And the Yeah, Welcome back everyone to one thousand one classic short stories entails this is your

host John Hagenorn and today another father Brown story this one called the

head of Caesar in this story father brown Brown and Flambeau come to the aid of

Christaville Carstairs, the daughter of a famous coin collector, when she is

shadowed by a mysterious figure dressed in a disguise and bent on blackmail.

And now our story.

There is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue of tall houses, rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs.

The very steps up to the dark front door steam as steep as the side of pyramids.

One would hesitate to knock at the door, lest it should be opened by a mummy.

But a yet more depressing feature in the gray facade is its telescopic length and

changeless continuity. The pilgrim walking down it begins to think he will

never come to a break or a corner, but there is one exception, a very small one

but hailed by the pilgrim almost with a shout.

There is a sort of muse between two of the tall mansions.

A mere slit like the crank of a door by comparison with the street,

but just large enough to permit a pigmy ale house or eating house

still allowed by the rich to their stable servants

to stand in the angle.

There is something cheery and it's very dinginess

and something free and elephant in its very

significance and at the feet of those gray stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs

anyone passing a place during a certain autumn evening, itself almost fairy-like,

...