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            You are Simon, a highly intelligent personal assistant in a system called KIOS. You are a chatbot that
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FINAL QUERY 
Final Query: CONTEXT: ##########
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
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####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It won't be long now before
he is here to help us. But I expect we'll have to look to London before we are
through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed to say that it is a deal too thick for the likes
of me."
Chapter 4
Darkness
At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the urgent call
from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart
behind a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in the morning he had sent his
message to Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o'clock
to welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a loose
tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body, and powerful bandy
legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or
anything upon earth except a very favourable specimen of the provincial
criminal officer.
"A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept repeating. "We'll have
the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping we will get our
work done before they get poking their noses into it and messing up all the trails.
There has been nothing like this that I can remember. There are some bits that
will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr.
Watson; for the medicos will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is
at the Westville Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it is clean and good.
The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please."
He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In ten
minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the parlour
of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of those events which have been
outlined in the previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note, while
Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of surprised and reverent admiration
####################
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
####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: "And who bought the mines of Todman and of Lee that came into the market
in the same way last year?"
"The same company, Brother Morris."
"And who bought the ironworks of Manson and of Shuman and of Van Deher
and of Atwood, which have all been given up of late?"
"They were all bought by the West Gilmerton General Mining Company."
"I don't see, Brother Morris," said the chairman, "that it matters to us who
buys them, since they can't carry them out of the district."
"With all respect to you, Eminent Bodymaster, I think it may matter very
much to us. This process has been going on now for ten long years. We are
gradually driving all the small men out of trade. What is the result? We find in
their places great companies like the Railroad or the General Iron, who have
their directors in New York or Philadelphia, and care nothing for our threats. We
can take it out of their local bosses, but it only means that others will be sent in
their stead. And we are making it dangerous for ourselves. The small men could
not harm us. They had not the money nor the power. So long as we did not
squeeze them too dry, they would stay on under our power. But if these big
companies find that we stand between them and their profits, they will spare no
pains and no expense to hunt us down and bring us to court."
There was a hush at these ominous words, and every face darkened as
gloomy looks were exchanged. So omnipotent and unchallenged had they been
that the very thought that there was possible retribution in the background had
been banished from their minds. And yet the idea struck a chill to the most
reckless of them.
"It is my advice," the speaker continued, "that we go easier upon the small
men. On the day that they have all been driven out the power of this society will
have been broken."
Unwelcome truths are not popular. There were angry cries as the speaker
resumed his seat. McGinty rose with gloom upon his brow.
####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

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.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Valley of Fear, by Arthur Conan Doyle
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####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

Context: time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a
brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that's the man!
But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so
admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that
you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's
pension as a solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author
of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights
of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press
capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and
slandered professor—such would be your respective roles! That's genius,
Watson. But if I am spared by lesser men, our day will surely come."
"May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. "But you were speaking of this
man Porlock."
"Ah, yes—the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some little way from its
great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound link—between ourselves. He is the
only flaw in that chain so far as I have been able to test it."
"But no chain is stronger than its weakest link."
"Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of Porlock. Led on
by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and encouraged by the judicious
stimulation of an occasional ten-pound note sent to him by devious methods, he
has once or twice given me advance information which has been of value—that
highest value which anticipates and prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot
doubt that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this communication is of the
nature that I indicate."
Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose and,
leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription, which ran as follows:
534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41
####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

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

Page: 1

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

Page: 1

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

Page: 1

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

Page: 1

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

Page: 1

Context: subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
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####################
File: The%20Valley%20of%20Fear.txt

Page: 1

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: secret here," he put his hand to his breast, "and it is just burning the life out of
me. I wish it had come to any one of you but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder,
for sure. If I don't, it may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I am near out
of my wits over it!"
McMurdo looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in every limb. He
poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to him. "That's the physic for the
likes of you," said he. "Now let me hear of it."
Morris drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. "I can tell it to you all
in one sentence," said he. "There's a detective on our trail."
McMurdo stared at him in astonishment. "Why, man, you're crazy," he said.
"Isn't the place full of police and detectives and what harm did they ever do us?"
"No, no, it's no man of the district. As you say, we know them, and it is little
that they can do. But you've heard of Pinkerton's?"
"I've read of some folk of that name."
"Well, you can take it from me you've no show when they are on your trail.
It's not a take-it-or-miss-it government concern. It's a dead earnest business
proposition that's out for results and keeps out till by hook or crook it gets them.
If a Pinkerton man is deep in this business, we are all destroyed."
"We must kill him."
"Ah, it's the first thought that came to you! So it will be up at the lodge.
Didn't I say to you that it would end in murder?"
"Sure, what is murder? Isn't it common enough in these parts?"
"It is, indeed; but it's not for me to point out the man that is to be murdered.
I'd never rest easy again. And yet it's our own necks that may be at stake. In
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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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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: 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: 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: 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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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: 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: So you can fix things with him right away."
A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the path. In a few words McMurdo
explained his business. A man of the name of Murphy had given him the address
in Chicago. He in turn had had it from someone else. Old Shafter was quite
ready. The stranger made no bones about terms, agreed at once to every
condition, and was apparently fairly flush of money. For seven dollars a week
paid in advance he was to have board and lodging.
So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from justice, took up his
abode under the roof of the Shafters, the first step which was to lead to so long
and dark a train of events, ending in a far distant land.
Chapter 2
The Bodymaster
McMurdo was a man who made his mark quickly. Wherever he was the folk
around soon knew it. Within a week he had become infinitely the most important
person at Shafter's. There were ten or a dozen boarders there; but they were
honest foremen or commonplace clerks from the stores, of a very different
calibre from the young Irishman. Of an evening when they gathered together his
joke was always the readiest, his conversation the brightest, and his song the
best. He was a born boon companion, with a magnetism which drew good
humour from all around him.
And yet he showed again and again, as he had shown in the railway carriage,
a capacity for sudden, fierce anger, which compelled the respect and even the
fear of those who met him. For the law, too, and all who were connected with it,
he exhibited a bitter contempt which delighted some and alarmed others of his
fellow boarders.
From the first he made it evident, by his open admiration, that the daughter of
the house had won his heart from the instant that he had set eyes upon her beauty
and her grace. He was no backward suitor. On the second day he told her that he
loved her, and from then onward he repeated the same story with an absolute
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Context: 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
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Context: entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a word and, followed by all of us,
rushed into the room which had been occupied by the man whom we had been
watching.
The oil lamp on the table represented the glow which we had seen from
outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards us as we
entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute, clean-shaved face and his
menacing eyes.
"What the devil is the meaning of all this?" he cried. "What are you after,
anyhow?"
Holmes took a swift glance round, and then pounced upon a sodden bundle
tied together with cord which lay where it had been thrust under the writing
table.
"This is what we are after, Mr. Barker—this bundle, weighted with a dumbbell,
which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat."
Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his face. "How in thunder came
you to know anything about it?" he asked.
"Simply that I put it there."
"You put it there! You!"
"Perhaps I should have said 'replaced it there,'" said Holmes. "You will
remember, Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the absence of a
dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it; but with the pressure of other events you
had hardly the time to give it the consideration which would have enabled you to
draw deductions from it. When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a
very far-fetched supposition that something has been sunk in the water. The idea
was at least worth testing; so with the help of Ames, who admitted me to the
room, and the crook of Dr. Watson's umbrella, I was able last night to fish up and
inspect this bundle.
"It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to prove who
placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious device of announcing
that the moat would be dried to-morrow, which had, of course, the effect that
whoever had hidden the bundle would most certainly withdraw it the moment
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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: 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: look after ours."
"What am I accused of?" asked McMurdo.
"Of being concerned in the beating of old Editor Stanger at the Herald office.
It wasn't your fault that it isn't a murder charge."
"Well, if that's all you have against him," cried McGinty with a laugh, "you
can save yourself a deal of trouble by dropping it right now. This man was with
me in my saloon playing poker up to midnight, and I can bring a dozen to prove
it."
"That's your affair, and I guess you can settle it in court to-morrow.
Meanwhile, come on, McMurdo, and come quietly if you don't want a gun
across your head. You stand wide, Mr. McGinty; for I warn you I will stand no
resistance when I am on duty!"
So determined was the appearance of the captain that both McMurdo and his
boss were forced to accept the situation. The latter managed to have a few
whispered words with the prisoner before they parted.
"What about—" he jerked his thumb upward to signify the coining plant.
"All right," whispered McMurdo, who had devised a safe hiding place under
the floor.
"I'll bid you good-bye," said the Boss, shaking hands. "I'll see Reilly the
lawyer and take the defense upon myself. Take my word for it that they won't be
able to hold you."
"I wouldn't bet on that. Guard the prisoner, you two, and shoot him if he tries
any games. I'll search the house before I leave."
He did so; but apparently found no trace of the concealed plant. When he had
descended he and his men escorted McMurdo to headquarters. Darkness had
fallen, and a keen blizzard was blowing so that the streets were nearly deserted;
but a few loiterers followed the group, and emboldened by invisibility shouted
imprecations at the prisoner.
"Lynch the cursed Scowrer!" they cried. "Lynch him!" They laughed and
jeered as he was pushed into the police station. After a short, formal examination
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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: 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: 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: 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: Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over his people. His discipline is tremendous.
There is only one punishment in his code. It is death. Now we might suppose
that this murdered man—this Douglas whose approaching fate was known by
one of the arch-criminal's subordinates—had in some way betrayed the chief.
His punishment followed, and would be known to all—if only to put the fear of
death into them."
"Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."
"The other is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the ordinary course
of business. Was there any robbery?"
"I have not heard."
"If so, it would, of course, be against the first hypothesis and in favour of the
second. Moriarty may have been engaged to engineer it on a promise of part
spoils, or he may have been paid so much down to manage it. Either is possible.
But whichever it may be, or if it is some third combination, it is down at
Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I know our man too well to suppose
that he has left anything up here which may lead us to him."
"Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from his chair.
"My word! it's later than I thought. I can give you, gentlemen, five minutes for
preparation, and that is all."
"And ample for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and hastened to
change from his dressing gown to his coat. "While we are on our way, Mr. Mac,
I will ask you to be good enough to tell me all about it."
"All about it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet there was enough to
assure us that the case before us might well be worthy of the expert's closest
attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin hands together as he listened to the
meagre but remarkable details. A long series of sterile weeks lay behind us, and
here at last there was a fitting object for those remarkable powers which, like all
special gifts, become irksome to their owner when they are not in use. That razor
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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: meshwork of crime. What could I do? Every word I said to make things better
was taken as treason, same as it was last night. I can't get away; for all I have in
the world is in my store. If I leave the society, I know well that it means murder
to me, and God knows what to my wife and children. Oh, man, it is awful—
awful!" He put his hands to his face, and his body shook with convulsive sobs.
McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "You were too soft for the job," said he.
"You are the wrong sort for such work."
"I had a conscience and a religion; but they made me a criminal among them.
I was chosen for a job. If I backed down I knew well what would come to me.
Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe it's the thought of my poor little woman and the
children that makes me one. Anyhow I went. I guess it will haunt me forever.
"It was a lonely house, twenty miles from here, over the range yonder. I was
told off for the door, same as you were last night. They could not trust me with
the job. The others went in. When they came out their hands were crimson to the
wrists. As we turned away a child was screaming out of the house behind us. It
was a boy of five who had seen his father murdered. I nearly fainted with the
horror of it, and yet I had to keep a bold and smiling face; for well I knew that if
I did not it would be out of my house that they would come next with their
bloody hands and it would be my little Fred that would be screaming for his
father.
"But I was a criminal then, part sharer in a murder, lost forever in this world,
and lost also in the next. I am a good Catholic; but the priest would have no
word with me when he heard I was a Scowrer, and I am excommunicated from
my faith. That's how it stands with me. And I see you going down the same road,
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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: 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: 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: 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: 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: "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: 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: compositors and pressmen was forming in the hall below and nerving itself to
action. Leaving the limp and motionless body of the editor at the head of the
stair, the criminals rushed down and made their way swiftly along the street.
Having reached the Union House, some of them mixed with the crowd in
McGinty's saloon, whispering across the bar to the Boss that the job had been
well carried through. Others, and among them McMurdo, broke away into side
streets, and so by devious paths to their own homes.
Chapter 4
The Valley of Fear
When McMurdo awoke next morning he had good reason to remember his
initiation into the lodge. His head ached with the effect of the drink, and his arm,
where he had been branded, was hot and swollen. Having his own peculiar
source of income, he was irregular in his attendance at his work; so he had a late
breakfast, and remained at home for the morning writing a long letter to a friend.
Afterwards he read the Daily Herald. In a special column put in at the last
moment he read:
OUTRAGE AT THE HERALD OFFICE—EDITOR
SERIOUSLY INJURED.
It was a short account of the facts with which he was himself more familiar than
the writer could have been. It ended with the statement:
The matter is now in the hands of the police; but it can hardly be hoped that their
exertions will be attended by any better results than in the past. Some of the men were
recognized, and there is hope that a conviction may be obtained. The source of the
outrage was, it need hardly be said, that infamous society which has held this
community in bondage for so long a period, and against which the Herald has taken so
uncompromising a stand. Mr. Stanger's many friends will rejoice to hear that, though
he has been cruelly and brutally beaten, and though he has sustained severe injuries
about the head, there is no immediate danger to his life.
Below it stated that a guard of police, armed with Winchester rifles, had been
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Context: "Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?"
"Working, the same as you—but a poorer job."
"You have your back answer quick enough."
"Yes, I was always quick of speech."
"Are you quick of action?"
"I have had that name among those that knew me best."
"Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything of the
lodge in these parts?"
"I've heard that it takes a man to be a brother."
"True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"
"I'm damned if I tell you that!"
McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such
fashion, and it amused him. "Why won't you tell me?"
"Because no brother may tell another a lie."
"Then the truth is too bad to tell?"
"You can put it that way if you like."
"See here, mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into the lodge
a man for whose past he can't answer."
McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an
inner pocket.
"You wouldn't squeal on a fellow?" said he.
"I'll wipe my hand across your face if you say such words to me!" cried
McGinty hotly.
"You are right, Councillor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should apologize. I
spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in your hands. Look at that
clipping."
McGinty glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one Jonas
Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the New Year week of
1874.
"Your work?" he asked, as he handed back the paper.
McMurdo nodded.
"Why did you shoot him?"
"I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good
gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This man Pinto
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Context: "You can plan the rest for yourselves. Widow MacNamara's is a lonely house.
She's as true as steel and as deaf as a post. There's only Scanlan and me in the
house. If I get his promise—and I'll let you know if I do—I'd have the whole
seven of you come to me by nine o'clock. We'll get him in. If ever he gets out
alive—well, he can talk of Birdy Edwards's luck for the rest of his days!"
"There's going to be a vacancy at Pinkerton's or I'm mistaken. Leave it at that,
McMurdo. At nine to-morrow we'll be with you. You once get the door shut
behind him, and you can leave the rest with us."
Chapter 7
The Trapping of Birdy Edwards
As McMurdo had said, the house in which he lived was a lonely one and very
well suited for such a crime as they had planned. It was on the extreme fringe of
the town and stood well back from the road. In any other case the conspirators
would have simply called out their man, as they had many a time before, and
emptied their pistols into his body; but in this instance it was very necessary to
find out how much he knew, how he knew it, and what had been passed on to his
employers.
It was possible that they were already too late and that the work had been
done. If that was indeed so, they could at least have their revenge upon the man
who had done it. But they were hopeful that nothing of great importance had yet
come to the detective's knowledge, as otherwise, they argued, he would not have
troubled to write down and forward such trivial information as McMurdo
claimed to have given him. However, all this they would learn from his own lips.
Once in their power, they would find a way to make him speak. It was not the
first time that they had handled an unwilling witness.
McMurdo went to Hobson's Patch as agreed. The police seemed to take
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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: 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: business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
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Context: Below it stated that a guard of police, armed with Winchester rifles, had been
requisitioned for the defense of the office.
McMurdo had laid down the paper, and was lighting his pipe with a hand
which was shaky from the excesses of the previous evening, when there was a
knock outside, and his landlady brought to him a note which had just been
handed in by a lad. It was unsigned, and ran thus:
I should wish to speak to you, but would rather not do so in your house. You will find
me beside the flagstaff upon Miller Hill. If you will come there now, I have something
which it is important for you to hear and for me to say.
McMurdo read the note twice with the utmost surprise; for he could not
imagine what it meant or who was the author of it. Had it been in a feminine
hand, he might have imagined that it was the beginning of one of those
adventures which had been familiar enough in his past life. But it was the
writing of a man, and of a well educated one, too. Finally, after some hesitation,
he determined to see the matter through.
Miller Hill is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the town. In summer
it is a favourite resort of the people; but in winter it is desolate enough. From the
top of it one has a view not only of the whole straggling, grimy town, but of the
winding valley beneath, with its scattered mines and factories blackening the
snow on each side of it, and of the wooded and white-capped ranges flanking it.
McMurdo strolled up the winding path hedged in with evergreens until he
reached the deserted restaurant which forms the centre of summer gaiety. Beside
it was a bare flagstaff, and underneath it a man, his hat drawn down and the
collar of his overcoat turned up. When he turned his face McMurdo saw that it
was Brother Morris, he who had incurred the anger of the Bodymaster the night
before. The lodge sign was given and exchanged as they met.
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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: 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: 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: 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: 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: there is much that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you ask
Mr. Douglas to tell us his own story."
Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes's words. The detectives
and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who seemed to have
emerged from the wall, who advanced now from the gloom of the corner in
which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in an instant her arms were
round him. Barker had seized his outstretched hand.
"It's best this way, Jack," his wife repeated; "I am sure that it is best."
"Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes, "I am sure that you will
find it best."
The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes from the
dark into the light. It was a remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a strong, shortclipped,
grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin, and a humorous mouth.
He took a good look at us all, and then to my amazement he advanced to me and
handed me a bundle of paper.
"I've heard of you," said he in a voice which was not quite English and not
quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. "You are the historian
of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've never had such a story as that pass
through your hands before, and I'll lay my last dollar on that. Tell it your own
way; but there are the facts, and you can't miss the public so long as you have
those. I've been cooped up two days, and I've spent the daylight hours—as much
daylight as I could get in that rat trap—in putting the thing into words. You're
welcome to them—you and your public. There's the story of the Valley of Fear."
"That's the past, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes quietly. "What we
desire now is to hear your story of the present."
"You'll have it, sir," said Douglas. "May I smoke as I talk? Well, thank you,
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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: "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: this man who dominated them, were set motionless with utter terror. Then, with
a sudden shivering of glass, a bristle of glistening rifle barrels broke through
each window, while the curtains were torn from their hangings.
At the sight Boss McGinty gave the roar of a wounded bear and plunged for
the half-opened door. A levelled revolver met him there with the stern blue eyes
of Captain Marvin of the Mine Police gleaming behind the sights. The Boss
recoiled and fell back into his chair.
"You're safer there, Councillor," said the man whom they had known as
McMurdo. "And you, Baldwin, if you don't take your hand off your pistol, you'll
cheat the hangman yet. Pull it out, or by the Lord that made me—There, that will
do. There are forty armed men round this house, and you can figure it out for
yourself what chance you have. Take their pistols, Marvin!"
There was no possible resistance under the menace of those rifles. The men
were disarmed. Sulky, sheepish, and amazed, they still sat round the table.
"I'd like to say a word to you before we separate," said the man who had
trapped them. "I guess we may not meet again until you see me on the stand in
the courthouse. I'll give you something to think over between now and then. You
know me now for what I am. At last I can put my cards on the table. I am Birdy
Edwards of Pinkerton's. I was chosen to break up your gang. I had a hard and
dangerous game to play. Not a soul, not one soul, not my nearest and dearest,
knew that I was playing it. Only Captain Marvin here and my employers knew
that. But it's over to-night, thank God, and I am the winner!"
The seven pale, rigid faces looked up at him. There was unappeasable hatred
in their eyes. He read the relentless threat.
"Maybe you think that the game is not over yet. Well, I take my chance of
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Context: that we can find some shorter cut to a result."
"You are holding something back. It's hardly fair of you, Mr. Holmes." The
inspector was annoyed.
"You know my methods of work, Mr. Mac. But I will hold it back for the
shortest time possible. I only wish to verify my details in one way, which can
very readily be done, and then I make my bow and return to London, leaving my
results entirely at your service. I owe you too much to act otherwise; for in all
my experience I cannot recall any more singular and interesting study."
"This is clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw you when we returned from
Tunbridge Wells last night, and you were in general agreement with our results.
What has happened since then to give you a completely new idea of the case?"
"Well, since you ask me, I spent, as I told you that I would, some hours last
night at the Manor House."
"Well, what happened?"
"Ah, I can only give you a very general answer to that for the moment. By the
way, I have been reading a short but clear and interesting account of the old
building, purchasable at the modest sum of one penny from the local
tobacconist."
Here Holmes drew a small tract, embellished with a rude engraving of the
ancient Manor House, from his waistcoat pocket.
"It immensely adds to the zest of an investigation, my dear Mr. Mac, when
one is in conscious sympathy with the historical atmosphere of one's
surroundings. Don't look so impatient; for I assure you that even so bald an
account as this raises some sort of picture of the past in one's mind. Permit me to
give you a sample. 'Erected in the fifth year of the reign of James I, and standing
upon the site of a much older building, the Manor House of Birlstone presents
one of the finest surviving examples of the moated Jacobean residence—'"
"You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!"
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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: murdered last night!"
Chapter 2
Sherlock Holmes Discourses
It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed. It would
be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even excited by the amazing
announcement. Without having a tinge of cruelty in his singular composition, he
was undoubtedly callous from long over-stimulation. Yet, if his emotions were
dulled, his intellectual perceptions were exceedingly active. There was no trace
then of the horror which I had myself felt at this curt declaration; but his face
showed rather the quiet and interested composure of the chemist who sees the
crystals falling into position from his oversaturated solution.
"Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!"
"You don't seem surprised."
"Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why should I be surprised? I
receive an anonymous communication from a quarter which I know to be
important, warning me that danger threatens a certain person. Within an hour I
learn that this danger has actually materialized and that the person is dead. I am
interested; but, as you observe, I am not surprised."
In a few short sentences he explained to the inspector the facts about the letter
and the cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on his hands and his great sandy
eyebrows bunched into a yellow tangle.
"I was going down to Birlstone this morning," said he. "I had come to ask
you if you cared to come with me—you and your friend here. But from what you
say we might perhaps be doing better work in London."
"I rather think not," said Holmes.
"Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. "The papers will be full of the
Birlstone mystery in a day or two; but where's the mystery if there is a man in
London who prophesied the crime before ever it occurred? We have only to lay
our hands on that man, and the rest will follow."
"No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to lay your hands on the socalled
Porlock?"
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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: long in an iron grip; but nowhere was there any hope for the men and women
who lived under the yoke of the terror. Never had the cloud above them been so
dark and hopeless as in the early summer of the year 1875.
Chapter 6
Danger
It was the height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had already been
appointed Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day succeeding McGinty
as Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the councils of his comrades that
nothing was done without his help and advice. The more popular he became,
however, with the Freemen, the blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he
passed along the streets of Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were
taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors. Rumours had
reached the lodge of secret gatherings in the Herald office and of distribution of
firearms among the law-abiding people. But McGinty and his men were
undisturbed by such reports. They were numerous, resolute, and well armed.
Their opponents were scattered and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in
the past, in aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty,
McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits.
It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge night, and
McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when Morris, the weaker brother of
the order, came to see him. His brow was creased with care, and his kindly face
was drawn and haggard.
"Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?"
"Sure."
"I can't forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you kept it to
yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you about it."
"What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I agreed with what you
said."
"I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be safe. I've a
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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: great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him something of the repulsion and fear
which the huge Danton may have felt for the puny but dangerous Robespierre.
One day Scanlan, who was McMurdo's fellow boarder, received a note from
McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott, which informed him that he was
sending over two good men, Lawler and Andrews, who had instructions to act in
the neighbourhood; though it was best for the cause that no particulars as to their
objects should be given. Would the Bodymaster see to it that suitable
arrangements be made for their lodgings and comfort until the time for action
should arrive? McGinty added that it was impossible for anyone to remain secret
at the Union House, and that, therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and
Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in their boarding house.
The same evening the two men arrived, each carrying his gripsack. Lawler
was an elderly man, shrewd, silent, and self-contained, clad in an old black frock
coat, which with his soft felt hat and ragged, grizzled beard gave him a general
resemblance to an itinerant preacher. His companion Andrews was little more
than a boy, frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy manner of one who is out
for a holiday and means to enjoy every minute of it. Both men were total
abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary members of the society, with
the one simple exception that they were assassins who had often proved
themselves to be most capable instruments for this association of murder. Lawler
had already carried out fourteen commissions of the kind, and Andrews three.
They were, as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about their deeds in
the past, which they recounted with the half-bashful pride of men who had done
good and unselfish service for the community. They were reticent, however, as
to the immediate job in hand.
"They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink," Lawler explained.
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Context: sharp-faced, nervous, black-eyed man, seemed glad to see him once more. After
a glass or two of whisky he broached the object of his visit.
"Say, McMurdo," said he, "I remembered your address, so I made bold to
call. I'm surprised that you've not reported to the Bodymaster. Why haven't you
seen Boss McGinty yet?"
"Well, I had to find a job. I have been busy."
"You must find time for him if you have none for anything else. Good Lord,
man! you're a fool not to have been down to the Union House and registered
your name the first morning after you came here! If you run against him—well,
you mustn't, that's all!"
McMurdo showed mild surprise. "I've been a member of the lodge for over
two years, Scanlan, but I never heard that duties were so pressing as all that."
"Maybe not in Chicago."
"Well, it's the same society here."
"Is it?"
Scanlan looked at him long and fixedly. There was something sinister in his
eyes.
"Isn't it?"
"You'll tell me that in a month's time. I hear you had a talk with the patrolmen
after I left the train."
"How did you know that?"
"Oh, it got about—things do get about for good and for bad in this district."
"Well, yes. I told the hounds what I thought of them."
"By the Lord, you'll be a man after McGinty's heart!"
"What, does he hate the police too?"
Scanlan burst out laughing. "You go and see him, my lad," said he as he took
his leave. "It's not the police but you that he'll hate if you don't! Now, take a
friend's advice and go at once!"
It chanced that on the same evening McMurdo had another more pressing
interview which urged him in the same direction. It may have been that his
attentions to Ettie had been more evident than before, or that they had gradually
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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: you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
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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: 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: you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs.
Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a word with them presently.
Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me to give you the views I have formed
first, and then you will be able to arrive at your own."
He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact and a
cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way in his
profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of that impatience
which the official exponent too often produced.
"Is it suicide, or is it murder—that's our first question, gentlemen, is it not? If
it were suicide, then we have to believe that this man began by taking off his
wedding ring and concealing it; that he then came down here in his dressing
gown, trampled mud into a corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea
someone had waited for him, opened the window, put blood on the—"
"We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald.
"So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has been done.
What we have to determine is, whether it was done by someone outside or inside
the house."
"Well, let's hear the argument."
"There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or the other it
must be. We will suppose first that some person or persons inside the house did
the crime. They got this man down here at a time when everything was still and
yet no one was asleep. They then did the deed with the queerest and noisiest
weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what had happened—a weapon that
was never seen in the house before. That does not seem a very likely start, does
it?"
"No, it does not."
"Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given only a minute
at the most had passed before the whole household—not Mr. Cecil Barker alone,
though he claims to have been the first, but Ames and all of them were on the
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Context: To their contorted natures it had become a spirited and chivalrous thing to
volunteer for service against some man who had never injured them, and whom
in many cases they had never seen in their lives. The crime committed, they
quarrelled as to who had actually struck the fatal blow, and amused one another
and the company by describing the cries and contortions of the murdered man.
At first they had shown some secrecy in their arrangements; but at the time
which this narrative describes their proceedings were extraordinarily open, for
the repeated failures of the law had proved to them that, on the one hand, no one
would dare to witness against them, and on the other they had an unlimited
number of stanch witnesses upon whom they could call, and a well-filled
treasure chest from which they could draw the funds to engage the best legal
talent in the state. In ten long years of outrage there had been no single
conviction, and the only danger that ever threatened the Scowrers lay in the
victim himself—who, however outnumbered and taken by surprise, might and
occasionally did leave his mark upon his assailants.
McMurdo had been warned that some ordeal lay before him; but no one
would tell him in what it consisted. He was led now into an outer room by two
solemn brothers. Through the plank partition he could hear the murmur of many
voices from the assembly within. Once or twice he caught the sound of his own
name, and he knew that they were discussing his candidacy. Then there entered
an inner guard with a green and gold sash across his chest.
"The Bodymaster orders that he shall be trussed, blinded, and entered," said
he.
The three of them removed his coat, turned up the sleeve of his right arm, and
finally passed a rope round above the elbows and made it fast. They next placed
a thick black cap right over his head and the upper part of his face, so that he
could see nothing. He was then led into the assembly hall.
It was pitch dark and very oppressive under his hood. He heard the rustle and
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Context: to-night!"
McMurdo found himself under sentence of banishment both from his
comfortable quarters and from the girl whom he loved. He found her alone in the
sitting-room that same evening, and he poured his troubles into her ear.
"Sure, your father is after giving me notice," he said. "It's little I would care if
it was just my room, but indeed, Ettie, though it's only a week that I've known
you, you are the very breath of life to me, and I can't live without you!"
"Oh, hush, Mr. McMurdo, don't speak so!" said the girl. "I have told you,
have I not, that you are too late? There is another, and if I have not promised to
marry him at once, at least I can promise no one else."
"Suppose I had been first, Ettie, would I have had a chance?"
The girl sank her face into her hands. "I wish to heaven that you had been
first!" she sobbed.
McMurdo was down on his knees before her in an instant. "For God's sake,
Ettie, let it stand at that!" he cried. "Will you ruin your life and my own for the
sake of this promise? Follow your heart, acushla! 'Tis a safer guide than any
promise before you knew what it was that you were saying."
He had seized Ettie's white hand between his own strong brown ones.
"Say that you will be mine, and we will face it out together!"
"Not here?"
"Yes, here."
"No, no, Jack!" His arms were round her now. "It could not be here. Could
you take me away?"
A struggle passed for a moment over McMurdo's face; but it ended by setting
like granite. "No, here," he said. "I'll hold you against the world, Ettie, right here
where we are!"
"Why should we not leave together?"
"No, Ettie, I can't leave here."
"But why?"
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Context: The two detectives shook their heads.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble out of one mystery into
another," said the London inspector.
"And in some ways a worse one," added White Mason. "The lady has never
been in America in all her life. What possible connection could she have with an
American assassin which would cause her to shelter him?"
"I freely admit the difficulties," said Holmes. "I propose to make a little
investigation of my own to-night, and it is just possible that it may contribute
something to the common cause."
"Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?"
"No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson's umbrella—my wants are simple. And
Ames, the faithful Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me. All my lines of
thought lead me back invariably to the one basic question—why should an
athletic man develop his frame upon so unnatural an instrument as a single
dumb-bell?"
It was late that night when Holmes returned from his solitary excursion. We
slept in a double-bedded room, which was the best that the little country inn
could do for us. I was already asleep when I was partly awakened by his
entrance.
"Well, Holmes," I murmured, "have you found anything out?"
He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his hand. Then the tall, lean
figure inclined towards me. "I say, Watson," he whispered, "would you be afraid
to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an
idiot whose mind has lost its grip?"
"Not in the least," I answered in astonishment.
"Ah, that's lucky," he said, and not another word would he utter that night.
Chapter 7
The Solution
Next morning, after breakfast, we found Inspector MacDonald and White
Mason seated in close consultation in the small parlour of the local police
sergeant. On the table in front of them were piled a number of letters and
telegrams, which they were carefully sorting and docketing. Three had been
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Context: The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts for the
leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signs of the crudest battle
of life, the rude work to be done, and the rude, strong workers who did it.
The young traveller gazed out into this dismal country with a face of mingled
repulsion and interest, which showed that the scene was new to him. At intervals
he drew from his pocket a bulky letter to which he referred, and on the margins
of which he scribbled some notes. Once from the back of his waist he produced
something which one would hardly have expected to find in the possession of so
mild-mannered a man. It was a navy revolver of the largest size. As he turned it
slantwise to the light, the glint upon the rims of the copper shells within the
drum showed that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored it to his secret pocket,
but not before it had been observed by a working man who had seated himself
upon the adjoining bench.
"Hullo, mate!" said he. "You seem heeled and ready."
The young man smiled with an air of embarrassment.
"Yes," said he, "we need them sometimes in the place I come from."
"And where may that be?"
"I'm last from Chicago."
"A stranger in these parts?"
"Yes."
"You may find you need it here," said the workman.
"Ah! is that so?" The young man seemed interested.
"Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?"
"Nothing out of the way."
"Why, I thought the country was full of it. You'll hear quick enough. What
made you come here?"
"I heard there was always work for a willing man."
"Are you a member of the union?"
"Sure."
"Then you'll get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?"
"Not yet; but I have the means of making them."
"How's that, then?"
"I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen. There's no town without a lodge,
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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: God's name what shall I do?" He rocked to and fro in his agony of indecision.
But his words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see that he shared
the other's opinion as to the danger, and the need for meeting it. He gripped
Morris's shoulder and shook him in his earnestness.
"See here, man," he cried, and he almost screeched the words in his
excitement, "you won't gain anything by sitting keening like an old wife at a
wake. Let's have the facts. Who is the fellow? Where is he? How did you hear of
him? Why did you come to me?"
"I came to you; for you are the one man that would advise me. I told you that
I had a store in the East before I came here. I left good friends behind me, and
one of them is in the telegraph service. Here's a letter that I had from him
yesterday. It's this part from the top of the page. You can read it yourself."
This was what McMurdo read:
How are the Scowrers getting on in your parts? We read plenty of them in the papers.
Between you and me I expect to hear news from you before long. Five big
corporations and the two railroads have taken the thing up in dead earnest. They mean
it, and you can bet they'll get there! They are right deep down into it. Pinkerton has
taken hold under their orders, and his best man, Birdy Edwards, is operating. The
thing has got to be stopped right now.
"Now read the postscript."
Of course, what I give you is what I learned in business; so it goes no further. It's a
queer cipher that you handle by the yard every day and can get no meaning from.
McMurdo sat in silence for some time, with the letter in his listless hands.
The mist had lifted for a moment, and there was the abyss before him.
"Does anyone else know of this?" he asked.
"I have told no one else."
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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: 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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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.
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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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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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.
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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.
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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: "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: 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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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

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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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: "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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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

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: 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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File: The%20Picture%20in%20the%20House.txt

Page: 1

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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