A stormy evening of olive and silver was closing in, as Father Brown, wrapped in a grey Scotch plaid, came to the end of a grey Scotch valley and beheld the strange castle of Glengyle. It stopped one end of the glen or hollow like a blind alley; and it looked like the end of the world. Rising in steep roofs and spires of seagreen slate in the manner of the old French-Scotch chateaux, it reminded an Englishman of the sinister steeple-hats of witches in fairy tales; and the pine woods that rocked round the green turrets looked, by comparison, as black as numberless flocks of ravens. lt;img src="https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/dia/kitadagitim/ckeditor_assets/pictures/53/content_1_original_original.jpg" alt="" height="15" width="15" gt;lt;font size="1" color="white"gt;lt;/fontgt;lt;/imggt;