.
A letter from one of these lay immediately before him, and rapid and resolute as he was,
he seemed almost to hesitate before opening it. He took up a strip of proof instead, ran
down it with a blue eye, and a blue pencil, altered the word "adultery" to the word
"impropriety," and the word "Jew" to the word "Alien," rang a bell and sent it flying
upstairs.
Then, with a more thoughtful eye, he ripped open the letter from his more distinguished
contributor, which bore a postmark of Devonshire, and read as follows:
DEAR NUTT,--As I see you're working Spooks and Dooks at the same time, what about
an article on that rum business of the Eyres of Exmoor; or as the old women call it down
here, the Devil's Ear of Eyre? The head of the family, you know, is the Duke of Exmoor;
he is one of the few really stiff old Tory aristocrats left, a sound old crusted tyrant it is
quite in our line to make trouble about. And I think I'm on the track of a story that will
make trouble.
Of course I don't believe in the old legend about James I; and as for you, you don't
believe in anything, not even in journalism. The legend, you'll probably remember, was
about the blackest business in English history--the poisoning of Overbury by that witch's
cat Frances Howard, and the quite mysterious terror which forced the King to pardon the
murderers. There was a lot of alleged witchcraft mixed up with it; and the story goes that
a man-servant listening at the keyhole heard the truth in a talk between the King and
Carr; and the bodily ear with which he heard grew large and monstrous as by magic, so
awful was the secret. And though he had to be loaded with lands and gold and made an
ancestor of dukes, the elf-shaped ear is still recurrent in the family. Well, you don't
believe in black magic; and if you did, you couldn't use it for copy. If a miracle happened
in your office, you'd have to hush it up, now so many bishops are agnostics. But that is
not the point The point is that there really is something queer about Exmoor and his
 
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