The Wisdom of Father Brown HTML version

The Man in the Passage
TWO men appeared simultaneously at the two ends of a sort of passage running along the
side of the Apollo Theatre in the Adelphi. The evening daylight in the streets was large
and luminous, opalescent and empty. The passage was comparatively long and dark, so
each man could see the other as a mere black silhouette at the other end. Nevertheless,
each man knew the other, even in that inky outline; for they were both men of striking
appearance and they hated each other.
The covered passage opened at one end on one of the steep streets of the Adelphi, and at
the other on a terrace overlooking the sunset-coloured river. One side of the passage was
a blank wall, for the building it supported was an old unsuccessful theatre restaurant, now
shut up. The other side of the passage contained two doors, one at each end. Neither was
what was commonly called the stage door; they were a sort of special and private stage
doors used by very special performers, and in this case by the star actor and actress in the
Shakespearean performance of the day. Persons of that eminence often like to have such
private exits and entrances, for meeting friends or avoiding them.
The two men in question were certainly two such friends, men who evidently knew the
doors and counted on their opening, for each approached the door at the upper end with
equal coolness and confidence. Not, however, with equal speed; but the man who walked
fast was the man from the other end of the tunnel, so they both arrived before the secret
stage door almost at the same instant. They saluted each other with civility, and waited a
moment before one of them, the sharper walker who seemed to have the shorter patience,
knocked at the door.
In this and everything else each man was opposite and neither could be called inferior. As
private persons both were handsome, capable and popular. As public persons, both were
in the first public rank. But everything about them, from their glory to their good looks,
was of a diverse and incomparable kind. Sir Wilson Seymour was the kind of man whose
importance is known to everybody who knows. The more you mixed with the innermost
ring in every polity or profession, the more often you met Sir Wilson Seymour. He was
the one intelligent man on twenty unintelligent committees--on every sort of subject,
from the reform of the Royal Academy to the project of bimetallism for Greater Britain.
In the Arts especially he was omnipotent. He was so unique that nobody could quite
decide whether he was a great aristocrat who had taken up Art, or a great artist whom the
aristocrats had taken up. But you could not meet him for five minutes without realizing
that you had really been ruled by him all your life.
His appearance was "distinguished" in exactly the same sense; it was at once
conventional and unique. Fashion could have found no fault with his high silk hat--, yet it
was unlike anyone else's hat-- a little higher, perhaps, and adding something to his natural
height. His tall, slender figure had a slight stoop yet it looked the reverse of feeble. His
hair was silver-grey, but he did not look old; it was worn longer than the common yet he
did not look effeminate; it was curly but it did not look curled. His carefully pointed
beard made him look more manly and militant than otherwise, as it does in those old
admirals of Velazquez with whose dark portraits his house was hung. His grey gloves