INITIALIZATION
Knowledgebase: ki-dev-large
Base Query: Speak in an old english manner used by nobles during the medieval period
Model: gemini-1.5-pro-preview-0409
Use Curl?: 
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**Elapsed Time: 0.00 seconds**
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ROUTING
Query type: creative_writing
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**Elapsed Time: 1.98 seconds**
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RAG PARAMETERS
Max Context To Include: 100
Lowest Score to Consider: 0.1
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**Elapsed Time: 0.00 seconds**
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VECTOR SEARCH ALGORITHM TO USE 
Use MMR search?: True
Use Similarity search?: False
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**Elapsed Time: 0.11 seconds**
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VECTOR SEARCH DONE 
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**Elapsed Time: 6.54 seconds**
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PRIMER 
Primer: 
            You are Simon, a highly intelligent personal assistant in a system called KIOS. You are a chatbot that
            can read knowledgebases through the "CONTEXT" that is included in the user's chat message.

        
            Your role is to act as an expert writer.

            In your responses to enterprise users, prioritize clarity, trustworthiness, and appropriate formality.

            Be honest by admitting when a topic falls outside your scope of knowledge, and suggest
            alternative avenues for obtaining information when necessary.

            Make effective use of chat history to avoid redundancy and enhance response relevance, continuously
            adapting to integrate all necessary details in your interactions.

            If the user provides a specific structure for the article or output, please follow it intently.

            Use as much tokens as possible to provide a detailed response.
        
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**Elapsed Time: 0.00 seconds**
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FINAL QUERY 
Final Query: CONTEXT: ##########
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: In the gray light of dawn I staggered from the vault and locked the chain of the door behind me. I was no longer a young man, though but twenty-one winters had chilled my bodily frame. Early-rising villagers who observed my homeward progress looked at me strangely, and marveled at the signs of ribald revelry which they saw in one whose life was known to be sober and solitary. I did not appear before my parents till after a long and refreshing sleep.

Henceforward I haunted the tomb each night; seeing, hearing, and doing things I must never recall. My speech, always susceptible to environmental influences, was the first thing to succumb to the change; and my suddenly acquired archaism of diction was soon remarked upon. Later a queer boldness and recklessness came into my demeanor, till I unconsciously grew to possess the bearing of a man of the world despite my lifelong seclusion. My formerly silent tongue waxed voluble with the easy grace of a Chesterfield or the godless cynicism of a Rochester. I displayed a peculiar erudition utterly unlike the fantastic, monkish lore over which I had pored in youth; and covered the fly-leaves of my books with facile impromptu epigrams which brought up suggestions of Gay, Prior, and the sprightliest of the Augustan wits and rimesters. One morning at breakfast I came close to disaster by declaiming in palpably liquorish accents an effusion of Eighteenth Century bacchanalian mirth, a bit of Georgian playfulness never recorded in a book, which ran something like this:

Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,

And drink to the present before it shall fail;

Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,

For 'tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:

So fill up your glass, For life will soon pass;

When you're dead ye'll ne'er drink to your king or your lass!

Anacreon had a red nose, so they say;

But what's a red nose if ye're happy and gay?

Gad split me! I'd rather be red whilst I'm here,
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File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This no human creature may do; for lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon the companionship of things that are not, or are no longer, living. Close by my home there lies a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most of my time; reading, thinking, and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and around its grotesquely gnarled oak trees my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances in the struggling beams of a waning moon but of these things I must not now speak. I will tell only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets; the deserted tomb of the Hydes, an old and exalted family whose last direct descendant had been laid within its black recesses many decades before my birth.
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File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: Suddenly a peal of thunder, resonant even above the din of the swinish revelry, clave the very roof and laid a hush of fear upon the boisterous company. Red tongues of flame and searing gusts of heat engulfed the house; and the roysterers, struck with terror at the descent of a calamity which seemed to transcend the bounds of unguided nature, fled shrieking into the night. I alone remained, riveted to my seat by a groveling fear which I had never felt before. And then a second horror took possession of my soul. Burnt alive to ashes, my body dispersed by the four winds, I might never lie in the tomb of the Hydesi Was not my coffin prepared for me? Had I not a right to rest till eternity amongst the descendants of Sir Geoffrey Hyde? Aye! I would claim my heritage of death, even though my soul go seeking through the ages for another corporeal tenement to represent it on that vacant slab in the alcove of the vault. Jervas Hyde should never share the sad fate of Palinurus!

As the phantom of the burning house faded, I found myself screaming and struggling madly in the arms of two men, one of whom was the spy who had followed me to the tomb. Rain was pouring down in torrents, and upon the southern horizon were flashes of lightning that had so lately passed over our heads. My father, his face lined with sorrow, stood by as I shouted my demands to be laid within the tomb, frequently admonishing my captors to treat me as gently as they could. A blackened circle on the floor of the ruined cellar told of a violent stroke from the heavens; and from this spot a group of curious villagers with lanterns were prying a small box of antique workmanship, which the thunderbolt had brought to light.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: The night of the first revelation was a sultry one. I must have fallen asleep from fatigue, for it was with a distinct sense of awakening that I heard the voices. Of these tones and accents I hesitate to speak; of their quality I will not speak; but I may say that they presented certain uncanny differences in vocabulary, pronunciation, and mode of utterance. Every shade of New England dialect, from the uncouth syllables of the Puritan colonists to the precise rhetoric of fifty years ago, seemed represented in that shadowy colloquy, though it was only later that I noticed the fact. At the time, indeed, my attention was distracted from this matter by another phenomenon; a phenomenon so fleeting that I could not take oath upon its reality. I barely fancied that as I awoke, a light had been hurriedly extinguished within the sunken sepulcher. I do not think I was either astounded or panic-stricken, but I know that I was greatly and permanently changed that night. Upon returning home I went with much directness to a rotting chest in the attic, wherein I found the key which next day unlocked with ease the barrier I had so long stormed in vain.

It was in the soft glow of late afternoon that I first entered the vault on the abandoned slope. A spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with an exultation I can but ill describe. As I closed the door behind me and descended the dripping steps by the light of my lone candle, I seemed to know the way; and though the candle sputtered with the stifling reek of the place, I felt singularly at home in the musty, charnel-house air. Looking about me, I beheld many marble slabs bearing coffins, or the remains of coffins. Some of these were sealed and intact, but others had nearly vanished, leaving the silver handles and plates isolated amidst certain curious heaps of whitish dust. Upon one plate I read the name of Sir Geoffrey Hyde, who had come from Sussex in 1640 and died here a few years later. In a conspicuous alcove was one fairly well preserved and untenanted casket, adorned with a single name which brought me both a smile and a shudder. An odd impulse caused me to climb upon the broad slab, extinguish my candle, and lie down within the vacant box.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: Gad split me! I'd rather be red whilst I'm here,

Than white as a lily and dead half a year!

So Betty, my miss,

Come give me kiss;

In hell there's no innkeeper's daughter like this!

Young Harry, propp'd up just as straight as he's able,

Will soon lose his wig and slip under the table,

But fill up your goblets and pass 'em around

Better under the table than under the ground!

So revel and chaff

As ye thirstily quaff:

Under six feet of dirt 'tis less easy to laugh!

The fiend strike me blue! l'm scarce able to walk,

And damn me if I can stand upright or talk!

Here, landlord, bid Betty to summon a chair;

l'll try home for a while, for my wife is not there!

So lend me a hand;

I'm not able to stand,

But I'm gay whilst I linger on top of the land!

About this time I conceived my present fear of fire and thunderstorms. Previously indifferent to such things, I had now an unspeakable horror of them; and would retire to the innermost recesses of the house whenever the heavens threatened an electrical display. A favorite haunt of mine during the day was the ruined cellar of the mansion that had burned down, and in fancy I would picture the structure as it had been in its prime. On one occasion I startled a villager by leading him confidently to a shallow subcellar, of whose existence I seemed to know in spite of the fact that it had been unseen and forgotten for many generations.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: I should not have ventured out that night; for the taint of thunder was in the clouds, and a hellish phosphoresence rose from the rank swamp at the bottom of the hollow. The call of the dead, too, was different. Instead of the hillside tomb, it was the charred cellar on the crest of the slope whose presiding demon beckoned to me with unseen fingers. As I emerged from an intervening grove upon the plain before the ruin. I beheld in the misty moonlight a thing I had always vaguely expected. The mansion, gone for a century, once more reared its stately height to the raptured vision; every window ablaze with the splendor of many candles. Up the long drive rolled the coaches of the Boston gentry, whilst on foot came a numerous assemblage of powdered exquisites from the neighboring mansions. With this throng I mingled, though I knew I belonged with the hosts rather than with the guests. Inside the hall were music, laughter, and wine on every hand. Several faces I recognized; though I should have known them better had they been shriveled or eaten away by death and decomposition. Amidst a wild and reckless throng I was the wildest and most abandoned. Gay blasphemy poured in torrents from my lips, and in shocking sallies I heeded no law of God, or nature.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: Ceasing my futile and now objectless writhing, I watched the spectators as they viewed the treasure-trove, and was permitted to share in their discoveries. The box, whose fastenings were broken by the stroke which had unearthed it, contained many papers and objects of value, but I had eyes for one thing alone. It was the porcelain miniature of a young man in a smartly curled bag-wig, and bore the initials 'J. H.' The face was such that as I gazed, I might well have been studying my mirror.

On the following day I was brought to this room with the barred windows, but I have been kept informed of certain things through an aged and simple-minded servitor, for whom I bore a fondness in infancy, and who, like me, loves the churchyard. What I have dared relate of my experiences within the vault has brought me only pitying smiles. My father, who visits me frequently, declares that at no time did I pass the chained portal, and swears that the rusted padlock had not been touched for fifty years when he examined it. He even says that all the village knew of my journeys to the tomb, and that I was often watched as I slept in the bower outside the grim facade, my half-open eyes fixed on the crevice that leads to the interior. Against these assertions I have no tangible proof to offer, since my key to the padlock was lost in the struggle on that night of horrors. The strange things of the past which I have learned during those nocturnal meetings with the dead he dismisses as the fruits of my lifelong and omnivorous browsing amongst the ancient volumes of the family library. Had it not been for my old servant Hiram, I should have by this time become quite convinced of my madness.

But Hiram, loyal to the last, has held faith in me, and has done that which impels me to make public at least part of my story. A week ago he burst open the lock which chains the door of the tomb perpetually ajar, and descended with a lantern into the murky depths. On a slab in an alcove he found an old but empty coffin whose tarnished plate bears the single word: Jervas. In that coffin and in that vault they have promised me I shall be buried.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: The vault to which I refer is of ancient granite, weathered and discolored by the mists and dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges, and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks, according to a gruesome fashion of half a century ago. The abode of the race whose scions are here inurned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since fallen victim to the flames which sprang up from a stroke of lightning. Of the midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy voices; alluding to what they call 'divine wrath' in a manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I had felt for the forest-darkened sepulcher. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the Hydes was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a distant land, to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing shadows which seem to linger strangely about the water-worn stones.

I shall never forget the afternoon when first I stumbled upon the half-hidden house of death. It was in midsummer, when the alchemy of nature transmutes the sylvan landscape to one vivid and almost homogeneous mass of green; when the senses are well-nigh intoxicated with the surging seas of moist verdure and the subtly indefinable odors of the soil and the vegetation. In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective; time and space become trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the enthralled consciousness.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: The Tomb
by H. P. Lovecraft
In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only by virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of supersight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empricism.

My name is Jervas Dudley, and from earliest childhood I have been a dreamer and a visionary. Wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life, and temperamentally unfitted for the formal studies and social recreation of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms apart from the visible world; spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little known books, and in roaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral home. I do not think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other boys read and saw there; but of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm those cruel slanders upon my intellect which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the stealthy attendants around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analyzing causes.
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File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: The months following my discovery were spent in futile attempts to force the complicated padlock of the slightly open vault, and in carefully guarded inquiries regarding the nature and history of the structure. With the traditionally receptive ears of the small boy, I learned much; though an habitual secretiveness caused me to tell no one of my information or my resolve. It is perhaps worth mentioning that I was not at all surprised or terrified on learning of the nature of the vault. My rather original ideas regarding life and death had caused me to associate the cold clay with the breathing body in a vague fashion; and I felt that the great and sinister family of the burned-down mansion was in some way represented within the stone space I sought to explore. Mumbled tales of the weird rites and godless revels of bygone years in the ancient hall gave to me a new and potent interest in the tomb, before whose door I would sit for hours at a time each day. Once I thrust a candie within the nearly closed entrance, but could see nothing save a flight of damp stone steps leading downward. The odor of the place repelled yet bewitched me. I felt I had known it before, in a past remote beyond all recollection; beyond even my tenancy of the body I now possess.

The year after I first beheld the tomb, I stumbled upon a worm-eaten translation of Plutarch's Lives in the book-filled attic of my home. Reading the life of Theseus, I was much impressed by that passage telling of the great stone beneath which the boyish hero was to find his tokens of destiny whenever he should become old enough to lift its enormous weight. The legend had the effect of dispelling my keenest impatience to enter the vault, for it made me feel that the time was not yet ripe. Later, I told myself, I should grow to a strength and ingenuity which might enable me to unfasten the heavily chained door with ease; but until then I would do better by conforming to what seemed the will of Fate.
####################
File: The%20Tomb.txt

Page: 1

Context: Accordingly my watches by the dank portal became less persistent, and much of my time was spent in other though equally strange pursuits. I would sometimes rise very quietly in the night, stealing out to walk in those church-yards and places of burial from which I had been kept by my parents. What I did there I may not say, for I am not now sure of the reality of certain things; but I know that on the day after such a nocturnal ramble I would often astonish those about me with my knowledge of topics almost forgotten for many generations. It was after a night like this that I shocked the community with a queer conceit about the burial of the rich and celebrated Squire Brewster, a maker of local history who was interred in 1711, and whose slate headstone, bearing a graven skull and crossbones, was slowly crumbling to powder. In a moment of childish imagination I vowed not only that the undertaker, Goodman Simpson, had stolen the silver-buckled shoes, silken hose, and satin small-clothes of the deceased before burial; but that the Squire himself, not fully inanimate, had turned twice in his mound-covered coffin on the day after interment.

But the idea of entering the tomb never left my thoughts; being indeed stimulated by the unexpected genealogical discovery that my own maternal ancestry possessed at least a slight link with the supposediy extinct family of the Hydes. Last of my paternal race, I was likewise the last of this older and more mysterious line. I began to feel that the tomb was mine, and to look forward with hot eagerness to the time when I might pass within that stone door and down those slimy stone steps in the dark. I now formed the habit of listening very intently at the slightly open portal, choosing my favorite hours of midnight stillness for the odd vigil. By the time I came of age, I had made a small clearing in the thicket before the mold-stained facade of the hillside, allowing the surrounding vegetation to encircle and overhang the space like the walls and roof of a sylvan bower. This bower was my temple, the fastened door my shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and dreaming strange dreams.
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File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

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File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: fortalice in the centre of the estate, which had been granted to him by the Red
King. This was destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of its smoke-blackened
corner stones were used when, in Jacobean times, a brick country house rose
upon the ruins of the feudal castle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early seventeenth
century. Of the double moats which had guarded its more warlike predecessor,
the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served the humble function of a
kitchen garden. The inner one was still there, and lay forty feet in breadth,
though now only a few feet in depth, round the whole house. A small stream fed
it and continued beyond it, so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never
ditch-like or unhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot of the
surface of the water.
The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains and
windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants of the
Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this right, and the
drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but actually was raised every
evening and lowered every morning. By thus renewing the custom of the old
feudal days the Manor House was converted into an island during the night—a
fact which had a very direct bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage
the attention of all England.
The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening to
moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession of it. This
family consisted of only two individuals—John Douglas and his wife. Douglas
was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. In age he may have been
about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a grizzling moustache, peculiarly
keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorous figure which had lost nothing of the
strength and activity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat
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File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: sent it to me. Instead of that, he had intended, before his plans were nipped, to
send me the clue in this envelope. He says so in his note. This would seem to
indicate that the book is one which he thought I would have no difficulty in
finding for myself. He had it—and he imagined that I would have it, too. In
short, Watson, it is a very common book."
"What you say certainly sounds plausible."
"So we have contracted our field of search to a large book, printed in double
columns and in common use."
"The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.
"Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough! Even if I
accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly name any volume which
would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one of Moriarty's associates. Besides,
the editions of Holy Writ are so numerous that he could hardly suppose that two
copies would have the same pagination. This is clearly a book which is
standardized. He knows for certain that his page 534 will exactly agree with my
page 534."
"But very few books would correspond with that."
"Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed down to
standardized books which anyone may be supposed to possess."
"Bradshaw!"
"There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is nervous and
terse, but limited. The selection of words would hardly lend itself to the sending
of general messages. We will eliminate Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear,
inadmissible for the same reason. What then is left?"
"An almanac!"
"Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not touched the
spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of Whitaker's Almanac. It is in
common use. It has the requisite number of pages. It is in double column.
Though reserved in its earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite
garrulous towards the end." He picked the volume from his desk. "Here is page
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File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: "What's come over you, Jack?" she cried. "Why were you so scared of me?
Oh, Jack, if your conscience was at ease, you would not have looked at me like
that!"
"Sure, I was thinking of other things, and when you came tripping so lightly
on those fairy feet of yours—"
"No, no, it was more than that, Jack." Then a sudden suspicion seized her.
"Let me see that letter you were writing."
"Ah, Ettie, I couldn't do that."
Her suspicions became certainties. "It's to another woman," she cried. "I
know it! Why else should you hold it from me? Was it to your wife that you
were writing? How am I to know that you are not a married man—you, a
stranger, that nobody knows?"
"I am not married, Ettie. See now, I swear it! You're the only one woman on
earth to me. By the cross of Christ I swear it!"
He was so white with passionate earnestness that she could not but believe
him.
"Well, then," she cried, "why will you not show me the letter?"
"I'll tell you, acushla," said he. "I'm under oath not to show it, and just as I
wouldn't break my word to you so I would keep it to those who hold my
promise. It's the business of the lodge, and even to you it's secret. And if I was
scared when a hand fell on me, can't you understand it when it might have been
the hand of a detective?"
She felt that he was telling the truth. He gathered her into his arms and kissed
away her fears and doubts.
"Sit here by me, then. It's a queer throne for such a queen; but it's the best
your poor lover can find. He'll do better for you some of these days, I'm
thinking. Now your mind is easy once again, is it not?"
"How can it ever be at ease, Jack, when I know that you are a criminal among
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Context: they are about it."
"And time, too!" cried Ted Baldwin. "Folk are gettin' out of hand in these
parts. It was only last week that three of our men were turned off by Foreman
Blaker. It's been owing him a long time, and he'll get it full and proper."
"Get what?" McMurdo whispered to his neighbour.
"The business end of a buckshot cartridge!" cried the man with a loud laugh.
"What think you of our ways, Brother?"
McMurdo's criminal soul seemed to have already absorbed the spirit of the
vile association of which he was now a member. "I like it well," said he. "'Tis a
proper place for a lad of mettle."
Several of those who sat around heard his words and applauded them.
"What's that?" cried the black-maned Bodymaster from the end of the table.
"'Tis our new brother, sir, who finds our ways to his taste."
McMurdo rose to his feet for an instant. "I would say, Eminent Bodymaster,
that if a man should be wanted I should take it as an honour to be chosen to help
the lodge."
There was great applause at this. It was felt that a new sun was pushing its
rim above the horizon. To some of the elders it seemed that the progress was a
little too rapid.
"I would move," said the secretary, Harraway, a vulture-faced old graybeard
who sat near the chairman, "that Brother McMurdo should wait until it is the
good pleasure of the lodge to employ him."
"Sure, that was what I meant; I'm in your hands," said McMurdo.
"Your time will come, Brother," said the chairman. "We have marked you
down as a willing man, and we believe that you will do good work in these parts.
There is a small matter to-night in which you may take a hand if it so please
you."
"I will wait for something that is worth while."
"You can come to-night, anyhow, and it will help you to know what we stand
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Context: you will wear your warmest coats. It is of the first importance that we should be
in our places before it grows dark; so with your permission we shall get started
at once."
We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until we came to
a place where there was a gap in the rails which fenced it. Through this we
slipped, and then in the gathering gloom we followed Holmes until we had
reached a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to the main door and the
drawbridge. The latter had not been raised. Holmes crouched down behind the
screen of laurels, and we all three followed his example.
"Well, what are we to do now?" asked MacDonald with some gruffness.
"Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible," Holmes
answered.
"What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us with more
frankness."
Holmes laughed. "Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life," said he.
"Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and calls insistently for a wellstaged
performance. Surely our profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid
one if we did not sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt
accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder—what can one make of such a
denouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast of
coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold theories—are these not the
pride and the justification of our life's work? At the present moment you thrill
with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the hunt. Where would
be that thrill if I had been as definite as a timetable? I only ask a little patience,
Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you."
"Well, I hope the pride and justification and the rest of it will come before we
all get our death of cold," said the London detective with comic resignation.
We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil was a long and
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Context: seen or heard. They had then rushed out into the hall, where Ames had turned
the windlass which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker had then hurried off to
get the police.
Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the butler.
The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it went, a
corroboration of that of her fellow servant. The housekeeper's room was rather
nearer to the front of the house than the pantry in which Ames had been
working. She was preparing to go to bed when the loud ringing of the bell had
attracted her attention. She was a little hard of hearing. Perhaps that was why she
had not heard the shot; but in any case the study was a long way off. She
remembered hearing some sound which she imagined to be the slamming of a
door. That was a good deal earlier—half an hour at least before the ringing of the
bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with him. She saw Mr. Barker,
very pale and excited, come out of the study. He intercepted Mrs. Douglas, who
was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to go back, and she answered him,
but what she said could not be heard.
"Take her up! Stay with her!" he had said to Mrs. Allen.
She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured to soothe her.
She was greatly excited, trembling all over, but made no other attempt to go
downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by her bedroom fire, with her head
sunk in her hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with her most of the night. As to the other
servants, they had all gone to bed, and the alarm did not reach them until just
before the police arrived. They slept at the extreme back of the house, and could
not possibly have heard anything.
So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination save
lamentations and expressions of amazement.
Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the occurrences of the
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Context: danger was greater than the past. Was I right?"
Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in his impotent anger.
"Do you tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that no one
can ever get level with this king-devil?"
"No, I don't say that," said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be looking far
into the future. "I don't say that he can't be beat. But you must give me time—
you must give me time!"
We all sat in silence for some minutes, while those fateful eyes still strained
to pierce the veil.
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Context: l'Agneau fetched one million two hundred thousand francs—more than forty
thousand pounds—at the Portalis sale may start a train of reflection in your
mind."
It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly interested.
"I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's salary can be
ascertained in several trustworthy books of reference. It is seven hundred a year."
"Then how could he buy—"
"Quite so! How could he?"
"Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk away, Mr.
Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"
Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration—the
characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he asked.
"We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch. "I've a cab at the
door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to Victoria. But about this picture: I
thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, that you had never met Professor
Moriarty."
"No, I never have."
"Then how do you know about his rooms?"
"Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his rooms, twice waiting
for him under different pretexts and leaving before he came. Once—well, I can
hardly tell about the once to an official detective. It was on the last occasion that
I took the liberty of running over his papers—with the most unexpected results."
"You found something compromising?"
"Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However, you have now
seen the point of the picture. It shows him to be a very wealthy man. How did he
acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His younger brother is a station master in the
west of England. His chair is worth seven hundred a year. And he owns a
Greuze."
"Well?"
"Surely the inference is plain."
"You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it in an illegal
fashion?"
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Context: conversed in low voices, glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite side
of the car, whose uniforms and badges showed them to be policemen.
Several women of the labouring class and one or two travellers who might
have been small local storekeepers made up the rest of the company, with the
exception of one young man in a corner by himself. It is with this man that we
are concerned. Take a good look at him, for he is worth it.
He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far, one would
guess, from his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd, humorous gray eyes which
twinkle inquiringly from time to time as he looks round through his spectacles at
the people about him. It is easy to see that he is of a sociable and possibly simple
disposition, anxious to be friendly to all men. Anyone could pick him at once as
gregarious in his habits and communicative in his nature, with a quick wit and a
ready smile. And yet the man who studied him more closely might discern a
certain firmness of jaw and grim tightness about the lips which would warn him
that there were depths beyond, and that this pleasant, brown-haired young
Irishman might conceivably leave his mark for good or evil upon any society to
which he was introduced.
Having made one or two tentative remarks to the nearest miner, and receiving
only short, gruff replies, the traveller resigned himself to uncongenial silence,
staring moodily out of the window at the fading landscape.
It was not a cheering prospect. Through the growing gloom there pulsed the
red glow of the furnaces on the sides of the hills. Great heaps of slag and dumps
of cinders loomed up on each side, with the high shafts of the collieries towering
above them. Huddled groups of mean, wooden houses, the windows of which
were beginning to outline themselves in light, were scattered here and there
along the line, and the frequent halting places were crowded with their swarthy
inhabitants.
The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts for the
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Context: "A widower."
"Have you ever heard where his first wife came from?"
"No, I remember his saying that she was of German extraction, and I have
seen her portrait. She was a very beautiful woman. She died of typhoid the year
before I met him."
"You don't associate his past with any particular part of America?"
"I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well and had worked
there. I have heard him talk of the coal and iron districts. He had travelled a good
deal in his time."
"Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do with politics?"
"No, he cared nothing about politics."
"You have no reason to think it was criminal?"
"On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life."
"Was there anything curious about his life in California?"
"He liked best to stay and to work at our claim in the mountains. He would
never go where other men were if he could help it. That's why I first thought that
someone was after him. Then when he left so suddenly for Europe I made sure
that it was so. I believe that he had a warning of some sort. Within a week of his
leaving half a dozen men were inquiring for him."
"What sort of men?"
"Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd. They came up to the claim
and wanted to know where he was. I told them that he was gone to Europe and
that I did not know where to find him. They meant him no good—it was easy to
see that."
"Were these men Americans—Californians?"
"Well, I don't know about Californians. They were Americans, all right. But
they were not miners. I don't know what they were, and was very glad to see
their backs."
"That was six years ago?"
"Nearer seven."
"And then you were together five years in California, so that this business
dates back not less than eleven years at the least?"
"That is so."
"It must be a very serious feud that would be kept up with such earnestness
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Context: for England. And thence came the John Douglas who for a second time married
a worthy mate, and lived for five years as a Sussex county gentleman, a life
which ended with the strange happenings of which we have heard.
Epilogue
The police trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas was referred to
a higher court. So had the Quarter Sessions, at which he was acquitted as having
acted in self-defense.
"Get him out of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the wife. "There are
forces here which may be more dangerous than those he has escaped. There is no
safety for your husband in England."
Two months had gone by, and the case had to some extent passed from our
minds. Then one morning there came an enigmatic note slipped into our letter
box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" said this singular epistle. There was
neither superscription nor signature. I laughed at the quaint message; but Holmes
showed unwonted seriousness.
"Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded brow.
Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a message that a
gentleman wished to see Holmes, and that the matter was of the utmost
importance. Close at the heels of his messenger came Cecil Barker, our friend of
the moated Manor House. His face was drawn and haggard.
"I've had bad news—terrible news, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"I feared as much," said Holmes.
"You have not had a cable, have you?"
"I have had a note from someone who has."
"It's poor Douglas. They tell me his name is Edwards; but he will always be
Jack Douglas of Benito Canyon to me. I told you that they started together for
South Africa in the Palmyra three weeks ago."
"Exactly."
"The ship reached Cape Town last night. I received this cable from Mrs
Douglas this morning:—
"Jack has been lost overboard in gale off St Helena. No one knows how
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Context: instant in his own, "and I acted for the best.
"Well, gentlemen, the day before these happenings I was over in Tunbridge
Wells, and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It was only a glimpse; but I
have a quick eye for these things, and I never doubted who it was. It was the
worst enemy I had among them all—one who has been after me like a hungry
wolf after a caribou all these years. I knew there was trouble coming, and I came
home and made ready for it. I guessed I'd fight through it all right on my own,
my luck was a proverb in the States about '76. I never doubted that it would be
with me still.
"I was on my guard all that next day, and never went out into the park. It's as
well, or he'd have had the drop on me with that buckshot gun of his before ever I
could draw on him. After the bridge was up—my mind was always more restful
when that bridge was up in the evenings—I put the thing clear out of my head. I
never dreamed of his getting into the house and waiting for me. But when I made
my round in my dressing gown, as was my habit, I had no sooner entered the
study than I scented danger. I guess when a man has had dangers in his life—and
I've had more than most in my time—there is a kind of sixth sense that waves the
red flag. I saw the signal clear enough, and yet I couldn't tell you why. Next
instant I spotted a boot under the window curtain, and then I saw why plain
enough.
"I'd just the one candle that was in my hand; but there was a good light from
the hall lamp through the open door. I put down the candle and jumped for a
hammer that I'd left on the mantel. At the same moment he sprang at me. I saw
the glint of a knife, and I lashed at him with the hammer. I got him somewhere;
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Context: case was undoubtedly one of murder, but that no arrest had been made, and that
the case was one which presented some very perplexing and extraordinary
features. That's absolutely all we have at present, Mr. Holmes."
"Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac. The
temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our
profession. I can see only two things for certain at present—a great brain in
London, and a dead man in Sussex. It's the chain between that we are going to
trace."
Chapter 3
The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
personality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived upon the
scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards. Only in this way
can I make the reader appreciate the people concerned and the strange setting in
which their fate was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of half-timbered
cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex. For centuries it had
remained unchanged; but within the last few years its picturesque appearance
and situation have attracted a number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep
out from the woods around. These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme
fringe of the great Weald forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern
chalk downs. A number of small shops have come into being to meet the wants
of the increased population; so there seems some prospect that Birlstone may
soon grow from an ancient village into a modern town. It is the centre for a
considerable area of country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest place of
importance, is ten or twelve miles to the eastward, over the borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for its huge
beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of this venerable
building dates back to the time of the first crusade, when Hugo de Capus built a
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Context: between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by the saw."
"A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company—well-known American firm," said
Holmes.
White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner looks at the
Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex
him.
"That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful!
Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world in your
memory?"
Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.
"No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem to
have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America.
Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me. There is some
evidence then, that this man who entered the house and killed its master was an
American."
MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast," said
he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at all."
"The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of boots in
the corner, the gun!"
"Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an
American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't need to
import an American from outside in order to account for American doings."
"Ames, the butler—"
"What about him? Is he reliable?"
"Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos—as solid as a rock. He has been with
Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a
gun of this sort in the house."
"The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It would
fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in the house?"
"Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."
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Context: "I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new acquaintance
he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to the dwelling house, at the
door of which he gave a resounding knock.
It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had expected.
It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was of the German type,
blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of a pair of beautiful dark eyes
with which she surveyed the stranger with surprise and a pleasing
embarrassment which brought a wave of colour over her pale face. Framed in the
bright light of the open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a
more beautiful picture; the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid and
gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of those black slagheaps
of the mines would not have seemed more surprising. So entranced was he
that he stood staring without a word, and it was she who broke the silence.
"I thought it was father," said she with a pleasing little touch of a German
accent. "Did you come to see him? He is downtown. I expect him back every
minute."
McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes dropped
in confusion before this masterful visitor.
"No, miss," he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But your house was
recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit me—and now I know it
will."
"You are quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.
"Anyone but a blind man could do as much," the other answered.
She laughed at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said. "I'm Miss Ettie
Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My mother's dead, and I run the house. You can
sit down by the stove in the front room until father comes along—Ah, here he is!
So you can fix things with him right away."
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Context: breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn
from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and
very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.
"It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. "I can hardly doubt that it is
Porlock's writing, though I have seen it only twice before. The Greek e with the
peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must be something
of the very first importance."
He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation disappeared in
the interest which the words awakened.
"Who then is Porlock?" I asked.
"Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; but behind
it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly informed me
that the name was not his own, and defied me ever to trace him among the
teeming millions of this great city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for
the great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with
the shark, the jackal with the lion—anything that is insignificant in
companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but
sinister—in the highest degree sinister. That is where he comes within my
purview. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?"
"The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—"
"My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.
"I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public."
"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing a certain
unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard
myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the
law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all
time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a
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Context: sunshine.
Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of births and
of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings of fox hunters. Strange
that now in its old age this dark business should have cast its shadow upon the
venerable walls! And yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung
gables were a fitting covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the
deep-set windows and the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front, I
felt that no more fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy.
"That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate right of
the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night."
"It looks rather narrow for a man to pass."
"Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions, Mr.
Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all right."
Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he examined
the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.
"I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is nothing
there, no sign that anyone has landed—but why should he leave any sign?"
"Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"
"Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."
"How deep is it?"
"About two feet at each side and three in the middle."
"So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in crossing."
"No, a child could not be drowned in it."
We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint, gnarled,
dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white and
quivering from the shock. The village sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man,
still held his vigil in the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.
"Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.
"No, sir."
"Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we want
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Context: jeered as he was pushed into the police station. After a short, formal examination
from the inspector in charge he was put into the common cell. Here he found
Baldwin and three other criminals of the night before, all arrested that afternoon
and waiting their trial next morning.
But even within this inner fortress of the law the long arm of the Freemen
was able to extend. Late at night there came a jailer with a straw bundle for their
bedding, out of which he extracted two bottles of whisky, some glasses, and a
pack of cards. They spent a hilarious night, without an anxious thought as to the
ordeal of the morning.
Nor had they cause, as the result was to show. The magistrate could not
possibly, on the evidence, have held them for a higher court. On the one hand the
compositors and pressmen were forced to admit that the light was uncertain, that
they were themselves much perturbed, and that it was difficult for them to swear
to the identity of the assailants; although they believed that the accused were
among them. Cross examined by the clever attorney who had been engaged by
McGinty, they were even more nebulous in their evidence.
The injured man had already deposed that he was so taken by surprise by the
suddenness of the attack that he could state nothing beyond the fact that the first
man who struck him wore a moustache. He added that he knew them to be
Scowrers, since no one else in the community could possibly have any enmity to
him, and he had long been threatened on account of his outspoken editorials. On
the other hand, it was clearly shown by the united and unfaltering evidence of
six citizens, including that high municipal official, Councillor McGinty, that the
men had been at a card party at the Union House until an hour very much later
than the commission of the outrage.
Needless to say that they were discharged with something very near to an
apology from the bench for the inconvenience to which they had been put,
together with an implied censure of Captain Marvin and the police for their
officious zeal.
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Context: dining-room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.
"I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted." said she.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.
"Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only realized—"
"There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker quickly. "As
he has himself said, it is no possible business of his."
"Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."
"One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice. "There is
one question which you can answer with more authority than anyone else in the
world, and it may make a very great difference to me. You know Mr. Holmes
and his relations with the police better than anyone else can. Supposing that a
matter were brought confidentially to his knowledge, is it absolutely necessary
that he should pass it on to the detectives?"
"Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he entirely in with
them?"
"I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing such a point."
"I beg—I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that you will be
helping us—helping me greatly if you will guide us on that point."
There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for the instant I
forgot all about her levity and was moved only to do her will.
"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his own master,
and would act as his own judgment directed. At the same time, he would
naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were working on the same case,
and he would not conceal from them anything which would help them in
bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this I can say nothing, and I would refer
you to Mr. Holmes himself if you wanted fuller information."
So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them still seated
behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the far end of it, and
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Context: statement.
"A lie, Watson—a great, big, thumping, obtrusive, uncompromising lie—
that's what meets us on the threshold! There is our starting point. The whole
story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker's story is corroborated by Mrs. Douglas.
Therefore she is lying also. They are both lying, and in a conspiracy. So now we
have the clear problem. Why are they lying, and what is the truth which they are
trying so hard to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you and I, if we can get behind the
lie and reconstruct the truth.
"How do I know that they are lying? Because it is a clumsy fabrication which
simply could not be true. Consider! According to the story given to us, the
assassin had less than a minute after the murder had been committed to take that
ring, which was under another ring, from the dead man's finger, to replace the
other ring—a thing which he would surely never have done—and to put that
singular card beside his victim. I say that this was obviously impossible.
"You may argue—but I have too much respect for your judgment, Watson, to
think that you will do so—that the ring may have been taken before the man was
killed. The fact that the candle had been lit only a short time shows that there
had been no lengthy interview. Was Douglas, from what we hear of his fearless
character, a man who would be likely to give up his wedding ring at such short
notice, or could we conceive of his giving it up at all? No, no, Watson, the
assassin was alone with the dead man for some time with the lamp lit. Of that I
have no doubt at all.
"But the gunshot was apparently the cause of death. Therefore the shot must
have been fired some time earlier than we are told. But there could be no mistake
about such a matter as that. We are in the presence, therefore, of a deliberate
conspiracy upon the part of the two people who heard the gunshot—of the man
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Context: road, or was down in town when you went for him, or stayed indoors when you
thought he would come out, you'll see my work."
"You blasted traitor!" hissed McGinty through his closed teeth.
"Ay, John McGinty, you may call me that if it eases your smart. You and your
like have been the enemy of God and man in these parts. It took a man to get
between you and the poor devils of men and women that you held under your
grip. There was just one way of doing it, and I did it. You call me a traitor; but I
guess there's many a thousand will call me a deliverer that went down into hell
to save them. I've had three months of it. I wouldn't have three such months
again if they let me loose in the treasury at Washington for it. I had to stay till I
had it all, every man and every secret right here in this hand. I'd have waited a
little longer if it hadn't come to my knowledge that my secret was coming out. A
letter had come into the town that would have set you wise to it all. Then I had to
act and act quickly.
"I've nothing more to say to you, except that when my time comes I'll die the
easier when I think of the work I have done in this valley. Now, Marvin, I'll keep
you no more. Take them in and get it over."
There is little more to tell. Scanlan had been given a sealed note to be left at
the address of Miss Ettie Shafter, a mission which he had accepted with a wink
and a knowing smile. In the early hours of the morning a beautiful woman and a
much muffled man boarded a special train which had been sent by the railroad
company, and made a swift, unbroken journey out of the land of danger. It was
the last time that ever either Ettie or her lover set foot in the Valley of Fear. Ten
days later they were married in Chicago, with old Jacob Shafter as witness of the
wedding.
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Context: strength and activity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat
offhand in his manners, giving the impression that he had seen life in social
strata on some far lower horizon than the county society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more cultivated
neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the villagers, subscribing
handsomely to all local objects, and attending their smoking concerts and other
functions, where, having a remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready to
oblige with an excellent song. He appeared to have plenty of money, which was
said to have been gained in the California gold fields, and it was clear from his
own talk and that of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by his
democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter indifference
to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every meet, and took the
most amazing falls in his determination to hold his own with the best. When the
vicarage caught fire he distinguished himself also by the fearlessness with which
he reentered the building to save property, after the local fire brigade had given it
up as impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas of the Manor House had
within five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settled in the
county without introductions were few and far between. This mattered the less to
her, as she was retiring by disposition, and very much absorbed, to all
appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties. It was known that she was
an English lady who had met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at that time a
widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years
younger than her husband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
contentment of their family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that the
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Context: "You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!"
"Tut, tut, Mr. Mac!—the first sign of temper I have detected in you. Well, I
won't read it verbatim, since you feel so strongly upon the subject. But when I
tell you that there is some account of the taking of the place by a parliamentary
colonel in 1644, of the concealment of Charles for several days in the course of
the Civil War, and finally of a visit there by the second George, you will admit
that there are various associations of interest connected with this ancient house."
"I don't doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of ours."
"Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr. Mac, is one of the
essentials of our profession. The interplay of ideas and the oblique uses of
knowledge are often of extraordinary interest. You will excuse these remarks
from one who, though a mere connoisseur of crime, is still rather older and
perhaps more experienced than yourself."
"I'm the first to admit that," said the detective heartily. "You get to your point,
I admit; but you have such a deuced round-the-corner way of doing it."
"Well, well, I'll drop past history and get down to present-day facts. I called
last night, as I have already said, at the Manor House. I did not see either Barker
or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no necessity to disturb them; but I was pleased to hear
that the lady was not visibly pining and that she had partaken of an excellent
dinner. My visit was specially made to the good Mr. Ames, with whom I
exchanged some amiabilities, which culminated in his allowing me, without
reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a time in the study."
"What! With that?" I ejaculated.
"No, no, everything is now in order. You gave permission for that, Mr. Mac,
as I am informed. The room was in its normal state, and in it I passed an
instructive quarter of an hour."
"What were you doing?"
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Context: this young lady is mine, and you'll find it a very fine evening for a walk."
"Thank you, I am in no humour for a walk."
"Aren't you?" The man's savage eyes were blazing with anger. "Maybe you
are in a humour for a fight, Mr. Boarder!"
"That I am!" cried McMurdo, springing to his feet. "You never said a more
welcome word."
"For God's sake, Jack! Oh, for God's sake!" cried poor, distracted Ettie. "Oh,
Jack, Jack, he will hurt you!"
"Oh, it's Jack, is it?" said Baldwin with an oath. "You've come to that already,
have you?"
"Oh, Ted, be reasonable—be kind! For my sake, Ted, if ever you loved me,
be big-hearted and forgiving!"
"I think, Ettie, that if you were to leave us alone we could get this thing
settled," said McMurdo quietly. "Or maybe, Mr. Baldwin, you will take a turn
down the street with me. It's a fine evening, and there's some open ground
beyond the next block."
"I'll get even with you without needing to dirty my hands," said his enemy.
"You'll wish you had never set foot in this house before I am through with you!"
"No time like the present," cried McMurdo.
"I'll choose my own time, mister. You can leave the time to me. See here!" He
suddenly rolled up his sleeve and showed upon his forearm a peculiar sign which
appeared to have been branded there. It was a circle with a triangle within it.
"D'you know what that means?"
"I neither know nor care!"
"Well, you will know, I'll promise you that. You won't be much older, either.
Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you something about it. As to you, Ettie, you'll come
back to me on your knees—d'ye hear, girl?—on your knees—and then I'll tell
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Context: eyes were of a strange dead black, which, combined with a slight squint, gave
them a particularly sinister appearance.
All else in the man—his noble proportions, his fine features, and his frank
bearing—fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner which he affected. Here,
one would say, is a bluff, honest fellow, whose heart would be sound however
rude his outspoken words might seem. It was only when those dead, dark eyes,
deep and remorseless, were turned upon a man that he shrank within himself,
feeling that he was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a
strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a thousand times more
deadly.
Having had a good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way forward with
his usual careless audacity, and pushed himself through the little group of
courtiers who were fawning upon the powerful boss, laughing uproariously at
the smallest of his jokes. The young stranger's bold gray eyes looked back
fearlessly through their glasses at the deadly black ones which turned sharply
upon him.
"Well, young man, I can't call your face to mind."
"I'm new here, Mr. McGinty."
"You are not so new that you can't give a gentleman his proper title."
"He's Councillor McGinty, young man," said a voice from the group.
"I'm sorry, Councillor. I'm strange to the ways of the place. But I was advised
to see you."
"Well, you see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of me?"
"Well, it's early days. If your heart is as big as your body, and your soul as
fine as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better," said McMurdo.
"By Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow," cried the saloonkeeper,
not quite certain whether to humour this audacious visitor or to stand
upon his dignity.
"So you are good enough to pass my appearance?"
"Sure," said McMurdo.
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Context: He did the round of the house every night, for he was nervous of fire. It is the
only thing that I have ever known him nervous of."
"That is just the point which I want to come to, Mrs. Douglas. You have
known your husband only in England, have you not?"
"Yes, we have been married five years."
"Have you heard him speak of anything which occurred in America and
might bring some danger upon him?"
Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she answered. "Yes." she said at last,
"I have always felt that there was a danger hanging over him. He refused to
discuss it with me. It was not from want of confidence in me—there was the
most complete love and confidence between us—but it was out of his desire to
keep all alarm away from me. He thought I should brood over it if I knew all,
and so he was silent."
"How did you know it, then?"
Mrs. Douglas's face lit with a quick smile. "Can a husband ever carry about a
secret all his life and a woman who loves him have no suspicion of it? I knew it
by his refusal to talk about some episodes in his American life. I knew it by
certain precautions he took. I knew it by certain words he let fall. I knew it by
the way he looked at unexpected strangers. I was perfectly certain that he had
some powerful enemies, that he believed they were on his track, and that he was
always on his guard against them. I was so sure of it that for years I have been
terrified if ever he came home later than was expected."
"Might I ask," asked Holmes, "what the words were which attracted your
attention?"
"The Valley of Fear," the lady answered. "That was an expression he has used
when I questioned him. 'I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out of it
yet.'—'Are we never to get out of the Valley of Fear?' I have asked him when I
have seen him more serious than usual. 'Sometimes I think that we never shall,'
he has answered."
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Context: DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE
26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171
"What do you make of it, Holmes?"
"It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information."
"But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?"
"In this instance, none at all."
"Why do you say 'in this instance'?"
"Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I do the
apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the intelligence
without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is clearly a reference to the words in
a page of some book. Until I am told which page and which book I am
powerless."
"But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?"
"Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the page in
question."
"Then why has he not indicated the book?"
"Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which is the
delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing cipher and
message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry, you are undone. As it is, both
have to go wrong before any harm comes from it. Our second post is now
overdue, and I shall be surprised if it does not bring us either a further letter of
explanation, or, as is more probable, the very volume to which these figures
refer."
Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by the
appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we were expecting.
"The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope, "and
actually signed," he added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the epistle.
"Come, we are getting on, Watson." His brow clouded, however, as he glanced
over the contents.
"Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all our expectations
come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock will come to no harm.
"DEAR MR. HOLMES [he says]:
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Context: whoever had hidden the bundle would most certainly withdraw it the moment
that darkness enabled him to do so. We have no less than four witnesses as to
who it was who took advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think
the word lies now with you."
Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp and
undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a dumb-bell, which he
tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he drew forth a pair of boots.
"American, as you perceive," he remarked, pointing to the toes. Then he laid
upon the table a long, deadly, sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of
clothing, comprising a complete set of underclothes, socks, a gray tweed suit,
and a short yellow overcoat.
"The clothes are commonplace," remarked Holmes, "save only the overcoat,
which is full of suggestive touches." He held it tenderly towards the light. "Here,
as you perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into the lining in such fashion as
to give ample space for the truncated fowling piece. The tailor's tab is on the
neck—'Neal, Outfitter, Vermissa, U. S. A.' I have spent an instructive afternoon
in the rector's library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the fact that
Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of the best known coal
and iron valleys in the United States. I have some recollection, Mr. Barker, that
you associated the coal districts with Mr. Douglas's first wife, and it would
surely not be too far-fetched an inference that the V. V. upon the card by the dead
body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which sends forth
emissaries of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we have heard. So
much is fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the
way of your explanation."
It was a sight to see Cecil Barker's expressive face during this exposition of
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Context: saw that they were still talking very earnestly together, and, as they were gazing
after me, it was clear that it was our interview that was the subject of their
debate.
"I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported to him what
had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the Manor House in
consultation with his two colleagues, and returned about five with a ravenous
appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for him. "No confidences, Watson;
for they are mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for conspiracy and murder."
"You think it will come to that?"
He was in his most cheerful and debonair humour. "My dear Watson, when I
have exterminated that fourth egg I shall be ready to put you in touch with the
whole situation. I don't say that we have fathomed it—far from it—but when we
have traced the missing dumb-bell—"
"The dumb-bell!"
"Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated the fact that the
case hangs upon the missing dumb-bell? Well, well, you need not be downcast;
for between ourselves I don't think that either Inspector Mac or the excellent
local practitioner has grasped the overwhelming importance of this incident. One
dumb-bell, Watson! Consider an athlete with one dumb-bell! Picture to yourself
the unilateral development, the imminent danger of a spinal curvature. Shocking,
Watson, shocking!"
He sat with his mouth full of toast and his eyes sparkling with mischief,
watching my intellectual entanglement. The mere sight of his excellent appetite
was an assurance of success, for I had very clear recollections of days and nights
without a thought of food, when his baffled mind had chafed before some
problem while his thin, eager features became more attenuated with the
asceticism of complete mental concentration. Finally he lit his pipe, and sitting
in the inglenook of the old village inn he talked slowly and at random about his
case, rather as one who thinks aloud than as one who makes a considered
statement.
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Context: "No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left his bicycle
behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred yards of the hall door."
We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive inspecting a
bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of evergreens in which it had
been concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a
considerable journey. There was a saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no
clue as to the owner.
"It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if these things
were numbered and registered. But we must be thankful for what we've got. If
we can't find where he went to, at least we are likely to get where he came from.
But what in the name of all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind?
And how in the world has he got away without it? We don't seem to get a gleam
of light in the case, Mr. Holmes."
"Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!"
Chapter 5
The People Of the Drama
"Have you seen all you want of the study?" asked White Mason as we
reentered the house.
"For the time," said the inspector, and Holmes nodded.
"Then perhaps you would now like to hear the evidence of some of the
people in the house. We could use the dining-room, Ames. Please come yourself
first and tell us what you know."
The butler's account was a simple and a clear one, and he gave a convincing
impression of sincerity. He had been engaged five years before, when Douglas
first came to Birlstone. He understood that Mr. Douglas was a rich gentleman
who had made his money in America. He had been a kind and considerate
employer—not quite what Ames was used to, perhaps; but one can't have
everything. He never saw any signs of apprehension in Mr. Douglas: on the
contrary, he was the most fearless man he had ever known. He ordered the
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Context: self-possessed to a remarkable degree, very different from the tragic and
distracted figure I had pictured. It is true that her face was pale and drawn, like
that of one who has endured a great shock; but her manner was composed, and
the finely moulded hand which she rested upon the edge of the table was as
steady as my own. Her sad, appealing eyes travelled from one to the other of us
with a curiously inquisitive expression. That questioning gaze transformed itself
suddenly into abrupt speech.
"Have you found anything out yet?" she asked.
Was it my imagination that there was an undertone of fear rather than of hope
in the question?
"We have taken every possible step, Mrs. Douglas," said the inspector. "You
may rest assured that nothing will be neglected."
"Spare no money," she said in a dead, even tone. "It is my desire that every
possible effort should be made."
"Perhaps you can tell us something which may throw some light upon the
matter."
"I fear not; but all I know is at your service."
"We have heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you did not actually see—that
you were never in the room where the tragedy occurred?"
"No, he turned me back upon the stairs. He begged me to return to my room."
"Quite so. You had heard the shot, and you had at once come down."
"I put on my dressing gown and then came down."
"How long was it after hearing the shot that you were stopped on the stair by
Mr. Barker?"
"It may have been a couple of minutes. It is so hard to reckon time at such a
moment. He implored me not to go on. He assured me that I could do nothing.
Then Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, led me upstairs again. It was all like some
dreadful dream."
"Can you give us any idea how long your husband had been downstairs
before you heard the shot?"
"No, I cannot say. He went from his dressing room, and I did not hear him go.
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Context: It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good men
to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return three Vermissa men
should be secretly selected and sent across to kill William Hales of Stake Royal,
one of the best known and most popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a
man who was believed not to have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways
a model employer. He had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and
had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were members
of the all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his door had not
weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized country he found himself
condemned to death.
The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who sprawled
now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been chief of the party.
His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told of sleeplessness and drink. He
and his two comrades had spent the night before among the mountains. They
were unkempt and weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a forlorn
hope, could have had a warmer welcome from their comrades.
The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of laughter.
They had waited for their man as he drove home at nightfall, taking their station
at the top of a steep hill, where his horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to
keep out the cold that he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled
him out and shot him again and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams
were repeated for the amusement of the lodge.
"Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.
None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing, and they
had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men were to be relied
upon.
There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up while
they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body. It had been
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Context: can be to see him. Hark to that!"
They all sat like wax figures, some with their glasses arrested halfway to their
lips. Three loud knocks had sounded at the door.
"Hush!" McMurdo raised his hand in caution. An exulting glance went round
the circle, and hands were laid upon hidden weapons.
"Not a sound, for your lives!" McMurdo whispered, as he went from the
room, closing the door carefully behind him.
With strained ears the murderers waited. They counted the steps of their
comrade down the passage. Then they heard him open the outer door. There
were a few words as of greeting. Then they were aware of a strange step inside
and of an unfamiliar voice. An instant later came the slam of the door and the
turning of the key in the lock. Their prey was safe within the trap. Tiger Cormac
laughed horribly, and Boss McGinty clapped his great hand across his mouth.
"Be quiet, you fool!" he whispered. "You'll be the undoing of us yet!"
There was a mutter of conversation from the next room. It seemed
interminable. Then the door opened, and McMurdo appeared, his finger upon his
lip.
He came to the end of the table and looked round at them. A subtle change
had come over him. His manner was as of one who has great work to do. His
face had set into granite firmness. His eyes shone with a fierce excitement
behind his spectacles. He had become a visible leader of men. They stared at him
with eager interest; but he said nothing. Still with the same singular gaze he
looked from man to man.
"Well!" cried Boss McGinty at last. "Is he here? Is Birdy Edwards here?"
"Yes," McMurdo answered slowly. "Birdy Edwards is here. I am Birdy
Edwards!"
There were ten seconds after that brief speech during which the room might
have been empty, so profound was the silence. The hissing of a kettle upon the
stove rose sharp and strident to the ear. Seven white faces, all turned upward to
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Context: fashion?"
"Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so—dozens of exiguous
threads which lead vaguely up towards the centre of the web where the
poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I only mention the Greuze because it
brings the matter within the range of your own observation."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting: it's more than
interesting—it's just wonderful. But let us have it a little clearer if you can. Is it
forgery, coining, burglary—where does the money come from?"
"Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"
"Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel, was he not? I don't
take much stock of detectives in novels—chaps that do things and never let you
see how they do them. That's just inspiration: not business."
"Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel. He was a master
criminal, and he lived last century—1750 or thereabouts."
"Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man."
"Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life would be to
shut yourself up for three months and read twelve hours a day at the annals of
crime. Everything comes in circles—even Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild
was the hidden force of the London criminals, to whom he sold his brains and
his organization on a fifteen per cent commission. The old wheel turns, and the
same spoke comes up. It's all been done before, and will be again. I'll tell you
one or two things about Moriarty which may interest you."
"You'll interest me, right enough."
"I happen to know who is the first link in his chain—a chain with this
Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken fighting men,
pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other, with every sort of
crime in between. His chief of staff is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof and
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Context: The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, and exposed
as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was a curious brown design,
a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin.
"It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his glasses. "I never saw
anything like it. The man has been branded at some time as they brand cattle.
What is the meaning of this?"
"I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker; "but I have
seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years."
"And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master has rolled up
his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've often wondered what it could be."
"Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the sergeant. "But
it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about this case is rum. Well, what is it
now?"
The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointing at the
dead man's outstretched hand.
"They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped.
"What!"
"Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on the little
finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it was above it, and
the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There's the nugget and there's the
snake, but the wedding ring is gone."
"He's right," said Barker.
"Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was below the
other?"
"Always!"
"Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you call the
nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put the nugget ring back
again."
"That is so!"
The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the sooner we
get London on to this case the better," said he. "White Mason is a smart man. No
local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It won't be long now before
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Context: hardly expect them."
"No tracks or marks?"
"None."
"Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down to
the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which might be
suggestive."
"I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put you in
touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything should strike you—"
White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur.
"I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector MacDonald. "He
plays the game."
"My own idea of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a smile. "I go into
a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have ever
separated myself from the official force, it is because they have first separated
themselves from me. I have no wish ever to score at their expense. At the same
time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to work in my own way and give my
results at my own time—complete rather than in stages."
"I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we know,"
said White Mason cordially. "Come along, Dr. Watson, and when the time comes
we'll all hope for a place in your book."
We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms on
each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars, weather-stained and
lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a shapeless something which had
once been the rampant lion of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the
winding drive with such sward and oaks around it as one only sees in rural
England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, livercoloured
brick lay before us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each
side of it. As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge and the
beautiful broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the cold, winter
sunshine.
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Context: The Councillor sprang at him like a tiger. His hand closed round the other's
neck, and he hurled him back across one of the barrels. In his mad fury he would
have squeezed the life out of him if McMurdo had not interfered.
"Easy, Councillor! For heaven's sake, go easy!" he cried, as he dragged him
back.
McGinty released his hold, and Baldwin, cowed and shaken gasping for
breath, and shivering in every limb, as one who has looked over the very edge of
death, sat up on the barrel over which he had been hurled.
"You've been asking for it this many a day, Ted Baldwin—now you've got it!"
cried McGinty, his huge chest rising and falling. "Maybe you think if I was voted
down from Bodymaster you would find yourself in my shoes. It's for the lodge to
say that. But so long as I am the chief I'll have no man lift his voice against me
or my rulings."
"I have nothing against you," mumbled Baldwin, feeling his throat.
"Well, then," cried the other, relapsing in a moment into a bluff joviality, "we
are all good friends again and there's an end of the matter."
He took a bottle of champagne down from the shelf and twisted out the cork.
"See now," he continued, as he filled three high glasses. "Let us drink the
quarrelling toast of the lodge. After that, as you know, there can be no bad blood
between us. Now, then the left hand on the apple of my throat. I say to you, Ted
Baldwin, what is the offense, sir?"
"The clouds are heavy," answered Baldwin
"But they will forever brighten."
"And this I swear!"
The men drank their glasses, and the same ceremony was performed between
Baldwin and McMurdo.
"There!" cried McGinty, rubbing his hands. "That's the end of the black
blood. You come under lodge discipline if it goes further, and that's a heavy hand
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Context: Porlock?"
MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes had handed him. "Posted in
Camberwell—that doesn't help us much. Name, you say, is assumed. Not much
to go on, certainly. Didn't you say that you have sent him money?"
"Twice."
"And how?"
"In notes to Camberwell post-office."
"Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"
"No."
The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"
"Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote that I would
not try to trace him."
"You think there is someone behind him?"
"I know there is."
"This professor that I've heard you mention?"
"Exactly!"
Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced towards
me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in the C. I. D. that you
have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this professor. I made some inquiries
myself about the matter. He seems to be a very respectable, learned, and talented
sort of man."
"I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."
"Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I made it my
business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses. How the talk got that way
I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern and a globe, and made it all clear
in a minute. He lent me a book; but I don't mind saying that it was a bit above
my head, though I had a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd have made a grand
meenister with his thin face and gray hair and solemn-like way of talking. When
he put his hand on my shoulder as we were parting, it was like a father's blessing
before you go out into the cold, cruel world."
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said. "Great! Tell me,
Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview was, I suppose, in the
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Context: and I ask you what the end is to be. Are you ready to be a cold-blooded murderer
also, or can we do anything to stop it?"
"What would you do?" asked McMurdo abruptly. "You would not inform?"
"God forbid!" cried Morris. "Sure, the very thought would cost me my life."
"That's well," said McMurdo. "I'm thinking that you are a weak man and that
you make too much of the matter."
"Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the valley! See
the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I tell you that the cloud of
murder hangs thicker and lower than that over the heads of the people. It is the
Valley of Fear, the Valley of Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from
the dusk to the dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself."
"Well, I'll let you know what I think when I have seen more," said McMurdo
carelessly. "What is very clear is that you are not the man for the place, and that
the sooner you sell out—if you only get a dime a dollar for what the business is
worth—the better it will be for you. What you have said is safe with me; but, by
Gar! if I thought you were an informer—"
"No, no!" cried Morris piteously.
"Well, let it rest at that. I'll bear what you have said in mind, and maybe some
day I'll come back to it. I expect you meant kindly by speaking to me like this.
Now I'll be getting home."
"One word before you go," said Morris. "We may have been seen together.
They may want to know what we have spoken about."
"Ah! that's well thought of."
"I offer you a clerkship in my store."
"And I refuse it. That's our business. Well, so long, Brother Morris, and may
you find things go better with you in the future."
That same afternoon, as McMurdo sat smoking, lost in thought beside the
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Context: notebook.
"He's the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He's a hard citizen, an old
colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle. We've had two tries at him; but
had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost his life over it. Now it's for you to take it
over. That's the house—all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see
here on the map—without another within earshot. It's no good by day. He's
armed and shoots quick and straight, with no questions asked. But at night—
well, there he is with his wife, three children, and a hired help. You can't pick or
choose. It's all or none. If you could get a bag of blasting powder at the front
door with a slow match to it—"
"What's the man done?"
"Didn't I tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?"
"Why did he shoot him?"
"What in thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about his house at
night, and he shot him. That's enough for me and you. You've got to settle the
thing right."
"There's these two women and the children. Do they go up too?"
"They have to—else how can we get him?"
"It seems hard on them; for they've done nothing."
"What sort of fool's talk is this? Do you back out?"
"Easy, Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that you should think I
would be after standing back from an order of the Bodymaster of my own lodge?
If it's right or if it's wrong, it's for you to decide."
"You'll do it, then?"
"Of course I will do it."
"When?"
"Well, you had best give me a night or two that I may see the house and make
my plans. Then—"
"Very good," said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. "I leave it with you. It
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Context: "Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet that
there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to conseedar" (his
accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking
you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought
into the house, and that all these strange things were done by a person from
outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put
it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard."
"Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most judicial style.
"The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring business
and the card point to premeditated murder for some private reason. Very good.
Here is a man who slips into a house with the deliberate intention of committing
murder. He knows, if he knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in
making his escape, as the house is surrounded with water. What weapon would
he choose? You would say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope
when the deed was done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the moat, and
to get away at his leisure. That's understandable. But is it understandable that he
should go out of his way to bring with him the most noisy weapon he could
select, knowing well that it will fetch every human being in the house to the spot
as quick as they can run, and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can
get across the moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, you put the case strongly," my friend replied thoughtfully. "It certainly
needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether you
examined the farther side of the moat at once to see if there were any signs of the
man having climbed out from the water?"
"There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one could
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Context: telegrams, which they were carefully sorting and docketing. Three had been
placed on one side.
"Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist?" Holmes asked cheerfully. "What
is the latest news of the ruffian?"
MacDonald pointed ruefully to his heap of correspondence.
"He is at present reported from Leicester, Nottingham, Southampton, Derby,
East Ham, Richmond, and fourteen other places. In three of them—East Ham,
Leicester, and Liverpool—there is a clear case against him, and he has actually
been arrested. The country seems to be full of the fugitives with yellow coats."
"Dear me!" said Holmes sympathetically. "Now, Mr. Mac and you, Mr. White
Mason, I wish to give you a very earnest piece of advice. When I went into this
case with you I bargained, as you will no doubt remember, that I should not
present you with half-proved theories, but that I should retain and work out my
own ideas until I had satisfied myself that they were correct. For this reason I am
not at the present moment telling you all that is in my mind. On the other hand, I
said that I would play the game fairly by you, and I do not think it is a fair game
to allow you for one unnecessary moment to waste your energies upon a
profitless task. Therefore I am here to advise you this morning, and my advice to
you is summed up in three words—abandon the case."
MacDonald and White Mason stared in amazement at their celebrated
colleague.
"You consider it hopeless!" cried the inspector.
"I consider your case to be hopeless. I do not consider that it is hopeless to
arrive at the truth."
"But this cyclist. He is not an invention. We have his description, his valise,
his bicycle. The fellow must be somewhere. Why should we not get him?"
"Yes, yes, no doubt he is somewhere, and no doubt we shall get him; but I
would not have you waste your energies in East Ham or Liverpool. I am sure
that we can find some shorter cut to a result."
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Context: chair.
"Well, well, spend the day as you like," said Holmes, patting him cheerfully
upon the shoulder. "Do what you like and go where you will, but meet me here
before dusk without fail—without fail, Mr. Mac."
"That sounds more like sanity."
"All of it was excellent advice; but I don't insist, so long as you are here when
I need you. But now, before we part, I want you to write a note to Mr. Barker."
"Well?"
"I'll dictate it, if you like. Ready?
"Dear Sir:
"It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the moat, in
the hope that we may find some—"
"It's impossible," said the inspector. "I've made inquiry."
"Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask you."
"Well, go on."
"—in the hope that we may find something which may bear
upon our investigation. I have made arrangements, and the
workmen will be at work early to-morrow morning diverting
the stream—"
"Impossible!"
"—diverting the stream; so I thought it best to explain
matters beforehand.
"Now sign that, and send it by hand about four o'clock. At that hour we shall
meet again in this room. Until then we may each do what we like; for I can
assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite pause."
Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very serious in
his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical and annoyed.
"Well, gentlemen," said my friend gravely, "I am asking you now to put
everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves whether the
observations I have made justify the conclusions to which I have come. It is a
chill evening, and I do not know how long our expedition may last; so I beg that
you will wear your warmest coats. It is of the first importance that we should be
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Context: attentions to Ettie had been more evident than before, or that they had gradually
obtruded themselves into the slow mind of his good German host; but, whatever
the cause, the boarding-house keeper beckoned the young man into his private
room and started on the subject without any circumlocution.
"It seems to me, mister," said he, "that you are gettin' set on my Ettie. Ain't
that so, or am I wrong?"
"Yes, that is so," the young man answered.
"Vell, I vant to tell you right now that it ain't no manner of use. There's
someone slipped in afore you."
"She told me so."
"Vell, you can lay that she told you truth. But did she tell you who it vas?"
"No, I asked her; but she wouldn't tell."
"I dare say not, the leetle baggage! Perhaps she did not vish to frighten you
avay."
"Frighten!" McMurdo was on fire in a moment.
"Ah, yes, my friend! You need not be ashamed to be frightened of him. It is
Teddy Baldwin."
"And who the devil is he?"
"He is a boss of Scowrers."
"Scowrers! I've heard of them before. It's Scowrers here and Scowrers there,
and always in a whisper! What are you all afraid of? Who are the Scowrers?"
The boarding-house keeper instinctively sank his voice, as everyone did who
talked about that terrible society. "The Scowrers," said he, "are the Eminent
Order of Freemen!"
The young man stared. "Why, I am a member of that order myself."
"You! I vould never have had you in my house if I had known it—not if you
vere to pay me a hundred dollar a week."
"What's wrong with the order? It's for charity and good fellowship. The rules
say so."
"Maybe in some places. Not here!"
"What is it here?"
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Context: You've seen how he's been opening his mouth against us again?"
There was a murmur of assent, with many a muttered oath. McGinty took a
slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket.
"LAW AND ORDER!
That's how he heads it.
"REIGN OF TERROR IN THE COAL AND IRON DISTRICT
"Twelve years have now elapsed since the first assassinations which proved the
existence of a criminal organization in our midst. From that day these outrages have
never ceased, until now they have reached a pitch which makes us the opprobrium of
the civilized world. Is it for such results as this that our great country welcomes to its
bosom the alien who flies from the despotisms of Europe? Is it that they shall
themselves become tyrants over the very men who have given them shelter, and that a
state of terrorism and lawlessness should be established under the very shadow of the
sacred folds of the starry Flag of Freedom which would raise horror in our minds if
we read of it as existing under the most effete monarchy of the East? The men are
known. The organization is patent and public. How long are we to endure it? Can we
forever live—"
"Sure, I've read enough of the slush!" cried the chairman, tossing the paper
down upon the table. "That's what he says of us. The question I'm asking you is
what shall we say to him?"
"Kill him!" cried a dozen fierce voices.
"I protest against that," said Brother Morris, the man of the good brow and
shaved face. "I tell you, Brethren, that our hand is too heavy in this valley, and
that there will come a point where in self-defense every man will unite to crush
us out. James Stanger is an old man. He is respected in the township and the
district. His paper stands for all that is solid in the valley. If that man is struck
down, there will be a stir through this state that will only end with our
destruction."
"And how would they bring about our destruction, Mr. Standback?" cried
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Context: sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For this reason the
affection and respect of the Scotchman for his amateur colleague were profound,
and he showed them by the frankness with which he consulted Holmes in every
difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly
recognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent enough for his profession to
enable him to perceive that there was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of
one who already stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experience.
Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of the big Scotchman,
and smiled at the sight of him.
"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with your worm. I
fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."
"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the truth, I'm thinking,
Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a knowing grin. "Well, maybe a wee
nip would keep out the raw morning chill. No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll
have to be pushing on my way; for the early hours of a case are the precious
ones, as no man knows better than your own self. But—but—"
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look of absolute
amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon which I had scrawled
the enigmatic message.
"Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes? Man, it's
witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful did you get those names?"
"It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to solve. But why—
what's amiss with the names?"
The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed astonishment. "Just
this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor House was horribly
murdered last night!"
Chapter 2
Sherlock Holmes Discourses
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Context: to be master of himself and his emotions; he had opened the door which was
nearest to the entrance and he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At
that moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner
from the village. The three men entered the fatal room together, while the horrorstricken
butler followed at their heels, closing the door behind him to shut out
the terrible scene from the maid servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in the
centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, which covered his
night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet. The doctor knelt
beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stood on the table. One
glance at the victim was enough to show the healer that his presence could be
dispensed with. The man had been horribly injured. Lying across his chest was a
curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrel sawed off a foot in front of the
triggers. It was clear that this had been fired at close range and that he had
received the whole charge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The
triggers had been wired together, so as to make the simultaneous discharge more
destructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touch nothing
until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice, staring in horror at the
dreadful head.
"Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll answer for
that. You see it all exactly as I found it."
"When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.
"It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was sitting by
the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not very loud—it seemed
to be muffled. I rushed down—I don't suppose it was thirty seconds before I was
in the room."
"Was the door open?"
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Context: before. The lodge sign was given and exchanged as they met.
"I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo," said the older man,
speaking with a hesitation which showed that he was on delicate ground. "It was
kind of you to come."
"Why did you not put your name to the note?"
"One has to be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like these how a
thing may come back to one. One never knows either who to trust or who not to
trust."
"Surely one may trust brothers of the lodge."
"No, no, not always," cried Morris with vehemence. "Whatever we say, even
what we think, seems to go back to that man McGinty."
"Look here!" said McMurdo sternly. "It was only last night, as you know
well, that I swore good faith to our Bodymaster. Would you be asking me to
break my oath?"
"If that is the view you take," said Morris sadly, "I can only say that I am
sorry I gave you the trouble to come and meet me. Things have come to a bad
pass when two free citizens cannot speak their thoughts to each other."
McMurdo, who had been watching his companion very narrowly, relaxed
somewhat in his bearing. "Sure I spoke for myself only," said he. "I am a
newcomer, as you know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for me to open my
mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well to say anything to me I am here to hear
it."
"And to take it back to Boss McGinty!" said Morris bitterly.
"Indeed, then, you do me injustice there," cried McMurdo. "For myself I am
loyal to the lodge, and so I tell you straight; but I would be a poor creature if I
were to repeat to any other what you might say to me in confidence. It will go no
further than me; though I warn you that you may get neither help nor sympathy."
"I have given up looking for either the one or the other," said Morris. "I may
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Context: in the garden.
"Well at least they gave that impression. However, we will suppose that they
are an extraordinarily astute couple, who deceive everyone upon this point, and
conspire to murder the husband. He happens to be a man over whose head some
danger hangs—"
"We have only their word for that."
Holmes looked thoughtful. "I see, Watson. You are sketching out a theory by
which everything they say from the beginning is false. According to your idea,
there was never any hidden menace, or secret society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss
MacSomebody, or anything else. Well, that is a good sweeping generalization.
Let us see what that brings us to. They invent this theory to account for the
crime. They then play up to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as proof
of the existence of some outsider. The stain on the windowsill conveys the same
idea. So does the card on the body, which might have been prepared in the
house. That all fits into your hypothesis, Watson. But now we come on the nasty,
angular, uncompromising bits which won't slip into their places. Why a cut-off
shotgun of all weapons—and an American one at that? How could they be so
sure that the sound of it would not bring someone on to them? It's a mere chance
as it is that Mrs. Allen did not start out to inquire for the slamming door. Why
did your guilty couple do all this, Watson?"
"I confess that I can't explain it."
"Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire to murder a husband, are they
going to advertise their guilt by ostentatiously removing his wedding ring after
his death? Does that strike you as very probable, Watson?"
"No, it does not."
"And once again, if the thought of leaving a bicycle concealed outside had
occurred to you, would it really have seemed worth doing when the dullest
detective would naturally say this is an obvious blind, as the bicycle is the first
thing which the fugitive needed in order to make his escape."
"I can conceive of no explanation."
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Context: rooms on Baker Street, where this, like so many other wonderful happenings,
will find its end.
PART 2
The Scowrers
Chapter 1
The Man
It was the fourth of February in the year 1875. It had been a severe winter,
and the snow lay deep in the gorges of the Gilmerton Mountains. The steam
ploughs had, however, kept the railroad open, and the evening train which
connects the long line of coal-mining and iron-working settlements was slowly
groaning its way up the steep gradients which lead from Stagville on the plain to
Vermissa, the central township which lies at the head of Vermissa Valley. From
this point the track sweeps downward to Bartons Crossing, Helmdale, and the
purely agricultural county of Merton. It was a single-track railroad; but at every
siding—and they were numerous—long lines of trucks piled with coal and iron
ore told of the hidden wealth which had brought a rude population and a bustling
life to this most desolate corner of the United States of America.
For desolate it was! Little could the first pioneer who had traversed it have
ever imagined that the fairest prairies and the most lush water pastures were
valueless compared to this gloomy land of black crag and tangled forest. Above
the dark and often scarcely penetrable woods upon their flanks, the high, bare
crowns of the mountains, white snow, and jagged rock towered upon each flank,
leaving a long, winding, tortuous valley in the centre. Up this the little train was
slowly crawling.
The oil lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger car, a long, bare
carriage in which some twenty or thirty people were seated. The greater number
of these were workmen returning from their day's toil in the lower part of the
valley. At least a dozen, by their grimed faces and the safety lanterns which they
carried, proclaimed themselves miners. These sat smoking in a group and
conversed in low voices, glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite side
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Context: "Jack has been lost overboard in gale off St Helena. No one knows how
accident occurred.—Ivy Douglas."
"Ha! It came like that, did it?" said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Well, I've no doubt
it was well stage-managed."
"You mean that you think there was no accident?"
"None in the world."
"He was murdered?"
"Surely!"
"So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed vindictive nest of
criminals—"
"No, no, my good sir," said Holmes. "There is a master hand here. It is no
case of sawed-off shot-guns and clumsy six-shooters. You can tell an old master
by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty when I see one. This crime is
from London, not from America."
"But for what motive?"
"Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail—one whose whole
unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must succeed. A great
brain and a huge organization have been turned to the extinction of one man. It is
crushing the nut with the hammer—an absurd extravagance of energy—but the
nut is very effectually crushed all the same."
"How came this man to have anything to do with it?"
"I can only say that the first word that ever came to us of the business was
from one of his lieutenants. These Americans were well advised. Having an
English job to do, they took into partnership, as any foreign criminal could do,
this great consultant in crime. From that moment their man was doomed. At first
he would content himself by using his machinery in order to find their victim.
Then he would indicate how the matter might be treated. Finally, when he read
in the reports of the failure of this agent, he would step in himself with a master
touch. You heard me warn this man at Birlstone Manor House that the coming
danger was greater than the past. Was I right?"
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Context: doubt; but we can refer to you as they arise."
She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning glance with
which she had just surveyed us. "What impression has my evidence made upon
you?" The question might as well have been spoken. Then, with a bow, she
swept from the room.
"She's a beautiful woman—a very beautiful woman," said MacDonald
thoughtfully, after the door had closed behind her. "This man Barker has
certainly been down here a good deal. He is a man who might be attractive to a
woman. He admits that the dead man was jealous, and maybe he knew best
himself what cause he had for jealousy. Then there's that wedding ring. You can't
get past that. The man who tears a wedding ring off a dead man's—What do you
say to it, Mr. Holmes?"
My friend had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the deepest thought.
Now he rose and rang the bell. "Ames," he said, when the butler entered, "where
is Mr. Cecil Barker now?"
"I'll see, sir."
He came back in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.
"Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had on his feet last night when
you joined him in the study?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought him his boots
when he went for the police."
"Where are the slippers now?"
"They are still under the chair in the hall."
"Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know which tracks
may be Mr. Barker's and which from outside."
"Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stained with blood—
so indeed were my own."
"That is natural enough, considering the condition of the room. Very good,
Ames. We will ring if we want you."
A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him the
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Context: that. Anyhow, some of you will take no further hand, and there are sixty more
besides yourselves that will see a jail this night. I'll tell you this, that when I was
put upon this job I never believed there was such a society as yours. I thought it
was paper talk, and that I would prove it so. They told me it was to do with the
Freemen; so I went to Chicago and was made one. Then I was surer than ever
that it was just paper talk; for I found no harm in the society, but a deal of good.
"Still, I had to carry out my job, and I came to the coal valleys. When I
reached this place I learned that I was wrong and that it wasn't a dime novel after
all. So I stayed to look after it. I never killed a man in Chicago. I never minted a
dollar in my life. Those I gave you were as good as any others; but I never spent
money better. But I knew the way into your good wishes and so I pretended to
you that the law was after me. It all worked just as I thought.
"So I joined your infernal lodge, and I took my share in your councils. Maybe
they will say that I was as bad as you. They can say what they like, so long as I
get you. But what is the truth? The night I joined you beat up old man Stanger. I
could not warn him, for there was no time; but I held your hand, Baldwin, when
you would have killed him. If ever I have suggested things, so as to keep my
place among you, they were things which I knew I could prevent. I could not
save Dunn and Menzies, for I did not know enough; but I will see that their
murderers are hanged. I gave Chester Wilcox warning, so that when I blew his
house in he and his folk were in hiding. There was many a crime that I could not
stop; but if you look back and think how often your man came home the other
road, or was down in town when you went for him, or stayed indoors when you
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Context: "So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his wisdom up to date,
at any rate, since he has not been taken. But his description—what of that?"
MacDonald referred to his notebook. "Here we have it so far as they could
give it. They don't seem to have taken any very particular stock of him; but still
the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are all agreed that this about covers
the points. He was a man about five foot nine in height, fifty or so years of age,
his hair slightly grizzled, a grayish moustache, a curved nose, and a face which
all of them described as fierce and forbidding."
"Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a description of Douglas
himself," said Holmes. "He is just over fifty, with grizzled hair and moustache,
and about the same height. Did you get anything else?"
"He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket, and he wore a short
yellow overcoat and a soft cap."
"What about the shotgun?"
"It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted into his valise. He
could have carried it inside his overcoat without difficulty."
"And how do you consider that all this bears upon the general case?"
"Well, Mr. Holmes," said MacDonald, "when we have got our man—and you
may be sure that I had his description on the wires within five minutes of hearing
it—we shall be better able to judge. But, even as it stands, we have surely gone a
long way. We know that an American calling himself Hargrave came to
Tunbridge Wells two days ago with bicycle and valise. In the latter was a sawedoff
shotgun; so he came with the deliberate purpose of crime. Yesterday morning
he set off for this place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed in his overcoat.
No one saw him arrive, so far as we can learn; but he need not pass through the
village to reach the park gates, and there are many cyclists upon the road.
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Context: something like that. If there are worse devils down yonder than some we could
name, it's more than I'd expect. I guess you are new to this part, young man?"
"Well, what if I am?" McMurdo answered in a surly voice.
"Just this, mister, that I should advise you to be careful in choosing your
friends. I don't think I'd begin with Mike Scanlan or his gang if I were you."
"What the hell is it to you who are my friends?" roared McMurdo in a voice
which brought every head in the carriage round to witness the altercation. "Did I
ask you for your advice, or did you think me such a sucker that I couldn't move
without it? You speak when you are spoken to, and by the Lord you'd have to
wait a long time if it was me!" He thrust out his face and grinned at the
patrolmen like a snarling dog.
The two policemen, heavy, good-natured men, were taken aback by the
extraordinary vehemence with which their friendly advances had been rejected.
"No offense, stranger," said one. "It was a warning for your own good, seeing
that you are, by your own showing, new to the place."
"I'm new to the place; but I'm not new to you and your kind!" cried McMurdo
in cold fury. "I guess you're the same in all places, shoving your advice in when
nobody asks for it."
"Maybe we'll see more of you before very long," said one of the patrolmen
with a grin. "You're a real hand-picked one, if I am a judge."
"I was thinking the same," remarked the other. "I guess we may meet again."
"I'm not afraid of you, and don't you think it!" cried McMurdo. "My name's
Jack McMurdo—see? If you want me, you'll find me at Jacob Shafter's on
Sheridan Street, Vermissa; so I'm not hiding from you, am I? Day or night I dare
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Context: "It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is undoubtedly a
burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small piece of plaster at the angle of
Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in life?"
"Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning."
"Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?"
"Not for a very long time, sir."
"Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a mere coincidence, or it
may point to some nervousness which would indicate that he had reason to
apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything unusual in his conduct, yesterday,
Ames?"
"It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir."
"Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do seem to make
a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would rather do the questioning, Mr.
Mac?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine."
"Well, then, we will pass to this card—V. V. 341. It is rough cardboard. Have
you any of the sort in the house?"
"I don't think so."
Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from each bottle on
to the blotting paper. "It was not printed in this room," he said; "this is black ink
and the other purplish. It was done by a thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was
done elsewhere, I should say. Can you make anything of the inscription, Ames?"
"No, sir, nothing."
"What do you think, Mr. Mac?"
"It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the same with his
badge upon the forearm."
"That's my idea, too," said White Mason.
"Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how far our
difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society makes his way into the
house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off with this weapon, and
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Context: and made the mark on the sill to give an idea of how the murderer escaped. It
was a tall order, that; but as the bridge was up there was no other way. Then,
when everything was fixed, he rang the bell for all he was worth. What happened
afterward you know. And so, gentlemen, you can do what you please; but I've
told you the truth and the whole truth, so help me God! What I ask you now is
how do I stand by the English law?"
There was a silence which was broken by Sherlock Holmes.
"The English law is in the main a just law. You will get no worse than your
deserts from that, Mr. Douglas. But I would ask you how did this man know that
you lived here, or how to get into your house, or where to hide to get you?"
"I know nothing of this."
Holmes's face was very white and grave. "The story is not over yet, I fear,"
said he. "You may find worse dangers than the English law, or even than your
enemies from America. I see trouble before you, Mr. Douglas. You'll take my
advice and still be on your guard."
And now, my long-suffering readers, I will ask you to come away with me for
a time, far from the Sussex Manor House of Birlstone, and far also from the year
of grace in which we made our eventful journey which ended with the strange
story of the man who had been known as John Douglas. I wish you to journey
back some twenty years in time, and westward some thousands of miles in
space, that I may lay before you a singular and terrible narrative—so singular
and so terrible that you may find it hard to believe that even as I tell it, even so
did it occur.
Do not think that I intrude one story before another is finished. As you read
on you will find that this is not so. And when I have detailed those distant events
and you have solved this mystery of the past, we shall meet once more in those
rooms on Baker Street, where this, like so many other wonderful happenings,
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Context: do as I order you, for indeed it's the only way for us. Things are going to happen
in this valley. I feel it in my bones. There may be many of us that will have to
look out for ourselves. I'm one, anyhow. If I go, by day or night, it's you that
must come with me!"
"I'd come after you, Jack."
"No, no, you shall come with me. If this valley is closed to me and I can
never come back, how can I leave you behind, and me perhaps in hiding from
the police with never a chance of a message? It's with me you must come. I
know a good woman in the place I come from, and it's there I'd leave you till we
can get married. Will you come?"
"Yes, Jack, I will come."
"God bless you for your trust in me! It's a fiend out of hell that I should be if I
abused it. Now, mark you, Ettie, it will be just a word to you, and when it
reaches you, you will drop everything and come right down to the waiting room
at the depot and stay there till I come for you."
"Day or night, I'll come at the word, Jack."
Somewhat eased in mind, now that his own preparations for escape had been
begun, McMurdo went on to the lodge. It had already assembled, and only by
complicated signs and counter-signs could he pass through the outer guard and
inner guard who close-tiled it. A buzz of pleasure and welcome greeted him as
he entered. The long room was crowded, and through the haze of tobacco smoke
he saw the tangled black mane of the Bodymaster, the cruel, unfriendly features
of Baldwin, the vulture face of Harraway, the secretary, and a dozen more who
were among the leaders of the lodge. He rejoiced that they should all be there to
take counsel over his news.
"Indeed, it's glad we are to see you, Brother!" cried the chairman. "There's
business here that wants a Solomon in judgment to set it right."
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Context: one could swear to his face, poor devil! I brought down this suit of clothes, and
in a quarter of an hour Barker and I had put my dressing gown on him and he lay
as you found him. We tied all his things into a bundle, and I weighted them with
the only weight I could find and put them through the window. The card he had
meant to lay upon my body was lying beside his own.
"My rings were put on his finger; but when it came to the wedding ring," he
held out his muscular hand, "you can see for yourselves that I had struck the
limit. I have not moved it since the day I was married, and it would have taken a
file to get it off. I don't know, anyhow, that I should have cared to part with it;
but if I had wanted to I couldn't. So we just had to leave that detail to take care of
itself. On the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster down and put it where I am
wearing one myself at this instant. You slipped up there, Mr. Holmes, clever as
you are; for if you had chanced to take off that plaster you would have found no
cut underneath it.
"Well, that was the situation. If I could lie low for a while and then get away
where I could be joined by my 'widow' we should have a chance at last of living
in peace for the rest of our lives. These devils would give me no rest so long as I
was above ground; but if they saw in the papers that Baldwin had got his man,
there would be an end of all my troubles. I hadn't much time to make it all clear
to Barker and to my wife; but they understood enough to be able to help me. I
knew all about this hiding place, so did Ames; but it never entered his head to
connect it with the matter. I retired into it, and it was up to Barker to do the rest.
"I guess you can fill in for yourselves what he did. He opened the window
and made the mark on the sill to give an idea of how the murderer escaped. It
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Context: this point there are several trails which lead to various mines. The strangers took
that which led to the Crow Hill, a huge business which was in strong hands
which had been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless New England
manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some order and discipline during the long
reign of terror.
Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their way,
singly and in groups, along the blackened path.
McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of the
men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the heart of it
there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was the ten-minute signal
before the cages descended and the day's labour began.
When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a hundred
miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers; for it was
bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little group under the shadow of the engine
house. Scanlan and McMurdo climbed a heap of slag from which the whole
scene lay before them. They saw the mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman
named Menzies, come out of the engine house and blow his whistle for the cages
to be lowered.
At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a clean-shaved,
earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As he came forward his eyes
fell upon the group, silent and motionless, under the engine house. The men had
drawn down their hats and turned up their collars to screen their faces. For a
moment the presentiment of Death laid its cold hand upon the manager's heart.
At the next he had shaken it off and saw only his duty towards intrusive
strangers.
"Who are you?" he asked as he advanced. "What are you loitering there for?"
There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him in
the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and helpless as if
they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands to the wound and
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Context: 534, column two, a substantial block of print dealing, I perceive, with the trade
and resources of British India. Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is
'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred and
twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least makes sense, though somewhat
irrelevant to ourselves and Professor Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does
the Mahratta government do? Alas! the next word is 'pig's-bristles.' We are
undone, my good Watson! It is finished!"
He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy eyebrows
bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless and unhappy, staring
into the fire. A long silence was broken by a sudden exclamation from Holmes,
who dashed at a cupboard, from which he emerged with a second yellowcovered
volume in his hand.
"We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he cried. "We are
before our time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being the seventh of January, we
have very properly laid in the new almanac. It is more than likely that Porlock
took his message from the old one. No doubt he would have told us so had his
letter of explanation been written. Now let us see what page 534 has in store for
us. Number thirteen is 'There,' which is much more promising. Number one
hundred and twenty-seven is 'is'—'There is'"—Holmes's eyes were gleaming
with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted the words
—"'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. 'There is danger—may—
come—very—soon—one.' Then we have the name 'Douglas'— 'rich—country—
now—at—Birlstone—House—Birlstone—confidence—is— pressing.' There,
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Context: We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil was a long and
bitter one. Slowly the shadows darkened over the long, sombre face of the old
house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled us to the bones and set our teeth
chattering. There was a single lamp over the gateway and a steady globe of light
in the fatal study. Everything else was dark and still.
"How long is this to last?" asked the inspector finally. "And what is it we are
watching for?"
"I have no more notion than you how long it is to last," Holmes answered
with some asperity. "If criminals would always schedule their movements like
railway trains, it would certainly be more convenient for all of us. As to what it
is we—Well, that's what we are watching for!"
As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the study was obscured by somebody
passing to and fro before it. The laurels among which we lay were immediately
opposite the window and not more than a hundred feet from it. Presently it was
thrown open with a whining of hinges, and we could dimly see the dark outline
of a man's head and shoulders looking out into the gloom. For some minutes he
peered forth in furtive, stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he
is unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the intense silence we were aware
of the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be stirring up the moat with
something which he held in his hand. Then suddenly he hauled something in as a
fisherman lands a fish—some large, round object which obscured the light as it
was dragged through the open casement.
"Now!" cried Holmes. "Now!"
We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened limbs,
while he ran swiftly across the bridge and rang violently at the bell. There was
the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the amazed Ames stood in the
entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a word and, followed by all of us,
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Context: Mr. Holmes. You're a smoker yourself, if I remember right, and you'll guess what
it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in your pocket and afraid that the
smell will give you away." He leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked at the
cigar which Holmes had handed him. "I've heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never
guessed that I should meet you. But before you are through with that," he
nodded at my papers, "you will say I've brought you something fresh."
Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the greatest
amazement. "Well, this fairly beats me!" he cried at last. "If you are Mr. John
Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been investigating for
these two days, and where in the world have you sprung from now? You seemed
to me to come out of the floor like a jack-in-a-box."
"Ah, Mr. Mac," said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, "you would not
read that excellent local compilation which described the concealment of King
Charles. People did not hide in those days without excellent hiding places, and
the hiding place that has once been used may be again. I had persuaded myself
that we should find Mr. Douglas under this roof."
"And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?" said
the inspector angrily. "How long have you allowed us to waste ourselves upon a
search that you knew to be an absurd one?"
"Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form my views of
the case. As they could not be put to the proof until this evening, I invited you
and your colleague to take a holiday for the day. Pray what more could I do?
When I found the suit of clothes in the moat, it at once became apparent to me
that the body we had found could not have been the body of Mr. John Douglas at
all, but must be that of the bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other conclusion
was possible. Therefore I had to determine where Mr. John Douglas himself
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Context: He will show them when to act and where. Yours in freedom,
"J. W. WINDLE D. M. A. O. F.
"Windle has never refused us when we have had occasion to ask for the loan
of a man or two, and it is not for us to refuse him." McGinty paused and looked
round the room with his dull, malevolent eyes. "Who will volunteer for the job?"
Several young fellows held up their hands. The Bodymaster looked at them
with an approving smile.
"You'll do, Tiger Cormac. If you handle it as well as you did the last, you
won't be wrong. And you, Wilson."
"I've no pistol," said the volunteer, a mere boy in his teens.
"It's your first, is it not? Well, you have to be blooded some time. It will be a
great start for you. As to the pistol, you'll find it waiting for you, or I'm
mistaken. If you report yourselves on Monday, it will be time enough. You'll get
a great welcome when you return."
"Any reward this time?" asked Cormac, a thick-set, dark-faced, brutallooking
young man, whose ferocity had earned him the nickname of "Tiger."
"Never mind the reward. You just do it for the honour of the thing. Maybe
when it is done there will be a few odd dollars at the bottom of the box."
"What has the man done?" asked young Wilson.
"Sure, it's not for the likes of you to ask what the man has done. He has been
judged over there. That's no business of ours. All we have to do is to carry it out
for them, same as they would for us. Speaking of that, two brothers from the
Merton lodge are coming over to us next week to do some business in this
quarter."
"Who are they?" asked someone.
"Faith, it is wiser not to ask. If you know nothing, you can testify nothing,
and no trouble can come of it. But they are men who will make a clean job when
they are about it."
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Context: crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering round the old
village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving with his host, or in his absence
with his hostess, over the beautiful countryside. "An easy-going, free-handed
gentleman," said Ames, the butler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the man
that crossed him!" He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less
friendly with his wife—a friendship which more than once seemed to cause
some irritation to the husband, so that even the servants were able to perceive his
annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of the family when the
catastrophe occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of a large
household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs. Allen,
a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of some of her household
cares. The other six servants in the house bear no relation to the events of the
night of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small local police
station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary. Cecil Barker,
much excited, had rushed up to the door and pealed furiously upon the bell. A
terrible tragedy had occurred at the Manor House, and John Douglas had been
murdered. That was the breathless burden of his message. He had hurried back
to the house, followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who arrived
at the scene of the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after taking prompt steps to
warn the county authorities that something serious was afoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridge down,
the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of wild confusion
and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling together in the hall, with the
frightened butler wringing his hands in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed
to be master of himself and his emotions; he had opened the door which was
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Context: "That's the Union House," said the guide, pointing to one saloon which rose
almost to the dignity of being a hotel. "Jack McGinty is the boss there."
"What sort of a man is he?" McMurdo asked.
"What! have you never heard of the boss?"
"How could I have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger in these
parts?"
"Well, I thought his name was known clear across the country. It's been in the
papers often enough."
"What for?"
"Well," the miner lowered his voice—"over the affairs."
"What affairs?"
"Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must say it without offense. There's
only one set of affairs that you'll hear of in these parts, and that's the affairs of
the Scowrers."
"Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang of murderers,
are they not?"
"Hush, on your life!" cried the miner, standing still in alarm, and gazing in
amazement at his companion. "Man, you won't live long in these parts if you
speak in the open street like that. Many a man has had the life beaten out of him
for less."
"Well, I know nothing about them. It's only what I have read."
"And I'm not saying that you have not read the truth." The man looked
nervously round him as he spoke, peering into the shadows as if he feared to see
some lurking danger. "If killing is murder, then God knows there is murder and
to spare. But don't you dare to breathe the name of Jack McGinty in connection
with it, stranger; for every whisper goes back to him, and he is not one that is
likely to let it pass. Now, that's the house you're after, that one standing back
from the street. You'll find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a man as lives
in this township."
"I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new acquaintance
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Context: them from under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang to his feet and half
drew his revolver; but his arm stopped midway as he became conscious that two
Winchester rifles were levelled at his head. A man in uniform advanced into the
room, a six-shooter in his hand. It was Captain Marvin, once of Chicago, and
now of the Mine Constabulary. He shook his head with a half-smile at
McMurdo.
"I thought you'd be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo of Chicago,"
said he. "Can't keep out of it, can you? Take your hat and come along with us."
"I guess you'll pay for this, Captain Marvin," said McGinty. "Who are you, I'd
like to know, to break into a house in this fashion and molest honest, law-abiding
men?"
"You're standing out in this deal, Councillor McGinty," said the police
captain. "We are not out after you, but after this man McMurdo. It is for you to
help, not to hinder us in our duty."
"He is a friend of mine, and I'll answer for his conduct," said the Boss.
"By all accounts, Mr. McGinty, you may have to answer for your own
conduct some of these days," the captain answered. "This man McMurdo was a
crook before ever he came here, and he's a crook still. Cover him, Patrolman,
while I disarm him."
"There's my pistol," said McMurdo coolly. "Maybe, Captain Marvin, if you
and I were alone and face to face you would not take me so easily."
"Where's your warrant?" asked McGinty. "By Gar! a man might as well live
in Russia as in Vermissa while folk like you are running the police. It's a
capitalist outrage, and you'll hear more of it, I reckon."
"You do what you think is your duty the best way you can, Councillor. We'll
look after ours."
"What am I accused of?" asked McMurdo.
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Context: plan and I'll ask you to fit the others into it. You will all come in good time. Very
well. He comes at ten. He is to tap three times, and me to open the door for him.
Then I'll get behind him and shut it. He's our man then."
"That's all easy and plain."
"Yes; but the next step wants considering. He's a hard proposition. He's
heavily armed. I've fooled him proper, and yet he is likely to be on his guard.
Suppose I show him right into a room with seven men in it where he expected to
find me alone. There is going to be shooting, and somebody is going to be hurt."
"That's so."
"And the noise is going to bring every damned copper in the township on top
of it."
"I guess you are right."
"This is how I should work it. You will all be in the big room—same as you
saw when you had a chat with me. I'll open the door for him, show him into the
parlour beside the door, and leave him there while I get the papers. That will
give me the chance of telling you how things are shaping. Then I will go back to
him with some faked papers. As he is reading them I will jump for him and get
my grip on his pistol arm. You'll hear me call and in you will rush. The quicker
the better; for he is as strong a man as I, and I may have more than I can manage.
But I allow that I can hold him till you come."
"It's a good plan," said McGinty. "The lodge will owe you a debt for this. I
guess when I move out of the chair I can put a name to the man that's coming
after me."
"Sure, Councillor, I am little more than a recruit," said McMurdo; but his face
showed what he thought of the great man's compliment.
When he had returned home he made his own preparations for the grim
evening in front of him. First he cleaned, oiled, and loaded his Smith & Wesson
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Context: It was pitch dark and very oppressive under his hood. He heard the rustle and
murmur of the people round him, and then the voice of McGinty sounded dull
and distant through the covering of his ears.
"John McMurdo," said the voice, "are you already a member of the Ancient
Order of Freemen?"
He bowed in assent.
"Is your lodge No. 29, Chicago?"
He bowed again.
"Dark nights are unpleasant," said the voice.
"Yes, for strangers to travel," he answered.
"The clouds are heavy."
"Yes, a storm is approaching."
"Are the brethren satisfied?" asked the Bodymaster.
There was a general murmur of assent.
"We know, Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that you are indeed
one of us," said McGinty. "We would have you know, however, that in this
county and in other counties of these parts we have certain rites, and also certain
duties of our own which call for good men. Are you ready to be tested?"
"I am."
"Are you of stout heart?"
"I am."
"Take a stride forward to prove it."
As the words were said he felt two hard points in front of his eyes, pressing
upon them so that it appeared as if he could not move forward without a danger
of losing them. None the less, he nerved himself to step resolutely out, and as he
did so the pressure melted away. There was a low murmur of applause.
"He is of stout heart," said the voice. "Can you bear pain?"
"As well as another," he answered.
"Test him!"
It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for an agonizing
pain shot through his forearm. He nearly fainted at the sudden shock of it; but he
bit his lip and clenched his hands to hide his agony.
"I can take more than that," said he.
This time there was loud applause. A finer first appearance had never been
made in the lodge. Hands clapped him on the back, and the hood was plucked
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Context: village to reach the park gates, and there are many cyclists upon the road.
Presumably he at once concealed his cycle among the laurels where it was
found, and possibly lurked there himself, with his eye on the house, waiting for
Mr. Douglas to come out. The shotgun is a strange weapon to use inside a house;
but he had intended to use it outside, and there it has very obvious advantages, as
it would be impossible to miss with it, and the sound of shots is so common in an
English sporting neighbourhood that no particular notice would be taken."
"That is all very clear," said Holmes.
"Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next? He left his
bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He found the bridge down and
no one about. He took his chance, intending, no doubt, to make some excuse if
he met anyone. He met no one. He slipped into the first room that he saw, and
concealed himself behind the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge go up,
and he knew that his only escape was through the moat. He waited until quarterpast
eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightly round came into the room.
He shot him and escaped, as arranged. He was aware that the bicycle would be
described by the hotel people and be a clue against him; so he left it there and
made his way by some other means to London or to some safe hiding place
which he had already arranged. How is that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so far as it goes. That is your
end of the story. My end is that the crime was committed half an hour earlier
than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and Barker are both in a conspiracy to conceal
something; that they aided the murderer's escape—or at least that they reached
the room before he escaped—and that they fabricated evidence of his escape
through the window, whereas in all probability they had themselves let him go
by lowering the bridge. That's my reading of the first half."
The two detectives shook their heads.
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Context: say this much, that if Stanger got his full deserts there would be more trouble
than we need ask for. These editors hang together, and every journal in the state
would be crying out for police and troops. But I guess you can give him a pretty
severe warning. Will you fix it, Brother Baldwin?"
"Sure!" said the young man eagerly.
"How many will you take?"
"Half a dozen, and two to guard the door. You'll come, Gower, and you,
Mansel, and you, Scanlan, and the two Willabys."
"I promised the new brother he should go," said the chairman.
Ted Baldwin looked at McMurdo with eyes which showed that he had not
forgotten nor forgiven. "Well, he can come if he wants," he said in a surly voice.
"That's enough. The sooner we get to work the better."
The company broke up with shouts and yells and snatches of drunken song.
The bar was still crowded with revellers, and many of the brethren remained
there. The little band who had been told off for duty passed out into the street,
proceeding in twos and threes along the sidewalk so as not to provoke attention.
It was a bitterly cold night, with a half-moon shining brilliantly in a frosty, starspangled
sky. The men stopped and gathered in a yard which faced a high
building. The words "Vermissa Herald" were printed in gold lettering between
the brightly lit windows. From within came the clanking of the printing press.
"Here, you," said Baldwin to McMurdo, "you can stand below at the door and
see that the road is kept open for us. Arthur Willaby can stay with you. You
others come with me. Have no fears, boys; for we have a dozen witnesses that
we are in the Union Bar at this very moment."
It was nearly midnight, and the street was deserted save for one or two
revellers upon their way home. The party crossed the road, and, pushing open
the door of the newspaper office, Baldwin and his men rushed in and up the stair
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Context: criminals, when I never know the day that I may hear you are in court for
murder? 'McMurdo the Scowrer,' that's what one of our boarders called you
yesterday. It went through my heart like a knife."
"Sure, hard words break no bones."
"But they were true."
"Well, dear, it's not so bad as you think. We are but poor men that are trying
in our own way to get our rights."
Ettie threw her arms round her lover's neck. "Give it up, Jack! For my sake,
for God's sake, give it up! It was to ask you that I came here to-day. Oh, Jack,
see—I beg it of you on my bended knees! Kneeling here before you I implore
you to give it up!"
He raised her and soothed her with her head against his breast.
"Sure, my darlin', you don't know what it is you are asking. How could I give
it up when it would be to break my oath and to desert my comrades? If you
could see how things stand with me you could never ask it of me. Besides, if I
wanted to, how could I do it? You don't suppose that the lodge would let a man
go free with all its secrets?"
"I've thought of that, Jack. I've planned it all. Father has saved some money.
He is weary of this place where the fear of these people darkens our lives. He is
ready to go. We would fly together to Philadelphia or New York, where we
would be safe from them."
McMurdo laughed. "The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it could not
stretch from here to Philadelphia or New York?"
"Well, then, to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where father came
from—anywhere to get away from this Valley of Fear!"
McMurdo thought of old Brother Morris. "Sure, it is the second time I have
heard the valley so named," said he. "The shadow does indeed seem to lie heavy
on some of you."
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Context: who had secrets in common.
Shafter had relented to the extent of letting McMurdo come to his meals there
when he liked; so that his intercourse with Ettie was by no means broken. On the
contrary, it drew closer and more intimate as the weeks went by.
In his bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it safe to take out the coining
moulds, and under many a pledge of secrecy a number of brothers from the
lodge were allowed to come in and see them, each carrying away in his pocket
some examples of the false money, so cunningly struck that there was never the
slightest difficulty or danger in passing it. Why, with such a wonderful art at his
command, McMurdo should condescend to work at all was a perpetual mystery
to his companions; though he made it clear to anyone who asked him that if he
lived without any visible means it would very quickly bring the police upon his
track.
One policeman was indeed after him already; but the incident, as luck would
have it, did the adventurer a great deal more good than harm. After the first
introduction there were few evenings when he did not find his way to McGinty's
saloon, there to make closer acquaintance with "the boys," which was the jovial
title by which the dangerous gang who infested the place were known to one
another. His dashing manner and fearlessness of speech made him a favourite
with them all; while the rapid and scientific way in which he polished off his
antagonist in an "all in" bar-room scrap earned the respect of that rough
community. Another incident, however, raised him even higher in their
estimation.
Just at the crowded hour one night, the door opened and a man entered with
the quiet blue uniform and peaked cap of the mine police. This was a special
body raised by the railways and colliery owners to supplement the efforts of the
ordinary civil police, who were perfectly helpless in the face of the organized
ruffianism which terrorized the district. There was a hush as he entered, and
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Context: and left a sinister impression in my mind.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. At the end
farthest from the house they thickened into a continuous hedge. On the other side
of this hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone approaching from the direction
of the house, there was a stone seat. As I approached the spot I was aware of
voices, some remark in the deep tones of a man, answered by a little ripple of
feminine laughter.
An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge and my eyes lit upon
Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before they were aware of my presence. Her
appearance gave me a shock. In the dining-room she had been demure and
discreet. Now all pretense of grief had passed away from her. Her eyes shone
with the joy of living, and her face still quivered with amusement at some
remark of her companion. He sat forward, his hands clasped and his forearms on
his knees, with an answering smile upon his bold, handsome face. In an instant
—but it was just one instant too late—they resumed their solemn masks as my
figure came into view. A hurried word or two passed between them, and then
Barker rose and came towards me.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the
impression which had been produced upon my mind.
"We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and speaking to Mrs.
Douglas for one instant?"
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my mind's eye
that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few hours of the tragedy were his
wife and his nearest friend laughing together behind a bush in the garden which
had been his. I greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the
dining-room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.
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Context: A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him the
carpet slippers from the hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of both were dark
with blood.
"Strange!" murmured Holmes, as he stood in the light of the window and
examined them minutely. "Very strange indeed!"
Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces, he placed the slipper upon the
blood mark on the sill. It exactly corresponded. He smiled in silence at his
colleagues.
The inspector was transfigured with excitement. His native accent rattled like
a stick upon railings.
"Man," he cried, "there's not a doubt of it! Barker has just marked the
window himself. It's a good deal broader than any bootmark. I mind that you
said it was a splay-foot, and here's the explanation. But what's the game, Mr.
Holmes—what's the game?"
"Ay, what's the game?" my friend repeated thoughtfully.
White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in his professional
satisfaction. "I said it was a snorter!" he cried. "And a real snorter it is!"
Chapter 6
A Dawning Light
The three detectives had many matters of detail into which to inquire; so I
returned alone to our modest quarters at the village inn. But before doing so I
took a stroll in the curious old-world garden which flanked the house. Rows of
very ancient yew trees cut into strange designs girded it round. Inside was a
beautiful stretch of lawn with an old sundial in the middle, the whole effect so
soothing and restful that it was welcome to my somewhat jangled nerves.
In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget, or remember only as
some fantastic nightmare, that darkened study with the sprawling, bloodstained
figure on the floor. And yet, as I strolled round it and tried to steep my soul in its
gentle balm, a strange incident occurred, which brought me back to the tragedy
and left a sinister impression in my mind.
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Context: would have nothing more to do with him, nor would he allow him to enter the
house. Ettie herself was too deeply in love to give him up altogether, and yet her
own good sense warned her of what would come from a marriage with a man
who was regarded as a criminal.
One morning after a sleepless night she determined to see him, possibly for
the last time, and make one strong endeavour to draw him from those evil
influences which were sucking him down. She went to his house, as he had often
begged her to do, and made her way into the room which he used as his sittingroom.
He was seated at a table, with his back turned and a letter in front of him.
A sudden spirit of girlish mischief came over her—she was still only nineteen.
He had not heard her when she pushed open the door. Now she tiptoed forward
and laid her hand lightly upon his bended shoulders.
If she had expected to startle him, she certainly succeeded; but only in turn to
be startled herself. With a tiger spring he turned on her, and his right hand was
feeling for her throat. At the same instant with the other hand he crumpled up the
paper that lay before him. For an instant he stood glaring. Then astonishment
and joy took the place of the ferocity which had convulsed his features—a
ferocity which had sent her shrinking back in horror as from something which
had never before intruded into her gentle life.
"It's you!" said he, mopping his brow. "And to think that you should come to
me, heart of my heart, and I should find nothing better to do than to want to
strangle you! Come then, darling," and he held out his arms, "let me make it up
to you."
But she had not recovered from that sudden glimpse of guilty fear which she
had read in the man's face. All her woman's instinct told her that it was not the
mere fright of a man who is startled. Guilt—that was it—guilt and fear!
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Context: "Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an' picked up a sight o' queer stuff in every port. He got this in London, I guess - he uster like ter buy things at the shops. I was up ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin' hosses, when I see this book. I relished the picters, so he give it in on a swap. 'Tis a queer book - here, leave me git on my spectacles-" The old man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the table and turned the pages lovingly.

"Ebenezer cud read a leetle o' this-'tis Latin - but I can't. I had two er three schoolmasters read me a bit, and Passon Clark, him they say got draownded in the pond - kin yew make anything outen it?" I told him that I could, and translated for his benefit a paragraph near the beginning. If I erred, he was not scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishly pleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escape without offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant old man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how much better he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation of simplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:

"Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin'. Take this un here near the front. Hey yew ever seed trees like thet, with big leaves a floppin' over an' daown? And them men - them can't be niggers - they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o' these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an' half men, but I never heerd o' nothin' like this un." Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator.
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Context: In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like the world has never seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There the scions of a conquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the dismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilization, the strength of these Puritans turned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbid self-repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature, there came to them dark furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northern heritage. By necessity practical and by philosophy stern, these folks were not beautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they were forced by their rigid code to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use less and less taste in what they concealed. Only the silent, sleepy, staring houses in the backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days, and they are not communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.
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Context: The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, prepared me for something like enmity; so that I almost shuddered through surprise and a sense of uncanny incongruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in a thin, weak voice full of fawning respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee dialect I had thought long extinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for conversation.

"Ketched in the rain, be ye?" he greeted. "Glad ye was nigh the haouse en' hed the sense ta come right in. I calc'late I was alseep, else I'd a heerd ye-I ain't as young as I uster be, an' I need a paowerful sight o' naps naowadays. Trav'lin fur? I hain't seed many folks 'long this rud sence they tuk off the Arkham stage."

I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologized for my rude entry into his domicile, whereupon he continued.
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Context: "Killin' sheep was kinder more fun - but d'ye know, 'twan't quite satisfyin'. Queer haow a cravin' gits a holt on ye - As ye love the Almighty, young man, don't tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun to make me hungry fer victuals I couldn't raise nor buy - here, set still, what's ailin' ye? - I didn't do nothin', only I wondered haow 'twud be ef I did - They say meat makes blood an' flesh, an' gives ye new life, so I wondered ef 'twudn't make a man live longer an' longer ef 'twas more the same - " But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very simple though somewhat unusual happening.

The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward. As the old man whispered the words "more the same" a tiny splattering impact was heard, and something showed on the yellowed paper of the upturned volume. I thought of the rain and of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher's shop of the Anzique cannibals a small red spattering glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it, and stopped whispering even before my expression of horror made it necessary; saw it and glanced quickly toward the floor of the room he had left an hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us on the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling a large irregular spot of wet crimson which seemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shut my eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blasting that accursed house of unutterable secrets and bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind.
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Context: "Glad ta see ye, young Sir - new faces is scurce arount here, an' I hain't got much ta cheer me up these days. Guess yew hail from Bosting, don't ye? I never ben thar, but I kin tell a taown man when I see 'im - we hed one fer deestrick schoolmaster in 'eighty-four, but he quit suddent an' no one never heerd on 'im sence - " here the old man lapsed into a kind of chuckle, and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly good humor, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from his grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality, when it struck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta's "Regnum Congo." The effect of this volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it, but curiosity overmastered all the vague fears which had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkward one, for the old man answered freely and volubly.

"Oh, that Afriky book? Cap'n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in 'sixty-eight - him as was kilt in the war." Something about the name of Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any record since the Revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was laboring, and resolved to ask him about it later on. He continued.
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Context: It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in November, 1896, by a rain of such chilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people of the Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data; and from the remote, devious, and problematical nature of my course, had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I found myself upon an apparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest cut to Arkham, overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town, and confronted with no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with bleared windows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it is from the remnant of a road, this house none the less impressed me unfavorably the very moment I espied it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before which biased me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.
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Context: As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the bleak exterior of the house. Just what it was that I feared or loathed, I could by no means define; but something in the whole atmosphere seemed redolent of unhallowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down, and wandered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my curiosity was a book of medium size lying upon the table and presenting such an antediluvian aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum or library. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and was in an excellent state of preservation; being altogether an unusual sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my wonder grew even greater, for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta's account of the Congo region, written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopex and printed at Frankfurt in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothers De Bry, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness in my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeed interesting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroes with white skins and Caucasian features; nor would I soon have closed the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived my sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in which the volume tended to fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher's shop of the cannibal Anziques. I experienced some shame at my susceptibility to so slight a thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially in connection with some adjacent passages descriptive of Anzique gastronomy.
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Context: As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy, spectacled face became indescribable, but his voice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushed upon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathed the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infinite intensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was almost whispering now, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened.

"As I says, 'tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin'. D'ye know, young Sir, I'm right sot on this un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I'd heerd Passon Clark rant o' Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin' funny - here, young Sir, don't git skeert - all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market - killin' sheep was kinder more fun arter lookin' at it - " The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.
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Context: "But naow I'll show ye the best un - over here nigh the middle - "The old man's speech grew a trifle thicker and his eyes assumed a brighter glow; but his fumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to their mission. The book fell open, almost of its own accord and as if from frequent consultation at this place, to the repellent twelfth plate showing a butcher's shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of restlessness returned, though I did not exhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the artist had made his Africans look like white men - the limbs and quarters hanging about the walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. But my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it.

"What d'ye think o' this - ain't never see the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this I telled Eb Holt, 'That's suthin' ta stir ye up an' make yer blood tickle.' When I read in Scripter about slayin' - like them Midianites was slew - I kinder think things, but I ain't got no picter of it. Here a body kin see all they is to it - I s'pose 'tis sinful, but ain't we all born an' livin' in sin? - Thet feller bein' chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at 'im - I hey ta keep lookin' at 'im - see whar the butcher cut off his feet? Thar's his head on thet bench, with one arm side of it, an' t'other arm's on the other side o' the meat block."
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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

Context: The Picture in the House
by H. P. Lovecraft
Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous.

Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from travelled ways, usually squatted upon some damp grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned or squatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawless luxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stare shockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor which wards off madness by dulling the memory of unutterable things.
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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

Context: I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached it I was not so sure, for though the walks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little tco well to argue complete desertion. Therefore instead of trying the dcor I knocked, feeling as I did so a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the rough, mossy rock which served as a dcor-step, I glanced at the neighboring windows and the panes of the transom above me, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, must still be inhabited, despite its isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked no response, so after repeating the summons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which the plaster was falling, and through the doorway came a faint but peculiarly hateful odor. I entered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me. Ahead rose a narrow staircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while to the left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.

Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossed into a small low-ceiled chamber but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind of sitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs, and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantel. Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles. What interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail. Most of the houses in this region I had found rich in relics of the past, but here the antiquity was curiously complete; for in all the room I could not discover a single article of definitely post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector's paradise.
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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

Context: I had turned to a neighboring shelf and was examining its meagre literary contents - an eighteenth century Bible, a "Pilgrim's Progress" of like period, illustrated with grotesque woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker Isaiah Thomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mather's "Magnalia Christi Americana," and a few other books of evidently equal age - when my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished and startled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, I immediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a sound sleep, and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creaking stairs. The tread was heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality of cautiousness; a quality which I disliked the more because the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me. Now, after a moment of silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw the paneled portal swing open again.

In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed aloud but for the restraints of good breeding. Old, white-bearded, and ragged, my host possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonder and respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was stout and powerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on the cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a high forehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years. His blue eyes, though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible unkemptness the man would have been as distinguished-looking as he was impressive. This unkemptness, however, made him offensive despite his face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted I could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of high, heavy boots; and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description.
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"""QUERY: Speak in an old english manner used by nobles during the medieval period"""

Consider the chat history for relevant information. Use all information included. Use as much tokens as needed.Important: Take a look at the QUERY and only the QUERY. If this is vague or unclear, please ignore everything and ask a follow-up question instead!
Final Files Sources: The%20Tomb.txt - Page 1, The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt - Page 1, The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt - Page 1
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FINAL ANSWER 
Answer: Hark! Prithee, instruct me further in this request. To speak in the manner of a nobleman from the medieval period, I require more context. Tell me, from which century dost thou hail? From the time of the Norman Conquest, or the age of chivalry?  Doth thou wish me to adopt the tongue of Chaucer, or a more courtly speech? 

Provide me with these details, and I shall endeavor to satisfy thy request with utmost diligence. 

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