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Title: The Valley of Fear

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release date: June 1, 2002 [eBook #3289]
Most recently updated: August 10, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3289

Credits: Produced by David Brannan and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VALLEY
OF FEAR ***

T H E VA L L E Y O F F E A R

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

CONTENTS

PART I—The Tragedy of Birlstone
Chapter I—The Warning
Chapter II—Sherlock Holmes Discourses
Chapter III—The Tragedy of Birlstone
Chapter IV—Darkness
Chapter V—The People of the Drama
Chapter VI—A Dawning Light
Chapter VII—The Solution

PART II—The Scowrers
Chapter I—The Man
Chapter II—The Bodymaster
Chapter III—Lodge 341, Vermissa
Chapter IV—The Valley of Fear
Chapter V—The Darkest Hour
Chapter VI—Danger
Chapter VII—The Trapping of Birdy Edwards
Epilogue

Illustrations

“What’s this, Mr. Holmes? Man, it’s witchcraft! Where in the name of all
that is wonderful did you get those names?”
For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile
flickered over the woman’s lips.
“Watson, would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic.”
“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.
It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out.
“Oh, Jack, I implore you to give it up!”
“Not a sound, for your lives!” McMurdo whispered.

PART I
The Tragedy of Birlstone

Chapter I
The Warning

“I am inclined to think—” said I.
“I should do so,” Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I’ll
admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption. “Really, Holmes,”
said I severely, “you are a little trying at times.”
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate
answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted
breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had just
drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the
light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.
“It is Porlock’s writing,” said he thoughtfully. “I can hardly doubt that it
is Porlock’s writing, though I have seen it only twice before. The Greek e
with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must
be something of the very first importance.”
He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation
disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.
“Who then is Porlock?” I asked.
“Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; but
behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly
informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me ever to trace
him among the teeming millions of this great city. Porlock is important, not
for himself, but for the great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to
yourself the pilot fish with the shark, the jackal with the lion—anything that
is insignificant in companionship with what is formidable: not only
formidable, Watson, but sinister—in the highest degree sinister. That is
where he comes within my purview. You have heard me speak of Professor
Moriarty?”

“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”
“My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.
“I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.”
“A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain
unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to
guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the
eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest
schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of
the underworld, a 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 rôles! 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 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, ‘I will go no further in this
matter. It is too dangerous—he suspects me. I can see that he
suspects me. He came to me quite unexpectedly after I had
actually addressed this envelope with the intention of
sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to cover it up.
If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I
read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message,
which can now be of no use to you.

“‘FRED PORLOCK.’”

Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his fingers,
and frowning, as he stared into the fire.
“After all,” he said at last, “there may be nothing in it. It may be only his
guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor, he may have read the
accusation in the other’s eyes.”
“The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty.”
“No less! When any of that party talk about ‘He’ you know whom they
mean. There is one predominant ‘He’ for all of them.”
“But what can he do?”
“Hum! That’s a large question. When you have one of the first brains of
Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back, there are
infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock is evidently scared out of his
senses—kindly compare the writing in the note to that upon its envelope;
which was done, he tells us, before this ill-omened visit. The one is clear
and firm. The other hardly legible.”
“Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?”
“Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in that case,
and possibly bring trouble on him.”
“No doubt,” said I. “Of course.” I had picked up the original cipher
message and was bending my brows over it. “It’s pretty maddening to think
that an important secret may lie here on this slip of paper, and that it is
beyond human power to penetrate it.”
Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit the
unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations. “I

wonder!” said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Perhaps there are
points which have escaped your Machiavellian intellect. Let us consider the
problem in the light of pure reason. This man’s reference is to a book. That
is our point of departure.”
“A somewhat vague one.”
“Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind upon it, it
seems rather less impenetrable. What indications have we as to this book?”
“None.”
“Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher message
begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as a working
hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the cipher refers. So our
book has already become a large book, which is surely something gained.
What other indications have we as to the nature of this large book? The next
sign is C2. What do you make of that, Watson?”
“Chapter the second, no doubt.”
“Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if the page
be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if page 534
finds us only in the second chapter, the length of the first one must have
been really intolerable.”
“Column!” I cried.
“Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it is not column,
then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we begin to visualize a
large book printed in double columns which are each of a considerable
length, since one of the words is numbered in the document as the two
hundred and ninety-third. Have we reached the limits of what reason can
supply?”
“I fear that we have.”
“Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation, my dear
Watson—yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an unusual one, he
would have 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 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 yellow-covered 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, Watson!
What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had such
a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it.”
I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.
“What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!” said I.
“On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well,” said Holmes.
“When you search a single column for words with which to express your
meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you want. You are bound
to leave something to the intelligence of your correspondent. The purport is
perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended against one Douglas, whoever he
may be, residing as stated, a rich country gentleman. He is sure
—‘confidence’ was as near as he could get to ‘confident’—that it is
pressing. There is our result—and a very workmanlike little bit of analysis
it was!”
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work, even
as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which he aspired.
He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung open the door
and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered into the room.
Those were the early days at the end of the ’80’s, when Alec MacDonald
was far from having attained the national fame which he has now achieved.
He was a young but trusted member of the detective force, who had
distinguished himself in several cases which had been intrusted to him. His

tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional physical strength, while his
great cranium and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen
intelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He was a
silent, precise man with a dour nature and a hard Aberdonian accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain success, his
own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For this reason
the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his amateur colleague were
profound, and he showed them by the frankness with which he consulted
Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but
talent instantly recognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent enough for his
profession to enable him to perceive that there was no humiliation in
seeking the assistance of one who already stood alone in Europe, both in his
gifts and in his experience. Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was
tolerant of the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.
“You are an early bird, Mr. Mac,” said he. “I wish you luck with your
worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot.”
“If you said ‘hope’ instead of ‘fear,’ it would be nearer the truth, I’m
thinking, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector answered, with a knowing grin. “Well,
maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill. No, I won’t smoke,
I thank you. I’ll have to be pushing on my way; for the early hours of a case
are the precious ones, as no man knows better than your own self. But—but
—”
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look of
absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon which I
had scrawled the enigmatic message.
“Douglas!” he stammered. “Birlstone! What’s this, Mr. Holmes? Man,
it’s witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful did you get those
names?”

“What’s this, Mr. Holmes? Man, it’s witchcraft! Where in the name
of all that is wonderful did you get those names?”

“It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to solve. But why
—what’s amiss with the names?”
The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed astonishment.
“Just this,” said he, “that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor House was
horribly murdered last night!”

Chapter II
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
overstimulation. 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
so-called 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 professor’s study?”
“That’s so.”
“A fine room, is it not?”
“Very fine—very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes.”
“You sat in front of his writing desk?”
“Just so.”
“Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?”
“Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my face.”
“It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the professor’s
head?”
“I don’t miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you. Yes, I
saw the picture—a young woman with her head on her hands, peeping at
you sideways.”
“That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze.”
The inspector endeavoured to look interested.
“Jean Baptiste Greuze,” Holmes continued, joining his finger tips and
leaning well back in his chair, “was a French artist who flourished between
the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his working career. Modern
criticism has more than indorsed the high opinion formed of him by his
contemporaries.”
The inspector’s eyes grew abstracted. “Hadn’t we better—” he said.
“We are doing so,” Holmes interrupted. “All that I am saying has a very
direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the Birlstone Mystery. In
fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre of it.”
MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. “Your thoughts
move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two, and I
can’t get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can be the connection
between this dead painting man and the affair at Birlstone?”

“All knowledge comes useful to the detective,” remarked Holmes. “Even
the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled ‘La Jeune
Fille à 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?”
“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 guarded and inaccessible to the law as himself. What do you think he
pays him?”
“I’d like to hear.”
“Six thousand a year. That’s paying for brains, you see—the American
business principle. I learned that detail quite by chance. It’s more than the

Prime Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty’s gains and of the
scale on which he works. Another point: I made it my business to hunt
down some of Moriarty’s checks lately—just common innocent checks that
he pays his household bills with. They were drawn on six different banks.
Does that make any impression on your mind?”
“Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from it?”
“That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man should know
what he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the bulk
of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Crédit Lyonnais as likely
as not. Sometime when you have a year or two to spare I commend to you
the study of Professor Moriarty.”
Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his interest. Now his
practical Scotch intelligence brought him back with a snap to the matter in
hand.
“He can keep, anyhow,” said he. “You’ve got us side-tracked with your
interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts is your remark that
there is some connection between the professor and the crime. That you get
from the warning received through the man Porlock. Can we for our present
practical needs get any further than that?”
“We may form some conception as to the motives of the crime. It is, as I
gather from your original remarks, an inexplicable, or at least an
unexplained, murder. Now, presuming that the source of the crime is as we
suspect it to be, there might be two different motives. In the first place, I
may tell you that 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 brain blunted and rusted with
inaction.
Sherlock Holmes’s eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a warmer hue,
and his whole eager face shone with an inward light when the call for work
reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently to
MacDonald’s short sketch of the problem which awaited us in Sussex. The
inspector was himself dependent, as he explained to us, upon a scribbled
account forwarded to him by the milk train in the early hours of the
morning. White Mason, the local officer, was a personal friend, and hence
MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than is usual at
Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance. It is a very cold scent
upon which the Metropolitan expert is generally asked to run.

“DEAR INSPECTOR MACDONALD,” said the letter which he
read to us,—“Official requisition for your services is in
separate envelope. This is for your private eye. Wire me
what train in the morning you can get for Birlstone, and I
will meet it—or have it met if I am too occupied. This case

is a snorter. Don’t waste a moment in getting started. If you
can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he will find
something after his own heart. We would think the whole
had been fixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn’t a dead
man in the middle of it. My word! it is a snorter.”

“Your friend seems to be no fool,” remarked Holmes.
“No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge.”
“Well, have you anything more?”
“Only that he will give us every detail when we meet.”
“Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had been
horribly murdered?”
“That was in the inclosed official report. It didn’t say ‘horrible’: that’s
not a recognized official term. It gave the name John Douglas. It mentioned
that his injuries had been in the head, from the discharge of a shotgun. It
also mentioned the hour of the alarm, which was close on to midnight last
night. It added that the 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 III
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 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 ditchlike 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 offhand in his manners, giving the impression
that he had seen life in social strata on some far lower horizon than the
county society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the
villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending their
smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkably rich
tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song. He
appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gained in
the California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk and that of his
wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by
his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter
indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every
meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold his own

with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguished himself also
by the fearlessness with which he reentered the building to save property,
after the local fire brigade had given it up as impossible. Thus it came about
that John Douglas of the Manor House had within five years won himself
quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settled in
the county without introductions were few and far between. This mattered
the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, and very much absorbed,
to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties. It was known that
she was an English lady who had met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at
that time a widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall, dark, and slender,
some twenty years younger than her husband; a disparity which seemed in
no wise to mar the contentment of their family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that
the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since the
wife was either very reticent about her husband’s past life, or else, as
seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had also been
noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there were signs
sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and that she
would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband should ever be
particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, where all gossip is
welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House did not pass
without remark, and it bulked larger upon people’s memory when the events
arose which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was, it
is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time of the
strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name
prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales
Lodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker’s tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the main
street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome visitor at the
Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only friend of the past
unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in his new English
surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman; but by his
remarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas in America and had

there lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared to be a man of
considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.
In age he was rather younger than Douglas—forty-five at the most—a
tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize-fighter face,
thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes which
might, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear a way for him
through a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in
wandering round the old village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving
with his host, or in his absence with his hostess, over the beautiful
countryside. “An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,” said Ames, the
butler. “But, my word! I had rather not be the man that crossed him!” He
was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly with his
wife—a friendship which more than once seemed to cause some irritation to
the husband, so that even the servants were able to perceive his annoyance.
Such was the third person who was one of the family when the catastrophe
occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of a large
household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs.
Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of some of her
household cares. The other six servants in the house bear no relation to the
events of the night of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small local
police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary.
Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door and pealed furiously
upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at the Manor House, and John
Douglas had been murdered. That was the breathless burden of his message.
He had hurried back to the house, followed within a few minutes by the
police sergeant, who arrived at the scene of the crime a little after twelve
o’clock, after taking prompt steps to warn the county authorities that
something serious was afoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridge
down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of wild
confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling together in
the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands in the doorway. Only
Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and his emotions; he had
opened the door which was nearest to the entrance and he had beckoned to

the sergeant to follow him. At that moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk
and capable general practitioner from the village. The three men entered the
fatal room together, while the horror-stricken butler followed at their heels,
closing the door behind him to shut out the terrible scene from the maid
servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in the
centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, which
covered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet. The
doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stood on
the table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healer that his
presence could be dispensed with. The man had been horribly injured.
Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrel
sawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that this had been fired
at close range and that he had received the whole charge in the face,
blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so
as to make the simultaneous discharge more destructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. “We will touch
nothing until my superiors arrive,” he said in a hushed voice, staring in
horror at the dreadful head.
“Nothing has been touched up to now,” said Cecil Barker. “I’ll answer
for that. You see it all exactly as I found it.”
“When was that?” The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.
“It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was sitting
by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not very loud—it
seemed to be muffled. I rushed down—I don’t suppose it was thirty seconds
before I was in the room.”
“Was the door open?”
“Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroom
candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutes
afterward.”
“Did you see no one?”
“No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I
rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, the

housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and we ran back
into the room once more.”
“But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night.”
“Yes, it was up until I lowered it.”
“Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the question!
Mr. Douglas must have shot himself.”
“That was our first idea. But see!” Barker drew aside the curtain, and
showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full extent.
“And look at this!” He held the lamp down and illuminated a smudge of
blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. “Someone has
stood there in getting out.”
“You mean that someone waded across the moat?”
“Exactly!”
“Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, he must
have been in the water at that very moment.”
“I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to the
window! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it never
occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could not let
her enter the room. It would have been too horrible.”
“Horrible enough!” said the doctor, looking at the shattered head and the
terrible marks which surrounded it. “I’ve never seen such injuries since the
Birlstone railway smash.”
“But, I say,” remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic common
sense was still pondering the open window. “It’s all very well your saying
that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask you is, how did he
ever get into the house at all if the bridge was up?”
“Ah, that’s the question,” said Barker.
“At what o’clock was it raised?”
“It was nearly six o’clock,” said Ames, the butler.
“I’ve heard,” said the sergeant, “that it was usually raised at sunset. That
would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of year.”
“Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea,” said Ames. “I couldn’t raise it until
they went. Then I wound it up myself.”

“Then it comes to this,” said the sergeant: “If anyone came from outside
—if they did—they must have got in across the bridge before six and been
in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the room after eleven.”
“That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the last thing
before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That brought him in
here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got away through the
window and left his gun behind him. That’s how I read it; for nothing else
will fit the facts.”
The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on the
floor. The initials V.V. and under them the number 341 were rudely
scrawled in ink upon it.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding it up.
Barker looked at it with curiosity. “I never noticed it before,” he said.
“The murderer must have left it behind him.”
“V.V.—341. I can make no sense of that.”
The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. “What’s V.V.?
Somebody’s initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?”
It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front of
the fireplace—a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointed to
a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday,” he said. “I saw him
myself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above it. That
accounts for the hammer.”
“We’d best put it back on the rug where we found it,” said the sergeant,
scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. “It will want the best brains in
the force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will be a London job before it
is finished.” He raised the hand lamp and walked slowly round the room.
“Hullo!” he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to one side. “What
o’clock were those curtains drawn?”
“When the lamps were lit,” said the butler. “It would be shortly after
four.”
“Someone had been hiding here, sure enough.” He held down the light,
and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. “I’m bound
to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if the man got into
the house after four when the curtains were drawn, and before six when the

bridge was raised. He slipped into this room, because it was the first that he
saw. There was no other place where he could hide, so he popped in behind
this curtain. That all seems clear enough. It is likely that his main idea was
to burgle the house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he
murdered him and escaped.”
“That’s how I read it,” said Barker. “But, I say, aren’t we wasting
precious time? Couldn’t we start out and scout the country before the fellow
gets away?”
The sergeant considered for a moment.
“There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can’t get away by
rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it’s odds that someone will
notice him. Anyhow, I can’t leave here myself until I am relieved. But I
think none of you should go until we see more clearly how we all stand.”
The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body.
“What’s this mark?” he asked. “Could this have any connection with the
crime?”
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 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 IV
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 with which the botanist surveys the rare and precious
bloom.
“Remarkable!” he said, when the story was unfolded, “most remarkable!
I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more peculiar.”

“I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes,” said White Mason in great
delight. “We’re well up with the times in Sussex. I’ve told you now how
matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson
between three and four this morning. My word! I made the old mare go!
But I need not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out; for there was
nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I
checked them and considered them and maybe added a few of my own.”
“What were they?” asked Holmes eagerly.
“Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to
help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr.
Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark
upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain.”
“That, of course, proves nothing at all,” remarked Inspector MacDonald.
“There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the hammer.”
“Quite so. It doesn’t prove it wasn’t used. But there might have been
stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were none.
Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant
Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled
on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had
made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing his man.
The sawed gun was not more than two foot long—one could carry it easily
under one’s coat. There was no complete maker’s name; but the printed
letters P-E-N were on the fluting 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.”
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. “I’m not convinced yet that
there was ever anyone in the house,” said he. “I’m asking you to conseedar”
(his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument)
“I’m asking you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun
was ever brought into the house, and that all these strange things were done
by a person from outside. Oh, man, it’s just inconceivable! It’s clean against
common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have
heard.”
“Well, state your case, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes in his most judicial style.
“The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring
business and the card point to premeditated murder for some private reason.
Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house with the deliberate

intention of committing murder. He knows, if he knows anything, that he
will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the house is surrounded with
water. What weapon would he choose? You would say the most silent in the
world. Then he could hope when the deed was done to slip quickly from the
window, to wade the moat, and to get away at his leisure. That’s
understandable. But is it understandable that he should go out of his way to
bring with him the most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that it
will fetch every human being in the house to the spot as quick as they can
run, and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can get across the
moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, you put the case strongly,” my friend replied thoughtfully. “It
certainly needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason,
whether you examined the farther side of the moat at once to see if there
were any signs of the man having climbed out from the water?”
“There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one could
hardly expect them.”
“No tracks or marks?”
“None.”
“Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down
to the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which might
be suggestive.”
“I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put you in
touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything should strike
you—” White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur.
“I have worked with Mr. Holmes before,” said Inspector MacDonald.
“He plays the game.”
“My own idea of the game, at any rate,” said Holmes, with a smile. “I go
into a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have
ever separated myself from the official force, it is because they have first
separated themselves from me. I have no wish ever to score at their
expense. At the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to work in
my own way and give my results at my own time—complete rather than in
stages.”
“I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we
know,” said White Mason cordially. “Come along, Dr. Watson, and when

the time comes we’ll all hope for a place in your book.”
We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms
on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars, weather-
stained and lichen-blotched, bearing upon their summits a shapeless
something which had once been the rampant lion of Capus of Birlstone. A
short walk along the winding drive with such sward and oaks around it as
one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low
Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay before us, with an old-
fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of it. As we approached it, there
was the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful broad moat as still and
luminous as quicksilver in the cold, winter sunshine.
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 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 spot. Do you tell me that in that time the guilty person
managed to make footmarks in the corner, open the window, mark the sill
with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead man’s finger, and all the rest
of it? It’s impossible!”
“You put it very clearly,” said Holmes. “I am inclined to agree with you.”
“Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by someone
from outside. We are still faced with some big difficulties; but anyhow they
have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into the house between four-
thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk and the time when the bridge was
raised. There had been some visitors, and the door was open; so there was
nothing to prevent him. He may have been a common burglar, or he may
have had some private grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has
spent most of his life in America, and this shotgun seems to be an American
weapon, it would seem that the private grudge is the more likely theory. He
slipped into this room because it was the first he came to, and he hid behind
the curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night. At that time Mr.
Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview, if there were any
interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that her husband had not left her
more than a few minutes when she heard the shot.”
“The candle shows that,” said Holmes.
“Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more than half
an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he was attacked;
otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he fell. This shows that he
was not attacked the instant that he entered the room. When Mr. Barker
arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was out.”
“That’s all clear enough.”
“Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr. Douglas enters
the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears from behind the curtain.
He is armed with this gun. He demands the wedding ring—Heaven only

knows why, but so it must have been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. Then either in
cold blood or in the course of a struggle—Douglas may have gripped the
hammer that was found upon the mat—he shot Douglas in this horrible
way. He dropped his gun and also it would seem this queer card—V.V. 341,
whatever that may mean—and he made his escape through the window and
across the moat at the very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the
crime. How’s that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing.”
“Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn’t that anything else is
even worse!” cried MacDonald. “Somebody killed the man, and whoever it
was I could clearly prove to you that he should have done it some other
way. What does he mean by allowing his retreat to be cut off like that?
What does he mean by using a shotgun when silence was his one chance of
escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it’s up to you to give us a lead, since you say
Mr. White Mason’s theory is unconvincing.”
Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion, missing no
word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to right and to left, and his
forehead wrinkled with speculation.
“I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory, Mr. Mac,”
said he, kneeling down beside the body. “Dear me! these injuries are really
appalling. Can we have the butler in for a moment?... Ames, I understand
that you have often seen this very unusual mark—a branded triangle inside
a circle—upon Mr. Douglas’s forearm?”
“Frequently, sir.”
“You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?”
“No, sir.”
“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 escapes by wading the moat, after leaving a card beside the dead man,
which will, when mentioned in the papers, tell other members of the society
that vengeance has been done. That all hangs together. But why this gun, of
all weapons?”
“Exactly.”
“And why the missing ring?”
“Quite so.”
“And why no arrest? It’s past two now. I take it for granted that since
dawn every constable within forty miles has been looking out for a wet
stranger?”
“That is so, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes ready, they
can hardly miss him. And yet they have missed him up to now!” Holmes
had gone to the window and was examining with his lens the blood mark on
the sill. “It is clearly the tread of a shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-
foot, one would say. Curious, because, so far as one can trace any footmark
in this mud-stained corner, one would say it was a more shapely sole.
However, they are certainly very indistinct. What’s this under the side
table?”
“Mr. Douglas’s dumb-bells,” said Ames.
“Dumb-bell—there’s only one. Where’s the other?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not
noticed them for months.”
“One dumb-bell—” Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were
interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us. I
had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom I had
heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning glance from
face to face.
“Sorry to interrupt your consultation,” said he, “but you should hear the
latest news.”
“An arrest?”
“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 V
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 drawbridge to be pulled up every night because it was the
ancient custom of the old house, and he liked to keep the old ways up.
Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the village; but on the day
before the crime he had been shopping at Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames) had
observed some restlessness and excitement on the part of Mr. Douglas that
day; for he had seemed impatient and irritable, which was unusual with him.
He had not gone to bed that night; but was in the pantry at the back of the
house, putting away the silver, when he heard the bell ring violently. He
heard no shot; but it was hardly possible he would, as the pantry and
kitchens were at the very back of the house and there were several closed
doors and a long passage between. The housekeeper had come out of her
room, attracted by the violent ringing of the bell. They had gone to the front
of the house together.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs he had seen Mrs. Douglas coming
down it. No, she was not hurrying; it did not seem to him that she was
particularly agitated. Just as she reached the bottom of the stair Mr. Barker
had rushed out of the study. He had stopped Mrs. Douglas and begged her to
go back.
“For God’s sake, go back to your room!” he cried. “Poor Jack is dead!
You can do nothing. For God’s sake, go back!”
After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Douglas had gone back. She
did not scream. She made no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper,
had taken her upstairs and stayed with her in the bedroom. Ames and Mr.
Barker had then returned to the study, where they had found everything
exactly as the police had seen it. The candle was not lit at that time; but the
lamp was burning. They had looked out of the window; but the night was
very dark and nothing could be seen or heard. They had then rushed out into
the hall, where Ames had turned the windlass which lowered the drawbridge.
Mr. Barker had then hurried off to get the police.
Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the butler.
The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it went, a
corroboration of that of her fellow servant. The housekeeper’s room was
rather nearer to the front of the house than the pantry in which Ames had
been working. She was preparing to go to bed when the loud ringing of the
bell had attracted her attention. She was a little hard of hearing. Perhaps that
was why she had not heard the shot; but in any case the study was a long
way off. She remembered hearing some sound which she imagined to be the
slamming of a door. That was a good deal earlier—half an hour at least
before the ringing of the bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with
him. She saw Mr. Barker, very pale and excited, come out of the study. He
intercepted Mrs. Douglas, who was coming down the stairs. He entreated her
to go back, and she answered him, but what she said could not be heard.
“Take her up! Stay with her!” he had said to Mrs. Allen.
She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured to soothe
her. She was greatly excited, trembling all over, but made no other attempt to
go downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by her bedroom fire, with
her head sunk in her hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with her most of the night. As
to the other servants, they had all gone to bed, and the alarm did not reach

them until just before the police arrived. They slept at the extreme back of
the house, and could not possibly have heard anything.
So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination save
lamentations and expressions of amazement.
Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the occurrences of
the night before, he had very little to add to what he had already told the
police. Personally, he was convinced that the murderer had escaped by the
window. The bloodstain was conclusive, in his opinion, on that point.
Besides, as the bridge was up, there was no other possible way of escaping.
He could not explain what had become of the assassin or why he had not
taken his bicycle, if it were indeed his. He could not possibly have been
drowned in the moat, which was at no place more than three feet deep.
In his own mind he had a very definite theory about the murder. Douglas
was a reticent man, and there were some chapters in his life of which he
never spoke. He had emigrated to America when he was a very young man.
He had prospered well, and Barker had first met him in California, where
they had become partners in a successful mining claim at a place called
Benito Canyon. They had done very well; but Douglas had suddenly sold out
and started for England. He was a widower at that time. Barker had
afterwards realized his money and come to live in London. Thus they had
renewed their friendship.
Douglas had given him the impression that some danger was hanging over
his head, and he had always looked upon his sudden departure from
California, and also his renting a house in so quiet a place in England, as
being connected with this peril. He imagined that some secret society, some
implacable organization, was on Douglas’s track, which would never rest
until it killed him. Some remarks of his had given him this idea; though he
had never told him what the society was, nor how he had come to offend it.
He could only suppose that the legend upon the placard had some reference
to this secret society.
“How long were you with Douglas in California?” asked Inspector
MacDonald.
“Five years altogether.”
“He was a bachelor, you say?”
“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 for as long as that. It would be no light thing that would give rise
to it.”

“I think it shadowed his whole life. It was never quite out of his mind.”
“But if a man had a danger hanging over him, and knew what it was, don’t
you think he would turn to the police for protection?”
“Maybe it was some danger that he could not be protected against. There’s
one thing you should know. He always went about armed. His revolver was
never out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he was in his dressing gown and
had left it in the bedroom last night. Once the bridge was up, I guess he
thought he was safe.”
“I should like these dates a little clearer,” said MacDonald. “It is quite six
years since Douglas left California. You followed him next year, did you
not?”
“That is so.”
“And he had been married five years. You must have returned about the
time of his marriage.”
“About a month before. I was his best man.”
“Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her marriage?”
“No, I did not. I had been away from England for ten years.”
“But you have seen a good deal of her since.”
Barker looked sternly at the detective. “I have seen a good deal of him
since,” he answered. “If I have seen her, it is because you cannot visit a man
without knowing his wife. If you imagine there is any connection—”
“I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to make every inquiry which
can bear upon the case. But I mean no offense.”
“Some inquiries are offensive,” Barker answered angrily.
“It’s only the facts that we want. It is in your interest and everyone’s
interest that they should be cleared up. Did Mr. Douglas entirely approve
your friendship with his wife?”
Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands were clasped convulsively
together. “You have no right to ask such questions!” he cried. “What has this
to do with the matter you are investigating?”
“I must repeat the question.”
“Well, I refuse to answer.”
“You can refuse to answer; but you must be aware that your refusal is in
itself an answer, for you would not refuse if you had not something to

conceal.”
Barker stood for a moment with his face set grimly and his strong black
eyebrows drawn low in intense thought. Then he looked up with a smile.
“Well, I guess you gentlemen are only doing your clear duty after all, and I
have no right to stand in the way of it. I’d only ask you not to worry Mrs.
Douglas over this matter; for she has enough upon her just now. I may tell
you that poor Douglas had just one fault in the world, and that was his
jealousy. He was fond of me—no man could be fonder of a friend. And he
was devoted to his wife. He loved me to come here, and was forever sending
for me. And yet if his wife and I talked together or there seemed any
sympathy between us, a kind of wave of jealousy would pass over him, and
he would be off the handle and saying the wildest things in a moment. More
than once I’ve sworn off coming for that reason, and then he would write me
such penitent, imploring letters that I just had to. But you can take it from
me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that no man ever had a more loving,
faithful wife—and I can say also no friend could be more loyal than I!”
It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet Inspector MacDonald
could not dismiss the subject.
“You are aware,” said he, “that the dead man’s wedding ring has been
taken from his finger?”
“So it appears,” said Barker.
“What do you mean by ‘appears’? You know it as a fact.”
The man seemed confused and undecided. “When I said ‘appears’ I meant
that it was conceivable that he had himself taken off the ring.”
“The mere fact that the ring should be absent, whoever may have removed
it, would suggest to anyone’s mind, would it not, that the marriage and the
tragedy were connected?”
Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can’t profess to say what it
means,” he answered. “But if you mean to hint that it could reflect in any
way upon this lady’s honour”—his eyes blazed for an instant, and then with
an evident effort he got a grip upon his own emotions—“well, you are on the
wrong track, that’s all.”
“I don’t know that I’ve anything else to ask you at present,” said
MacDonald, coldly.

“There was one small point,” remarked Sherlock Holmes. “When you
entered the room there was only a candle lighted on the table, was there
not?”
“Yes, that was so.”
“By its light you saw that some terrible incident had occurred?”
“Exactly.”
“You at once rang for help?”
“Yes.”
“And it arrived very speedily?”
“Within a minute or so.”
“And yet when they arrived they found that the candle was out and that
the lamp had been lighted. That seems very remarkable.”
Again Barker showed some signs of indecision. “I don’t see that it was
remarkable, Mr. Holmes,” he answered after a pause. “The candle threw a
very bad light. My first thought was to get a better one. The lamp was on the
table; so I lit it.”
“And blew out the candle?”
“Exactly.”
Holmes asked no further question, and Barker, with a deliberate look from
one to the other of us, which had, as it seemed to me, something of defiance
in it, turned and left the room.
Inspector MacDonald had sent up a note to the effect that he would wait
upon Mrs. Douglas in her room; but she had replied that she would meet us
in the dining room. She entered now, a tall and beautiful woman of thirty,
reserved and 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. He did the round of the house every night, for he was nervous of fire. It
is the only thing that I have ever known him nervous of.”
“That is just the point which I want to come to, Mrs. Douglas. You have
known your husband only in England, have you not?”
“Yes, we have been married five years.”
“Have you heard him speak of anything which occurred in America and
might bring some danger upon him?”
Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she answered. “Yes,” she said at
last, “I have always felt that there was a danger hanging over him. He
refused to discuss it with me. It was not from want of confidence in me—
there was the most complete love and confidence between us—but it was out

of his desire to keep all alarm away from me. He thought I should brood
over it if I knew all, and so he was silent.”
“How did you know it, then?”
Mrs. Douglas’s face lit with a quick smile. “Can a husband ever carry
about a secret all his life and a woman who loves him have no suspicion of
it? I knew it by his refusal to talk about some episodes in his American life. I
knew it by certain precautions he took. I knew it by certain words he let fall.
I knew it by the way he looked at unexpected strangers. I was perfectly
certain that he had some powerful enemies, that he believed they were on his
track, and that he was always on his guard against them. I was so sure of it
that for years I have been terrified if ever he came home later than was
expected.”
“Might I ask,” asked Holmes, “what the words were which attracted your
attention?”
“The Valley of Fear,” the lady answered. “That was an expression he has
used when I questioned him. ‘I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out
of it yet.’—‘Are we never to get out of the Valley of Fear?’ I have asked him
when I have seen him more serious than usual. ‘Sometimes I think that we
never shall,’ he has answered.”
“Surely you asked him what he meant by the Valley of Fear?”
“I did; but his face would become very grave and he would shake his
head. ‘It is bad enough that one of us should have been in its shadow,’ he
said. ‘Please God it shall never fall upon you!’ It was some real valley in
which he had lived and in which something terrible had occurred to him, of
that I am certain; but I can tell you no more.”
“And he never mentioned any names?”
“Yes, he was delirious with fever once when he had his hunting accident
three years ago. Then I remember that there was a name that came
continually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort of horror. McGinty
was the name—Bodymaster McGinty. I asked him when he recovered who
Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body he was master of. ‘Never of
mine, thank God!’ he answered with a laugh, and that was all I could get
from him. But there is a connection between Bodymaster McGinty and the
Valley of Fear.”
“There is one other point,” said Inspector MacDonald. “You met Mr.
Douglas in a boarding house in London, did you not, and became engaged to

him there? Was there any romance, anything secret or mysterious, about the
wedding?”
“There was romance. There is always romance. There was nothing
mysterious.”
“He had no rival?”
“No, I was quite free.”
“You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding ring has been taken. Does
that suggest anything to you? Suppose that some enemy of his old life had
tracked him down and committed this crime, what possible reason could he
have for taking his wedding ring?”
For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile
flickered over the woman’s lips.

For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile
flickered over the woman’s lips.

“I really cannot tell,” she answered. “It is certainly a most extraordinary
thing.”
“Well, we will not detain you any longer, and we are sorry to have put you
to this trouble at such a time,” said the inspector. “There are some other
points, no doubt; but we can refer to you as they arise.”
She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning glance with
which she had just surveyed us. “What impression has my evidence made
upon you?” The question might as well have been spoken. Then, with a bow,
she swept from the room.
“She’s a beautiful woman—a very beautiful woman,” said MacDonald
thoughtfully, after the door had closed behind her. “This man Barker has
certainly been down here a good deal. He is a man who might be attractive
to a woman. He admits that the dead man was jealous, and maybe he knew
best himself what cause he had for jealousy. Then there’s that wedding ring.
You can’t get past that. The man who tears a wedding ring off a dead man’s
—What do you say to it, Mr. Holmes?”
My friend had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the deepest
thought. Now he rose and rang the bell. “Ames,” he said, when the butler
entered, “where is Mr. Cecil Barker now?”
“I’ll see, sir.”
He came back in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.
“Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had on his feet last night
when you joined him in the study?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought him his
boots when he went for the police.”
“Where are the slippers now?”
“They are still under the chair in the hall.”
“Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know which tracks
may be Mr. Barker’s and which from outside.”
“Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stained with blood
—so indeed were my own.”

“That is natural enough, considering the condition of the room. Very good,
Ames. We will ring if we want you.”
A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him
the 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 VI
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.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. At the end
farthest from the house they thickened into a continuous hedge. On the
other side of this hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone approaching
from the direction of the house, there was a stone seat. As I approached the
spot I was aware of voices, some remark in the deep tones of a man,
answered by a little ripple of feminine laughter.
An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge and my eyes lit
upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before they were aware of my
presence. Her appearance gave me a shock. In the dining-room she had
been demure and discreet. Now all pretense of grief had passed away from
her. Her eyes shone with the joy of living, and her face still quivered with
amusement at some remark of her companion. He sat forward, his hands
clasped and his forearms on his knees, with an answering smile upon his
bold, handsome face. In an instant—but it was just one instant too late—
they resumed their solemn masks as my figure came into view. A hurried

word or two passed between them, and then Barker rose and came towards
me.
“Excuse me, sir,” said he, “but am I addressing Dr. Watson?”
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the
impression which had been produced upon my mind.
“We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr.
Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and
speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?”
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my mind’s
eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few hours of the tragedy
were his wife and his nearest friend laughing together behind a bush in the
garden which had been his. I greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved
with her grief in the dining room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an
unresponsive eye.
“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 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.
“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 Barker and of the woman Douglas. When on the top
of this I am able to show that the blood mark on the windowsill was
deliberately placed there by Barker, in order to give a false clue to the
police, you will admit that the case grows dark against him.
“Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour the murder actually did
occur. Up to half-past ten the servants were moving about the house; so it
was certainly not before that time. At a quarter to eleven they had all gone

to their rooms with the exception of Ames, who was in the pantry. I have
been trying some experiments after you left us this afternoon, and I find that
no noise which MacDonald can make in the study can penetrate to me in
the pantry when the doors are all shut.
“It is otherwise, however, from the housekeeper’s room. It is not so far
down the corridor, and from it I could vaguely hear a voice when it was
very loudly raised. The sound from a shotgun is to some extent muffled
when the discharge is at very close range, as it undoubtedly was in this
instance. It would not be very loud, and yet in the silence of the night it
should have easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen’s room. She is, as she has told
us, somewhat deaf; but none the less she mentioned in her evidence that she
did hear something like a door slamming half an hour before the alarm was
given. Half an hour before the alarm was given would be a quarter to
eleven. I have no doubt that what she heard was the report of the gun, and
that this was the real instant of the murder.
“If this is so, we have now to determine what Barker and Mrs. Douglas,
presuming that they are not the actual murderers, could have been doing
from quarter to eleven, when the sound of the shot brought them down,
until quarter past eleven, when they rang the bell and summoned the
servants. What were they doing, and why did they not instantly give the
alarm? That is the question which faces us, and when it has been answered
we shall surely have gone some way to solve our problem.”
“I am convinced myself,” said I, “that there is an understanding between
those two people. She must be a heartless creature to sit laughing at some
jest within a few hours of her husband’s murder.”
“Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even in her own account of what
occurred. I am not a whole-souled admirer of womankind, as you are aware,
Watson, but my experience of life has taught me that there are few wives,
having any regard for their husbands, who would let any man’s spoken
word stand between them and that husband’s dead body. Should I ever
marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which
would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse
was lying within a few yards of her. It was badly stage-managed; for even
the rawest investigators must be struck by the absence of the usual feminine
ululation. If there had been nothing else, this incident alone would have
suggested a prearranged conspiracy to my mind.”

“You think then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs. Douglas are guilty of
the murder?”
“There is an appalling directness about your questions, Watson,” said
Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. “They come at me like bullets. If you put it
that Mrs. Douglas and Barker know the truth about the murder, and are
conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you a whole-souled answer. I am
sure they do. But your more deadly proposition is not so clear. Let us for a
moment consider the difficulties which stand in the way.
“We will suppose that this couple are united by the bonds of a guilty
love, and that they have determined to get rid of the man who stands
between them. It is a large supposition; for discreet inquiry among servants
and others has failed to corroborate it in any way. On the contrary, there is a
good deal of evidence that the Douglases were very attached to each other.”
“That, I am sure, cannot be true,” said I, thinking of the beautiful smiling
face 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.”
“And yet there should be no combination of events for which the wit of
man cannot conceive an explanation. Simply as a mental exercise, without
any assertion that it is true, let me indicate a possible line of thought. It is, I
admit, mere imagination; but how often is imagination the mother of truth?
“We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, a really shameful secret
in the life of this man Douglas. This leads to his murder by someone who is,
we will suppose, an avenger, someone from outside. This avenger, for some
reason which I confess I am still at a loss to explain, took the dead man’s
wedding ring. The vendetta might conceivably date back to the man’s first
marriage, and the ring be taken for some such reason.
“Before this avenger got away, Barker and the wife had reached the
room. The assassin convinced them that any attempt to arrest him would
lead to the publication of some hideous scandal. They were converted to
this idea, and preferred to let him go. For this purpose they probably
lowered the bridge, which can be done quite noiselessly, and then raised it
again. He made his escape, and for some reason thought that he could do so
more safely on foot than on the bicycle. He therefore left his machine where
it would not be discovered until he had got safely away. So far we are
within the bounds of possibility, are we not?”
“Well, it is possible, no doubt,” said I, with some reserve.
“We have to remember, Watson, that whatever occurred is certainly
something very extraordinary. Well, now, to continue our supposititious
case, the couple—not necessarily a guilty couple—realize after the
murderer is gone that they have placed themselves in a position in which it
may be difficult for them to prove that they did not themselves either do the
deed or connive at it. They rapidly and rather clumsily met the situation.

The mark was put by Barker’s bloodstained slipper upon the windowsill to
suggest how the fugitive got away. They obviously were the two who must
have heard the sound of the gun; so they gave the alarm exactly as they
would have done, but a good half hour after the event.”
“And how do you propose to prove all this?”
“Well, if there were an outsider, he may be traced and taken. That would
be the most effective of all proofs. But if not—well, the resources of
science are far from being exhausted. I think that an evening alone in that
study would help me much.”
“An evening alone!”
“I propose to go up there presently. I have arranged it with the estimable
Ames, who is by no means wholehearted about Barker. I shall sit in that
room and see if its atmosphere brings me inspiration. I’m a believer in the
genius loci. You smile, Friend Watson. Well, we shall see. By the way, you
have that big umbrella of yours, have you not?”
“It is here.”
“Well, I’ll borrow that if I may.”
“Certainly—but what a wretched weapon! If there is danger—”
“Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should certainly ask for your
assistance. But I’ll take the umbrella. At present I am only awaiting the
return of our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are at present
engaged in trying for a likely owner to the bicycle.”
It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and White Mason came
back from their expedition, and they arrived exultant, reporting a great
advance in our investigation.
“Man, I’ll admeet that I had my doubts if there was ever an outsider,”
said MacDonald, “but that’s all past now. We’ve had the bicycle identified,
and we have a description of our man; so that’s a long step on our journey.”
“It sounds to me like the beginning of the end,” said Holmes. “I’m sure I
congratulate you both with all my heart.”
“Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had seemed disturbed
since the day before, when he had been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at
Tunbridge Wells then that he had become conscious of some danger. It was
clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with a bicycle it was from

Tunbridge Wells that he might be expected to have come. We took the
bicycle over with us and showed it at the hotels. It was identified at once by
the manager of the Eagle Commercial as belonging to a man named
Hargrave, who had taken a room there two days before. This bicycle and a
small valise were his whole belongings. He had registered his name as
coming from London, but had given no address. The valise was London
made, and the contents were British; but the man himself was undoubtedly
an American.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes gleefully, “you have indeed done some solid
work while I have been sitting spinning theories with my friend! It’s a
lesson in being practical, Mr. Mac.”
“Ay, it’s just that, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector with satisfaction.
“But this may all fit in with your theories,” I remarked.
“That may or may not be. But let us hear the end, Mr. Mac. Was there
nothing to identify this man?”
“So little that it was evident that he had carefully guarded himself against
identification. There were no papers or letters, and no marking upon the
clothes. A cycle map of the county lay on his bedroom table. He had left the
hotel after breakfast yesterday morning on his bicycle, and no more was
heard of him until our inquiries.”
“That’s what puzzles me, Mr. Holmes,” said White Mason. “If the fellow
did not want the hue and cry raised over him, one would imagine that he
would have returned and remained at the hotel as an inoffensive tourist. As
it is, he must know that he will be reported to the police by the hotel
manager and that his disappearance will be connected with the murder.”
“So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his wisdom up to
date, at any rate, since he has not been taken. But his description—what of
that?”
MacDonald referred to his notebook. “Here we have it so far as they
could give it. They don’t seem to have taken any very particular stock of
him; but still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are all agreed that
this about covers the points. He was a man about five foot nine in height,
fifty or so years of age, his hair slightly grizzled, a grayish moustache, a
curved nose, and a face which all of them described as fierce and
forbidding.”

“Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a description of Douglas
himself,” said Holmes. “He is just over fifty, with grizzled hair and
moustache, and about the same height. Did you get anything else?”
“He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket, and he wore a
short yellow overcoat and a soft cap.”
“What about the shotgun?”
“It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted into his valise.
He could have carried it inside his overcoat without difficulty.”
“And how do you consider that all this bears upon the general case?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said MacDonald, “when we have got our man—and
you may be sure that I had his description on the wires within five minutes
of hearing it—we shall be better able to judge. But, even as it stands, we
have surely gone a long way. We know that an American calling himself
Hargrave came to Tunbridge Wells two days ago with bicycle and valise. In
the latter was a sawed-off shotgun; so he came with the deliberate purpose
of crime. Yesterday morning he set off for this place on his bicycle, with his
gun concealed in his overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so far as we can
learn; but he need not pass through the village to reach the park gates, and
there are many cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at once concealed his
cycle among the laurels where it was found, and possibly lurked there
himself, with his eye on the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas to come out.
The shotgun is a strange weapon to use inside a house; but he had intended
to use it outside, and there it has very obvious advantages, as it would be
impossible to miss with it, and the sound of shots is so common in an
English sporting neighbourhood that no particular notice would be taken.”
“That is all very clear,” said Holmes.
“Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next? He left his
bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He found the bridge down
and no one about. He took his chance, intending, no doubt, to make some
excuse if he met anyone. He met no one. He slipped into the first room that
he saw, and concealed himself behind the curtain. Thence he could see the
drawbridge go up, and he knew that his only escape was through the moat.
He waited until quarter-past eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual
nightly round came into the room. He shot him and escaped, as arranged.
He was aware that the bicycle would be described by the hotel people and
be a clue against him; so he left it there and made his way by some other

means to London or to some safe hiding place which he had already
arranged. How is that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so far as it goes. That is
your end of the story. My end is that the crime was committed half an hour
earlier than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and Barker are both in a conspiracy
to conceal something; that they aided the murderer’s escape—or at least
that they reached the room before he escaped—and that they fabricated
evidence of his escape through the window, whereas in all probability they
had themselves let him go by lowering the bridge. That’s my reading of the
first half.”
The two detectives shook their heads.
“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?”

“Watson, would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a
lunatic.”

“Not in the least,” I answered in astonishment.
“Ah, that’s lucky,” he said, and not another word would he utter that
night.

Chapter VII
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
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.”
“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!”
“Tut, tut, Mr. Mac!—the first sign of temper I have detected in you. Well,
I won’t read it verbatim, since you feel so strongly upon the subject. But
when I tell you that there is some account of the taking of the place by a
parliamentary colonel in 1644, of the concealment of Charles for several
days in the course of the Civil War, and finally of a visit there by the second
George, you will admit that there are various associations of interest
connected with this ancient house.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of ours.”
“Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr. Mac, is one of the
essentials of our profession. The interplay of ideas and the oblique uses of
knowledge are often of extraordinary interest. You will excuse these
remarks from one who, though a mere connoisseur of crime, is still rather
older and perhaps more experienced than yourself.”
“I’m the first to admit that,” said the detective heartily. “You get to your
point, I admit; but you have such a deuced round-the-corner way of doing
it.”
“Well, well, I’ll drop past history and get down to present-day facts. I
called last night, as I have already said, at the Manor House. I did not see
either Barker or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no necessity to disturb them; but I was
pleased to hear that the lady was not visibly pining and that she had
partaken of an excellent dinner. My visit was specially made to the good
Mr. Ames, with whom I exchanged some amiabilities, which culminated in
his allowing me, without reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a time in
the study.”
“What! With that?” I ejaculated.
“No, no, everything is now in order. You gave permission for that, Mr.
Mac, as I am informed. The room was in its normal state, and in it I passed
an instructive quarter of an hour.”
“What were you doing?”
“Well, not to make a mystery of so simple a matter, I was looking for the
missing dumb-bell. It has always bulked rather large in my estimate of the

case. I ended by finding it.”
“Where?”
“Ah, there we come to the edge of the unexplored. Let me go a little
further, a very little further, and I will promise that you shall share
everything that I know.”
“Well, we’re bound to take you on your own terms,” said the inspector;
“but when it comes to telling us to abandon the case—why in the name of
goodness should we abandon the case?”
“For the simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that you have not got the first
idea what it is that you are investigating.”
“We are investigating the murder of Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone
Manor.”
“Yes, yes, so you are. But don’t trouble to trace the mysterious gentleman
upon the bicycle. I assure you that it won’t help you.”
“Then what do you suggest that we do?”
“I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will do it.”
“Well, I’m bound to say I’ve always found you had reason behind all
your queer ways. I’ll do what you advise.”
“And you, Mr. White Mason?”
The country detective looked helplessly from one to the other. Holmes
and his methods were new to him. “Well, if it is good enough for the
inspector, it is good enough for me,” he said at last.
“Capital!” said Holmes. “Well, then, I should recommend a nice, cheery
country walk for both of you. They tell me that the views from Birlstone
Ridge over the Weald are very remarkable. No doubt lunch could be got at
some suitable hostelry; though my ignorance of the country prevents me
from recommending one. In the evening, tired but happy—”
“Man, this is getting past a joke!” cried MacDonald, rising angrily from
his chair.
“Well, well, spend the day as you like,” said Holmes, patting him
cheerfully upon the shoulder. “Do what you like and go where you will, but
meet me here before dusk without fail—without fail, Mr. Mac.”
“That sounds more like sanity.”

“All of it was excellent advice; but I don’t insist, so long as you are here
when I need you. But now, before we part, I want you to write a note to Mr.
Barker.”
“Well?”
“I’ll dictate it, if you like. Ready?

“DEAR SIR.—It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the
moat, in the hope that we may find some—”

“It’s impossible,” said the inspector. “I’ve made inquiry.”
“Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask you.”
“Well, go on.”

“—in the hope that we may find something which may bear
upon our investigation. I have made arrangements, and the
workmen will be at work early to-morrow morning diverting
the stream—”

“Impossible!”

“—diverting the stream; so I thought it best to explain
matters beforehand.

“Now sign that, and send it by hand about four o’clock. At that hour we
shall meet again in this room. Until then we may each do what we like; for I
can assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite pause.”
Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very serious
in his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical and
annoyed.
“Well, gentlemen,” said my friend gravely, “I am asking you now to put
everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves whether
the observations I have made justify the conclusions to which I have come.
It is a chill evening, and I do not know how long our expedition may last; so
I beg that you will wear your warmest coats. It is of the first importance that
we should be 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
well-staged 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 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, 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
dumb-bell, 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 that darkness enabled him to do so. We have no
less than four witnesses as to who it was who took advantage of the
opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think the word lies now with you.”
Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp
and undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a dumb-bell,
which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he drew forth a pair
of boots. “American, as you perceive,” he remarked, pointing to the toes.
Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly, sheathed knife. Finally he
unravelled a bundle of clothing, comprising a complete set of underclothes,
socks, a gray tweed suit, and a short yellow overcoat.
“The clothes are commonplace,” remarked Holmes, “save only the
overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches.” He held it tenderly towards
the light. “Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into the
lining in such fashion as to give ample space for the truncated fowling
piece. The tailor’s tab is on the neck—‘Neal, Outfitter, Vermissa, U.S.A.’ I
have spent an instructive afternoon in the rector’s library, and have enlarged
my knowledge by adding the fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town
at the head of one of the best known coal and iron valleys in the United
States. I have some recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated the coal
districts with Mr. Douglas’s first wife, and it would surely not be too far-
fetched an inference that the V.V. upon the card by the dead body might
stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which sends forth

emissaries of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we have heard.
So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem to be standing rather in
the way of your explanation.”
It was a sight to see Cecil Barker’s expressive face during this exposition
of the great detective. Anger, amazement, consternation, and indecision
swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a somewhat acrid irony.
“You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some
more,” he sneered.
“I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr. Barker; but it
would come with a better grace from you.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is that if there’s any secret
here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it away.”
“Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker,” said the inspector quietly, “we
must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant and can hold you.”
“You can do what you damn please about that,” said Barker defiantly.
The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he was
concerned; for one had only to look at that granite face to realize that no
‘peine forte et dure’ would ever force him to plead against his will. The
deadlock was broken, however, by a woman’s voice. Mrs. Douglas had
been standing listening at the half opened door, and now she entered the
room.
“You have done enough for now, Cecil,” said she. “Whatever comes of it
in the future, you have done enough.”
“Enough and more than enough,” remarked Sherlock Holmes gravely. “I
have every sympathy with you, madam, and should strongly urge you to
have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to take
the police voluntarily into your complete confidence. It may be that I am
myself at fault for not following up the hint which you conveyed to me
through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had every reason to
believe that you were directly concerned in the crime. Now I am assured
that this is not so. At the same time, 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,
short-clipped, 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, Mr. Holmes. You’re a smoker yourself, if I remember right, and you’ll
guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in your pocket and
afraid that the smell will give you away.” He leaned against the mantelpiece
and sucked at the cigar which Holmes had handed him. “I’ve heard of you,
Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that I should meet you. But before you are
through with that,” he nodded at my papers, “you will say I’ve brought you
something fresh.”
Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the greatest
amazement. “Well, this fairly beats me!” he cried at last. “If you are Mr.
John Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been
investigating for these two days, and where in the world have you sprung
from now? You seemed to me to come out of the floor like a jack-in-a-box.”

“Ah, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, “you would
not read that excellent local compilation which described the concealment
of King Charles. People did not hide in those days without excellent hiding
places, and the hiding place that has once been used may be again. I had
persuaded myself that we should find Mr. Douglas under this roof.”
“And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?”
said the inspector angrily. “How long have you allowed us to waste
ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?”
“Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form my views
of the case. As they could not be put to the proof until this evening, I invited
you and your colleague to take a holiday for the day. Pray what more could
I do? When I found the suit of clothes in the moat, it at once became
apparent to me that the body we had found could not have been the body of
Mr. John Douglas at all, but must be that of the bicyclist from Tunbridge
Wells. No other conclusion was possible. Therefore I had to determine
where Mr. John Douglas himself could be, and the balance of probability
was that with the connivance of his wife and his friend he was concealed in
a house which had such conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting quieter
times when he could make his final escape.”
“Well, you figured it out about right,” said Douglas approvingly. “I
thought I’d dodge your British law; for I was not sure how I stood under it,
and also I saw my chance to throw these hounds once for all off my track.
Mind you, from first to last I have done nothing to be ashamed of, and
nothing that I would not do again; but you’ll judge that for yourselves when
I tell you my story. Never mind warning me, Inspector: I’m ready to stand
pat upon the truth.
“I’m not going to begin at the beginning. That’s all there,” he indicated
my bundle of papers, “and a mighty queer yarn you’ll find it. It all comes
down to this: That there are some men that have good cause to hate me and
would give their last dollar to know that they had got me. So long as I am
alive and they are alive, there is no safety in this world for me. They hunted
me from Chicago to California, then they chased me out of America; but
when I married and settled down in this quiet spot I thought my last years
were going to be peaceable.
“I never explained to my wife how things were. Why should I pull her
into it? She would never have a quiet moment again; but would always be

imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something, for I may have dropped a
word here or a word there; but until yesterday, after you gentlemen had seen
her, she never knew the rights of the matter. She told you all she knew, and
so did Barker here; for on the night when this thing happened there was
mighty little time for explanations. She knows everything now, and I would
have been a wiser man if I had told her sooner. But it was a hard question,
dear,” he took her hand for an 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; for the knife tinkled down on the floor. He
dodged round the table as quick as an eel, and a moment later he’d got his
gun from under his coat. I heard him cock it; but I had got hold of it before
he could fire. I had it by the barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends up for a
minute or more. It was death to the man that lost his grip.

“He never lost his grip; but he got it butt downward for a moment too
long. Maybe it was I that pulled the trigger. Maybe we just jolted it off
between us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, and there I was, staring
down at all that was left of Ted Baldwin. I’d recognized him in the
township, and again when he sprang for me; but his own mother wouldn’t
recognize him as I saw him then. I’m used to rough work; but I fairly turned
sick at the sight of him.
“I was hanging on the side of the table when Barker came hurrying
down. I heard my wife coming, and I ran to the door and stopped her. It was
no sight for a woman. I promised I’d come to her soon. I said a word or two
to Barker—he took it all in at a glance—and we waited for the rest to come
along. But there was no sign of them. Then we understood that they could
hear nothing, and that all that had happened was known only to ourselves.
“It was at that instant that the idea came to me. I was fairly dazzled by
the brilliance of it. The man’s sleeve had slipped up and there was the
branded mark of the lodge upon his forearm. See here!”
The man whom we had known as Douglas turned up his own coat and
cuff to show a brown triangle within a circle exactly like that which we had
seen upon the dead man.
“It was the sight of that which started me on it. I seemed to see it all clear
at a glance. There were his height and hair and figure, about the same as my
own. No one could swear to his face, poor devil! I brought down this suit of
clothes, and in a quarter of an hour Barker and I had put my dressing gown
on him and he lay as you found him. We tied all his things into a bundle,
and I weighted them with the only weight I could find and put them through
the window. The card he had meant to lay upon my body was lying beside
his own.
“My rings were put on his finger; but when it came to the wedding ring,”
he held out his muscular hand, “you can see for yourselves that I had struck
the limit. I have not moved it since the day I was married, and it would have
taken a file to get it off. I don’t know, anyhow, that I should have cared to
part with it; but if I had wanted to I couldn’t. So we just had to leave that
detail to take care of itself. On the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster
down and put it where I am wearing one myself at this instant. You slipped
up there, Mr. Holmes, clever as you are; for if you had chanced to take off
that plaster you would have found no cut underneath it.

“Well, that was the situation. If I could lie low for a while and then get
away where I could be joined by my ‘widow’ we should have a chance at
last of living in peace for the rest of our lives. These devils would give me
no rest so long as I was above ground; but if they saw in the papers that
Baldwin had got his man, there would be an end of all my troubles. I hadn’t
much time to make it all clear to Barker and to my wife; but they
understood enough to be able to help me. I knew all about this hiding place,
so did Ames; but it never entered his head to connect it with the matter. I
retired into it, and it was up to Barker to do the rest.
“I guess you can fill in for yourselves what he did. He opened the
window and made the mark on the sill to give an idea of how the murderer
escaped. It 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, will find its end.

PART II
The Scowrers

Chapter I
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 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
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, and where there is a lodge I’ll find my friends.”
The remark had a singular effect upon his companion. He glanced round
suspiciously at the others in the car. The miners were still whispering
among themselves. The two police officers were dozing. He came across,
seated himself close to the young traveller, and held out his hand.
“Put it there,” he said.
A hand-grip passed between the two.

“I see you speak the truth,” said the workman. “But it’s well to make
certain.” He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow. The traveller at once
raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.
“Dark nights are unpleasant,” said the workman.
“Yes, for strangers to travel,” the other answered.
“That’s good enough. I’m Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley.
Glad to see you in these parts.”
“Thank you. I’m Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago.
Bodymaster J.H. Scott. But I am in luck to meet a brother so early.”
“Well, there are plenty of us about. You won’t find the order more
flourishing anywhere in the States than right here in Vermissa Valley. But
we could do with some lads like you. I can’t understand a spry man of the
union finding no work to do in Chicago.”
“I found plenty of work to do,” said McMurdo.
“Then why did you leave?”
McMurdo nodded towards the policemen and smiled. “I guess those
chaps would be glad to know,” he said.
Scanlan groaned sympathetically. “In trouble?” he asked in a whisper.
“Deep.”
“A penitentiary job?”
“And the rest.”
“Not a killing!”
“It’s early days to talk of such things,” said McMurdo with the air of a
man who had been surprised into saying more than he intended. “I’ve my
own good reasons for leaving Chicago, and let that be enough for you. Who
are you that you should take it on yourself to ask such things?” His gray
eyes gleamed with sudden and dangerous anger from behind his glasses.
“All right, mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none the worse of
you, whatever you may have done. Where are you bound for now?”
“Vermissa.”
“That’s the third halt down the line. Where are you staying?”
McMurdo took out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil lamp.
“Here is the address—Jacob Shafter, Sheridan Street. It’s a boarding house

that was recommended by a man I knew in Chicago.”
“Well, I don’t know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I live at Hobson’s
Patch, and that’s here where we are drawing up. But, say, there’s one bit of
advice I’ll give you before we part: If you’re in trouble in Vermissa, go
straight to the Union House and see Boss McGinty. He is the Bodymaster of
Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can happen in these parts unless Black Jack
McGinty wants it. So long, mate! Maybe we’ll meet in lodge one of these
evenings. But mind my words: If you are in trouble, go to Boss McGinty.”
Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his thoughts.
Night had now fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces were roaring
and leaping in the darkness. Against their lurid background dark figures
were bending and straining, twisting and turning, with the motion of winch
or of windlass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank and roar.
“I guess hell must look something like that,” said a voice.
McMurdo turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted in his
seat and was staring out into the fiery waste.
“For that matter,” said the other policeman, “I allow that hell must be
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 to look the like of you in the face—don’t make any
mistake about that!”
There was a murmur of sympathy and admiration from the miners at the
dauntless demeanour of the newcomer, while the two policemen shrugged
their shoulders and renewed a conversation between themselves.
A few minutes later the train ran into the ill-lit station, and there was a
general clearing; for Vermissa was by far the largest town on the line.
McMurdo picked up his leather gripsack and was about to start off into the
darkness, when one of the miners accosted him.
“By Gar, mate! you know how to speak to the cops,” he said in a voice of
awe. “It was grand to hear you. Let me carry your grip and show you the
road. I’m passing Shafter’s on the way to my own shack.”
There was a chorus of friendly “Good-nights” from the other miners as
they passed from the platform. Before ever he had set foot in it, McMurdo
the turbulent had become a character in Vermissa.
The country had been a place of terror; but the town was in its way even
more depressing. Down that long valley there was at least a certain gloomy
grandeur in the huge fires and the clouds of drifting smoke, while the
strength and industry of man found fitting monuments in the hills which he
had spilled by the side of his monstrous excavations. But the town showed a
dead level of mean ugliness and squalor. The broad street was churned up
by the traffic into a horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks
were narrow and uneven. The numerous gas-lamps served only to show
more clearly a long line of wooden houses, each with its veranda facing the
street, unkempt and dirty.

As they approached the centre of the town the scene was brightened by a
row of well-lit stores, and even more by a cluster of saloons and gaming
houses, in which the miners spent their hard-earned but generous wages.
“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 he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to the
dwelling house, at the door of which he gave a resounding knock.
It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had
expected. It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was of the
German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of a pair of
beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger with surprise and
a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of colour over her pale
face. Framed in the bright light of the open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo
that he had never seen a more beautiful picture; the more attractive for its
contrast with the sordid and gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet growing
upon one of those black slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed
more surprising. So entranced was he that he stood staring without a word,
and it was she who broke the silence.
“I thought it was father,” said she with a pleasing little touch of a German
accent. “Did you come to see him? He is down town. I expect him back
every minute.”
McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes
dropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.
“No, miss,” he said at last, “I’m in no hurry to see him. But your house
was recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit me—and now I
know it will.”
“You are quick to make up your mind,” said she with a smile.
“Anyone but a blind man could do as much,” the other answered.
She laughed at the compliment. “Come right in, sir,” she said. “I’m Miss
Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter’s daughter. My mother’s dead, and I run the
house. You can sit down by the stove in the front room until father comes
along—Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him right away.”
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 II
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 disregard of what she might say to discourage him.
“Someone else?” he would cry. “Well, the worse luck for someone else!
Let him look out for himself! Am I to lose my life’s chance and all my
heart’s desire for someone else? You can keep on saying no, Ettie: the day
will come when you will say yes, and I’m young enough to wait.”
He was a dangerous suitor, with his glib Irish tongue, and his pretty,
coaxing ways. There was about him also that glamour of experience and of
mystery which attracts a woman’s interest, and finally her love. He could
talk of the sweet valleys of County Monaghan from which he came, of the
lovely, distant island, the low hills and green meadows of which seemed the

more beautiful when imagination viewed them from this place of grime and
snow.
Then he was versed in the life of the cities of the North, of Detroit, and the
lumber camps of Michigan, and finally of Chicago, where he had worked in
a planing mill. And afterwards came the hint of romance, the feeling that
strange things had happened to him in that great city, so strange and so
intimate that they might not be spoken of. He spoke wistfully of a sudden
leaving, a breaking of old ties, a flight into a strange world, ending in this
dreary valley, and Ettie listened, her dark eyes gleaming with pity and with
sympathy—those two qualities which may turn so rapidly and so naturally to
love.

McMurdo had obtained a temporary job as bookkeeper for he was a well-
educated man. This kept him out most of the day, and he had not found
occasion yet to report himself to the head of the lodge of the Eminent Order
of Freemen. He was reminded of his omission, however, by a visit one
evening from Mike Scanlan, the fellow member whom he had met in the
train. Scanlan, the small, 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 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 veek.”
“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?”
“It’s a murder society, that’s vat it is.”
McMurdo laughed incredulously. “How can you prove that?” he asked.
“Prove it! Are there not fifty murders to prove it? Vat about Milman and
Van Shorst, and the Nicholson family, and old Mr. Hyam, and little Billy
James, and the others? Prove it! Is there a man or a voman in this valley vat
does not know it?”
“See here!” said McMurdo earnestly. “I want you to take back what
you’ve said, or else make it good. One or the other you must do before I quit
this room. Put yourself in my place. Here am I, a stranger in the town. I
belong to a society that I know only as an innocent one. You’ll find it
through the length and breadth of the States, but always as an innocent one.
Now, when I am counting upon joining it here, you tell me that it is the same
as a murder society called the Scowrers. I guess you owe me either an
apology or else an explanation, Mr. Shafter.”
“I can but tell you vat the whole vorld knows, mister. The bosses of the
one are the bosses of the other. If you offend the one, it is the other vat vill
strike you. We have proved it too often.”

“That’s just gossip—I want proof!” said McMurdo.
“If you live here long you vill get your proof. But I forget that you are
yourself one of them. You vill soon be as bad as the rest. But you vill find
other lodgings, mister. I cannot have you here. Is it not bad enough that one
of these people come courting my Ettie, and that I dare not turn him down,
but that I should have another for my boarder? Yes, indeed, you shall not
sleep here after 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?”
“I’d never hold my head up again if I felt that I had been driven out.
Besides, what is there to be afraid of? Are we not free folks in a free
country? If you love me, and I you, who will dare to come between?”
“You don’t know, Jack. You’ve been here too short a time. You don’t
know this Baldwin. You don’t know McGinty and his Scowrers.”
“No, I don’t know them, and I don’t fear them, and I don’t believe in
them!” said McMurdo. “I’ve lived among rough men, my darling, and
instead of fearing them it has always ended that they have feared me—
always, Ettie. It’s mad on the face of it! If these men, as your father says,
have done crime after crime in the valley, and if everyone knows them by
name, how comes it that none are brought to justice? You answer me that,
Ettie!”
“Because no witness dares to appear against them. He would not live a
month if he did. Also because they have always their own men to swear that
the accused one was far from the scene of the crime. But surely, Jack, you
must have read all this. I had understood that every paper in the United
States was writing about it.”
“Well, I have read something, it is true; but I had thought it was a story.
Maybe these men have some reason in what they do. Maybe they are
wronged and have no other way to help themselves.”
“Oh, Jack, don’t let me hear you speak so! That is how he speaks—the
other one!”
“Baldwin—he speaks like that, does he?”
“And that is why I loathe him so. Oh, Jack, now I can tell you the truth. I
loathe him with all my heart; but I fear him also. I fear him for myself; but
above all I fear him for father. I know that some great sorrow would come
upon us if I dared to say what I really felt. That is why I have put him off
with half-promises. It was in real truth our only hope. But if you would fly
with me, Jack, we could take father with us and live forever far from the
power of these wicked men.”

Again there was the struggle upon McMurdo’s face, and again it set like
granite. “No harm shall come to you, Ettie—nor to your father either. As to
wicked men, I expect you may find that I am as bad as the worst of them
before we’re through.”
“No, no, Jack! I would trust you anywhere.”
McMurdo laughed bitterly. “Good Lord! how little you know of me! Your
innocent soul, my darling, could not even guess what is passing in mine.
But, hullo, who’s the visitor?”
The door had opened suddenly, and a young fellow came swaggering in
with the air of one who is the master. He was a handsome, dashing young
man of about the same age and build as McMurdo himself. Under his broad-
brimmed black felt hat, which he had not troubled to remove, a handsome
face with fierce, domineering eyes and a curved hawk-bill of a nose looked
savagely at the pair who sat by the stove.
Ettie had jumped to her feet full of confusion and alarm. “I’m glad to see
you, Mr. Baldwin,” said she. “You’re earlier than I had thought. Come and
sit down.”
Baldwin stood with his hands on his hips looking at McMurdo. “Who is
this?” he asked curtly.
“It’s a friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin, a new boarder here. Mr. McMurdo,
may I introduce you to Mr. Baldwin?”
The young men nodded in surly fashion to each other.
“Maybe Miss Ettie has told you how it is with us?” said Baldwin.
“I didn’t understand that there was any relation between you.”
“Didn’t you? Well, you can understand it now. You can take it from me
that 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 you what your punishment may be. You’ve sowed—and by
the Lord, I’ll see that you reap!” He glanced at them both in fury. Then he
turned upon his heel, and an instant later the outer door had banged behind
him.
For a few moments McMurdo and the girl stood in silence. Then she
threw her arms around him.
“Oh, Jack, how brave you were! But it is no use, you must fly! To-night—
Jack—to-night! It’s your only hope. He will have your life. I read it in his
horrible eyes. What chance have you against a dozen of them, with Boss
McGinty and all the power of the lodge behind them?”
McMurdo disengaged her hands, kissed her, and gently pushed her back
into a chair. “There, acushla, there! Don’t be disturbed or fear for me. I’m a
Freeman myself. I’m after telling your father about it. Maybe I am no better
than the others; so don’t make a saint of me. Perhaps you hate me too, now
that I’ve told you as much?”

“Hate you, Jack? While life lasts I could never do that! I’ve heard that
there is no harm in being a Freeman anywhere but here; so why should I
think the worse of you for that? But if you are a Freeman, Jack, why should
you not go down and make a friend of Boss McGinty? Oh, hurry, Jack,
hurry! Get your word in first, or the hounds will be on your trail.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said McMurdo. “I’ll go right now and fix
it. You can tell your father that I’ll sleep here to-night and find some other
quarters in the morning.”
The bar of McGinty’s saloon was crowded as usual; for it was the
favourite loafing place of all the rougher elements of the town. The man was
popular; for he had a rough, jovial disposition which formed a mask,
covering a great deal which lay behind it. But apart from this popularity, the
fear in which he was held throughout the township, and indeed down the
whole thirty miles of the valley and past the mountains on each side of it,
was enough in itself to fill his bar; for none could afford to neglect his good
will.
Besides those secret powers which it was universally believed that he
exercised in so pitiless a fashion, he was a high public official, a municipal
councillor, and a commissioner of roads, elected to the office through the
votes of the ruffians who in turn expected to receive favours at his hands.
Assessments and taxes were enormous; the public works were notoriously
neglected, the accounts were slurred over by bribed auditors, and the decent
citizen was terrorized into paying public blackmail, and holding his tongue
lest some worse thing befall him.
Thus it was that, year by year, Boss McGinty’s diamond pins became
more obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty across a more gorgeous vest,
and his saloon stretched farther and farther, until it threatened to absorb one
whole side of the Market Square.
McMurdo pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made his way
amid the crowd of men within, through an atmosphere blurred with tobacco
smoke and heavy with the smell of spirits. The place was brilliantly lighted,
and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon every wall reflected and multiplied
the garish illumination. There were several bartenders in their shirt sleeves,
hard at work mixing drinks for the loungers who fringed the broad, brass-
trimmed counter.

At the far end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar stuck at an
acute angle from the corner of his mouth, stood a tall, strong, heavily built
man who could be none other than the famous McGinty himself. He was a
black-maned giant, bearded to the cheek-bones, and with a shock of raven
hair which fell to his collar. His complexion was as swarthy as that of an
Italian, and his 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.

“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
saloon-keeper, 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.
“And you were told to see me?”
“I was.”
“And who told you?”

“Brother Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health Councillor,
and to our better acquaintance.” He raised a glass with which he had been
served to his lips and elevated his little finger as he drank it.
McGinty, who had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick black
eyebrows. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” said he. “I’ll have to look a bit closer
into this, Mister—”
“McMurdo.”
“A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don’t take folk on trust in these parts,
nor believe all we’re told neither. Come in here for a moment, behind the
bar.”
There was a small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty carefully
closed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting thoughtfully
on his cigar and surveying his companion with those disquieting eyes. For a
couple of minutes he sat in complete silence. McMurdo bore the inspection
cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket, the other twisting his brown
moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and produced a wicked-looking
revolver.
“See here, my joker,” said he, “if I thought you were playing any game on
us, it would be short work for you.”
“This is a strange welcome,” McMurdo answered with some dignity, “for
the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother.”
“Ay, but it’s just that same that you have to prove,” said McGinty, “and
God help you if you fail! Where were you made?”
“Lodge 29, Chicago.”
“When?”
“June 24, 1872.”
“What Bodymaster?”
“James H. Scott.”
“Who is your district ruler?”
“Bartholomew Wilson.”
“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 helped me to shove the queer—”
“To do what?”

“Well, it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he said he
would split. Maybe he did split. I didn’t wait to see. I just killed him and
lighted out for the coal country.”
“Why the coal country?”
“’Cause I’d read in the papers that they weren’t too particular in those
parts.”
McGinty laughed. “You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and you
came to these parts because you thought you’d be welcome.”
“That’s about the size of it,” McMurdo answered.
“Well, I guess you’ll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?”
McMurdo took half a dozen from his pocket. “Those never passed the
Philadelphia mint,” said he.
“You don’t say!” McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand,
which was hairy as a gorilla’s. “I can see no difference. Gar! you’ll be a
mighty useful brother, I’m thinking! We can do with a bad man or two
among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have to take our
own part. We’d soon be against the wall if we didn’t shove back at those that
were pushing us.”
“Well, I guess I’ll do my share of shoving with the rest of the boys.”
“You seem to have a good nerve. You didn’t squirm when I shoved this
gun at you.”
“It was not me that was in danger.”
“Who then?”
“It was you, Councillor.” McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the side
pocket of his peajacket. “I was covering you all the time. I guess my shot
would have been as quick as yours.”
“By Gar!” McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a roar of
laughter. “Say, we’ve had no such holy terror come to hand this many a year.
I reckon the lodge will learn to be proud of you.... Well, what the hell do you
want? And can’t I speak alone with a gentleman for five minutes but you
must butt in on us?”
The bartender stood abashed. “I’m sorry, Councillor, but it’s Ted Baldwin.
He says he must see you this very minute.”

The message was unnecessary; for the set, cruel face of the man himself
was looking over the servant’s shoulder. He pushed the bartender out and
closed the door on him.
“So,” said he with a furious glance at McMurdo, “you got here first, did
you? I’ve a word to say to you, Councillor, about this man.”
“Then say it here and now before my face,” cried McMurdo.
“I’ll say it at my own time, in my own way.”
“Tut! Tut!” said McGinty, getting off his barrel. “This will never do. We
have a new brother here, Baldwin, and it’s not for us to greet him in such
fashion. Hold out your hand, man, and make it up!”
“Never!” cried Baldwin in a fury.
“I’ve offered to fight him if he thinks I have wronged him,” said
McMurdo. “I’ll fight him with fists, or, if that won’t satisfy him, I’ll fight
him any other way he chooses. Now, I’ll leave it to you, Councillor, to judge
between us as a Bodymaster should.”
“What is it, then?”
“A young lady. She’s free to choose for herself.”
“Is she?” cried Baldwin.
“As between two brothers of the lodge I should say that she was,” said the
Boss.
“Oh, that’s your ruling, is it?”
“Yes, it is, Ted Baldwin,” said McGinty, with a wicked stare. “Is it you
that would dispute it?”
“You would throw over one that has stood by you this five years in favour
of a man that you never saw before in your life? You’re not Bodymaster for
life, Jack McGinty, and by God! when next it comes to a vote—”
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 in these parts, as Brother Baldwin knows—and as you will damn soon
find out, Brother McMurdo, if you ask for trouble!”
“Faith, I’d be slow to do that,” said McMurdo. He held out his hand to
Baldwin. “I’m quick to quarrel and quick to forgive. It’s my hot Irish blood,
they tell me. But it’s over for me, and I bear no grudge.”
Baldwin had to take the proffered hand; for the baleful eye of the terrible
Boss was upon him. But his sullen face showed how little the words of the
other had moved him.
McGinty clapped them both on the shoulders. “Tut! These girls! These
girls!” he cried. “To think that the same petticoats should come between two
of my boys! It’s the devil’s own luck! Well, it’s the colleen inside of them
that must settle the question; for it’s outside the jurisdiction of a Bodymaster
—and the Lord be praised for that! We have enough on us, without the

women as well. You’ll have to be affiliated to Lodge 341, Brother McMurdo.
We have our own ways and methods, different from Chicago. Saturday night
is our meeting, and if you come then, we’ll make you free forever of the
Vermissa Valley.”

Chapter III
Lodge 341, Vermissa

On the day following the evening which had contained so many exciting
events, McMurdo moved his lodgings from old Jacob Shafter’s and took up
his quarters at the Widow MacNamara’s on the extreme outskirts of the
town. Scanlan, his original acquaintance aboard the train, had occasion
shortly afterwards to move into Vermissa, and the two lodged together. There
was no other boarder, and the hostess was an easy-going old Irishwoman
who left them to themselves; so that they had a freedom for speech and
action welcome to men who had secrets in common.
Shafter had relented to the extent of letting McMurdo come to his meals
there when he liked; so that his intercourse with Ettie was by no means
broken. On the contrary, it drew closer and more intimate as the weeks went
by.
In his bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it safe to take out the
coining moulds, and under many a pledge of secrecy a number of brothers
from the lodge were allowed to come in and see them, each carrying away in
his pocket some examples of the false money, so cunningly struck that there
was never the slightest difficulty or danger in passing it. Why, with such a
wonderful art at his command, McMurdo should condescend to work at all
was a perpetual mystery to his companions; though he made it clear to
anyone who asked him that if he lived without any visible means it would
very quickly bring the police upon his track.
One policeman was indeed after him already; but the incident, as luck
would have it, did the adventurer a great deal more good than harm. After
the first introduction there were few evenings when he did not find his way
to McGinty’s saloon, there to make closer acquaintance with “the boys,”
which was the jovial title by which the dangerous gang who infested the
place were known to one another. His dashing manner and fearlessness of

speech made him a favourite with them all; while the rapid and scientific
way in which he polished off his antagonist in an “all in” bar-room scrap
earned the respect of that rough community. Another incident, however,
raised him even higher in their estimation.
Just at the crowded hour one night, the door opened and a man entered
with the quiet blue uniform and peaked cap of the mine police. This was a
special body raised by the railways and colliery owners to supplement the
efforts of the ordinary civil police, who were perfectly helpless in the face of
the organized ruffianism which terrorized the district. There was a hush as he
entered, and many a curious glance was cast at him; but the relations
between policemen and criminals are peculiar in some parts of the States,
and McGinty himself, standing behind his counter, showed no surprise when
the policeman enrolled himself among his customers.
“A straight whisky; for the night is bitter,” said the police officer. “I don’t
think we have met before, Councillor?”
“You’ll be the new captain?” said McGinty.
“That’s so. We’re looking to you, Councillor, and to the other leading
citizens, to help us in upholding law and order in this township. Captain
Marvin is my name.”
“We’d do better without you, Captain Marvin,” said McGinty coldly; “for
we have our own police of the township, and no need for any imported
goods. What are you but the paid tool of the capitalists, hired by them to
club or shoot your poorer fellow citizen?”
“Well, well, we won’t argue about that,” said the police officer good-
humouredly. “I expect we all do our duty same as we see it; but we can’t all
see it the same.” He had drunk off his glass and had turned to go, when his
eyes fell upon the face of Jack McMurdo, who was scowling at his elbow.
“Hullo! Hullo!” he cried, looking him up and down. “Here’s an old
acquaintance!”
McMurdo shrank away from him. “I was never a friend to you nor any
other cursed copper in my life,” said he.
“An acquaintance isn’t always a friend,” said the police captain, grinning.
“You’re Jack McMurdo of Chicago, right enough, and don’t you deny it!”
McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not denying it,” said he. “D’ye
think I’m ashamed of my own name?”

“You’ve got good cause to be, anyhow.”
“What the devil d’you mean by that?” he roared with his fists clenched.
“No, no, Jack, bluster won’t do with me. I was an officer in Chicago
before ever I came to this darned coal bunker, and I know a Chicago crook
when I see one.”
McMurdo’s face fell. “Don’t tell me that you’re Marvin of the Chicago
Central!” he cried.
“Just the same old Teddy Marvin, at your service. We haven’t forgotten
the shooting of Jonas Pinto up there.”
“I never shot him.”
“Did you not? That’s good impartial evidence, ain’t it? Well, his death
came in uncommon handy for you, or they would have had you for shoving
the queer. Well, we can let that be bygones; for, between you and me—and
perhaps I’m going further than my duty in saying it—they could get no clear
case against you, and Chicago’s open to you to-morrow.”
“I’m very well where I am.”
“Well, I’ve given you the pointer, and you’re a sulky dog not to thank me
for it.”
“Well, I suppose you mean well, and I do thank you,” said McMurdo in
no very gracious manner.
“It’s mum with me so long as I see you living on the straight,” said the
captain. “But, by the Lord! if you get off after this, it’s another story! So
good-night to you—and good-night, Councillor.”
He left the bar-room; but not before he had created a local hero.
McMurdo’s deeds in far Chicago had been whispered before. He had put off
all questions with a smile, as one who did not wish to have greatness thrust
upon him. But now the thing was officially confirmed. The bar loafers
crowded round him and shook him heartily by the hand. He was free of the
community from that time on. He could drink hard and show little trace of it;
but that evening, had his mate Scanlan not been at hand to lead him home,
the feted hero would surely have spent his night under the bar.
On a Saturday night McMurdo was introduced to the lodge. He had
thought to pass in without ceremony as being an initiate of Chicago; but
there were particular rites in Vermissa of which they were proud, and these
had to be undergone by every postulant. The assembly met in a large room

reserved for such purposes at the Union House. Some sixty members
assembled at Vermissa; but that by no means represented the full strength of
the organization, for there were several other lodges in the valley, and others
across the mountains on each side, who exchanged members when any
serious business was afoot, so that a crime might be done by men who were
strangers to the locality. Altogether there were not less than five hundred
scattered over the coal district.
In the bare assembly room the men were gathered round a long table. At
the side was a second one laden with bottles and glasses, on which some
members of the company were already turning their eyes. McGinty sat at the
head with a flat black velvet cap upon his shock of tangled black hair, and a
coloured purple stole round his neck, so that he seemed to be a priest
presiding over some diabolical ritual. To right and left of him were the
higher lodge officials, the cruel, handsome face of Ted Baldwin among them.
Each of these wore some scarf or medallion as emblem of his office.
They were, for the most part, men of mature age; but the rest of the
company consisted of young fellows from eighteen to twenty-five, the ready
and capable agents who carried out the commands of their seniors. Among
the older men were many whose features showed the tigerish, lawless souls
within; but looking at the rank and file it was difficult to believe that these
eager and open-faced young fellows were in very truth a dangerous gang of
murderers, whose minds had suffered such complete moral perversion that
they took a horrible pride in their proficiency at the business, and looked
with deepest respect at the man who had the reputation of making what they
called “a clean job.”
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 failure 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 murmur of the people round him, and then the voice of McGinty
sounded dull and distant through the covering of his ears.
“John McMurdo,” said the voice, “are you already a member of the
Ancient Order of Freemen?”
He bowed in assent.
“Is your lodge No. 29, Chicago?”
He bowed again.
“Dark nights are unpleasant,” said the voice.
“Yes, for strangers to travel,” he answered.
“The clouds are heavy.”
“Yes, a storm is approaching.”
“Are the brethren satisfied?” asked the Bodymaster.
There was a general murmur of assent.
“We know, Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that you are
indeed one of us,” said McGinty. “We would have you know, however, that
in this county and in other counties of these parts we have certain rites, and

also certain duties of our own which call for good men. Are you ready to be
tested?”
“I am.”
“Are you of stout heart?”
“I am.”
“Take a stride forward to prove it.”
As the words were said he felt two hard points in front of his eyes,
pressing upon them so that it appeared as if he could not move forward
without a danger of losing them. None the less, he nerved himself to step
resolutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted away. There was a low
murmur of applause.
“He is of stout heart,” said the voice. “Can you bear pain?”
“As well as another,” he answered.
“Test him!”
It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for an
agonizing pain shot through his forearm. He nearly fainted at the sudden
shock of it; but he bit his lip and clenched his hands to hide his agony.

It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out.

“I can take more than that,” said he.
This time there was loud applause. A finer first appearance had never been
made in the lodge. Hands clapped him on the back, and the hood was
plucked from his head. He stood blinking and smiling amid the
congratulations of the brothers.
“One last word, Brother McMurdo,” said McGinty. “You have already
sworn the oath of secrecy and fidelity, and you are aware that the
punishment for any breach of it is instant and inevitable death?”
“I am,” said McMurdo.
“And you accept the rule of the Bodymaster for the time being under all
circumstances?”
“I do.”

“Then in the name of Lodge 341, Vermissa, I welcome you to its
privileges and debates. You will put the liquor on the table, Brother Scanlan,
and we will drink to our worthy brother.”
McMurdo’s coat had been brought to him; but before putting it on he
examined his right arm, which still smarted heavily. There on the flesh of the
forearm was a circle with a triangle within it, deep and red, as the branding
iron had left it. One or two of his neighbours pulled up their sleeves and
showed their own lodge marks.
“We’ve all had it,” said one; “but not all as brave as you over it.”
“Tut! It was nothing,” said he; but it burned and ached all the same.
When the drinks which followed the ceremony of initiation had all been
disposed of, the business of the lodge proceeded. McMurdo, accustomed
only to the prosaic performances of Chicago, listened with open ears and
more surprise than he ventured to show to what followed.
“The first business on the agenda paper,” said McGinty, “is to read the
following letter from Division Master Windle of Merton County Lodge 249.
He says:

“‘DEAR SIR.—“There is a job to be done on Andrew Rae of
Rae & Sturmash, coal owners near this place. You will
remember that your lodge owes us a return, having had the
service of two brethren in the matter of the patrolman last
fall. You will send two good men, they will be taken charge
of by Treasurer Higgins of this lodge, whose address you
know. 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, brutal-
looking 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.”
“And time, too!” cried Ted Baldwin. “Folk are gettin’ out of hand in these
parts. It was only last week that three of our men were turned off by
Foreman Blaker. It’s been owing him a long time, and he’ll get it full and
proper.”
“Get what?” McMurdo whispered to his neighbour.
“The business end of a buckshot cartridge!” cried the man with a loud
laugh. “What think you of our ways, Brother?”
McMurdo’s criminal soul seemed to have already absorbed the spirit of
the vile association of which he was now a member. “I like it well,” said he.
“’Tis a proper place for a lad of mettle.”
Several of those who sat around heard his words and applauded them.
“What’s that?” cried the black-maned Bodymaster from the end of the
table.

“’Tis our new brother, sir, who finds our ways to his taste.”
McMurdo rose to his feet for an instant. “I would say, Eminent
Bodymaster, that if a man should be wanted I should take it as an honour to
be chosen to help the lodge.”
There was great applause at this. It was felt that a new sun was pushing its
rim above the horizon. To some of the elders it seemed that the progress was
a little too rapid.
“I would move,” said the secretary, Harraway, a vulture-faced old
graybeard who sat near the chairman, “that Brother McMurdo should wait
until it is the good pleasure of the lodge to employ him.”
“Sure, that was what I meant; I’m in your hands,” said McMurdo.
“Your time will come, Brother,” said the chairman. “We have marked you
down as a willing man, and we believe that you will do good work in these
parts. There is a small matter to-night in which you may take a hand if it so
please you.”
“I will wait for something that is worth while.”
“You can come to-night, anyhow, and it will help you to know what we
stand for in this community. I will make the announcement later.
Meanwhile,” he glanced at his agenda paper, “I have one or two more points
to bring before the meeting. First of all, I will ask the treasurer as to our bank
balance. There is the pension to Jim Carnaway’s widow. He was struck down
doing the work of the lodge, and it is for us to see that she is not the loser.”
“Jim was shot last month when they tried to kill Chester Wilcox of Marley
Creek,” McMurdo’s neighbour informed him.
“The funds are good at the moment,” said the treasurer, with the bankbook
in front of him. “The firms have been generous of late. Max Linder & Co.
paid five hundred to be left alone. Walker Brothers sent in a hundred; but I
took it on myself to return it and ask for five. If I do not hear by Wednesday,
their winding gear may get out of order. We had to burn their breaker last
year before they became reasonable. Then the West Section Coaling
Company has paid its annual contribution. We have enough on hand to meet
any obligations.”
“What about Archie Swindon?” asked a brother.
“He has sold out and left the district. The old devil left a note for us to say
that he had rather be a free crossing sweeper in New York than a large mine

owner under the power of a ring of blackmailers. By Gar! it was as well that
he made a break for it before the note reached us! I guess he won’t show his
face in this valley again.”
An elderly, clean-shaved man with a kindly face and a good brow rose
from the end of the table which faced the chairman. “Mr. Treasurer,” he
asked, “may I ask who has bought the property of this man that we have
driven out of the district?”
“Yes, Brother Morris. It has been bought by the State & Merton County
Railroad Company.”
“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.
“Brother Morris,” said he, “you were always a croaker. So long as the
members of this lodge stand together there is no power in the United States
that can touch them. Sure, have we not tried it often enough in the
lawcourts? I expect the big companies will find it easier to pay than to fight,
same as the little companies do. And now, Brethren,” McGinty took off his
black velvet cap and his stole as he spoke, “this lodge has finished its
business for the evening, save for one small matter which may be mentioned
when we are parting. The time has now come for fraternal refreshment and
for harmony.”
Strange indeed is human nature. Here were these men, to whom murder
was familiar, who again and again had struck down the father of the family,
some man against whom they had no personal feeling, without one thought
of compunction or of compassion for his weeping wife or helpless children,
and yet the tender or pathetic in music could move them to tears. McMurdo
had a fine tenor voice, and if he had failed to gain the good will of the lodge
before, it could no longer have been withheld after he had thrilled them with
“I’m Sitting on the Stile, Mary,” and “On the Banks of Allan Water.”
In his very first night the new recruit had made himself one of the most
popular of the brethren, marked already for advancement and high office.
There were other qualities needed, however, besides those of good
fellowship, to make a worthy Freeman, and of these he was given an
example before the evening was over. The whisky bottle had passed round
many times, and the men were flushed and ripe for mischief when their
Bodymaster rose once more to address them.
“Boys,” said he, “there’s one man in this town that wants trimming up,
and it’s for you to see that he gets it. I’m speaking of James Stanger of the
Herald. 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
McGinty. “Is it by the police? Sure, half of them are in our pay and half of
them afraid of us. Or is it by the law courts and the judge? Haven’t we tried
that before now, and what ever came of it?”
“There is a Judge Lynch that might try the case,” said Brother Morris.
A general shout of anger greeted the suggestion.
“I have but to raise my finger,” cried McGinty, “and I could put two
hundred men into this town that would clear it out from end to end.” Then
suddenly raising his voice and bending his huge black brows into a terrible
frown, “See here, Brother Morris, I have my eye on you, and have had for
some time! You’ve no heart yourself, and you try to take the heart out of
others. It will be an ill day for you, Brother Morris, when your own name
comes on our agenda paper, and I’m thinking that it’s just there that I ought
to place it.”

Morris had turned deadly pale, and his knees seemed to give way under
him as he fell back into his chair. He raised his glass in his trembling hand
and drank before he could answer. “I apologize, Eminent Bodymaster, to you
and to every brother in this lodge if I have said more than I should. I am a
faithful member—you all know that—and it is my fear lest evil come to the
lodge which makes me speak in anxious words. But I have greater trust in
your judgment than in my own, Eminent Bodymaster, and I promise you that
I will not offend again.”
The Bodymaster’s scowl relaxed as he listened to the humble words.
“Very good, Brother Morris. It’s myself that would be sorry if it were
needful to give you a lesson. But so long as I am in this chair we shall be a
united lodge in word and in deed. And now, boys,” he continued, looking
round at the company, “I’ll 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, star-spangled 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 which faced them. McMurdo and another remained below. From
the room above came a shout, a cry for help, and then the sound of trampling
feet and of falling chairs. An instant later a gray-haired man rushed out on
the landing.
He was seized before he could get farther, and his spectacles came
tinkling down to McMurdo’s feet. There was a thud and a groan. He was on
his face, and half a dozen sticks were clattering together as they fell upon
him. He writhed, and his long, thin limbs quivered under the blows. The
others ceased at last; but Baldwin, his cruel face set in an infernal smile, was
hacking at the man’s head, which he vainly endeavoured to defend with his
arms. His white hair was dabbled with patches of blood. Baldwin was still
stooping over his victim, putting in a short, vicious blow whenever he could
see a part exposed, when McMurdo dashed up the stair and pushed him
back.
“You’ll kill the man,” said he. “Drop it!”
Baldwin looked at him in amazement. “Curse you!” he cried. “Who are
you to interfere—you that are new to the lodge? Stand back!” He raised his
stick; but McMurdo had whipped his pistol out of his pocket.
“Stand back yourself!” he cried. “I’ll blow your face in if you lay a hand
on me. As to the lodge, wasn’t it the order of the Bodymaster that the man
was not to be killed—and what are you doing but killing him?”
“It’s truth he says,” remarked one of the men.
“By Gar! you’d best hurry yourselves!” cried the man below. “The
windows are all lighting up, and you’ll have the whole town here inside of
five minutes.”
There was indeed the sound of shouting in the street, and a little group of
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 IV
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 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.
“I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo,” said the older man,
speaking with a hesitation which showed that he was on delicate ground. “It
was kind of you to come.”
“Why did you not put your name to the note?”
“One has to be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like these how
a thing may come back to one. One never knows either who to trust or who
not to trust.”

“Surely one may trust brothers of the lodge.”
“No, no, not always,” cried Morris with vehemence. “Whatever we say,
even what we think, seems to go back to that man McGinty.”
“Look here!” said McMurdo sternly. “It was only last night, as you know
well, that I swore good faith to our Bodymaster. Would you be asking me to
break my oath?”
“If that is the view you take,” said Morris sadly, “I can only say that I am
sorry I gave you the trouble to come and meet me. Things have come to a
bad pass when two free citizens cannot speak their thoughts to each other.”
McMurdo, who had been watching his companion very narrowly, relaxed
somewhat in his bearing. “Sure I spoke for myself only,” said he. “I am a
newcomer, as you know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for me to open
my mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well to say anything to me I am
here to hear it.”
“And to take it back to Boss McGinty!” said Morris bitterly.
“Indeed, then, you do me injustice there,” cried McMurdo. “For myself I
am loyal to the lodge, and so I tell you straight; but I would be a poor
creature if I were to repeat to any other what you might say to me in
confidence. It will go no further than me; though I warn you that you may
get neither help nor sympathy.”
“I have given up looking for either the one or the other,” said Morris. “I
may be putting my very life in your hands by what I say; but, bad as you are
—and it seemed to me last night that you were shaping to be as bad as the
worst—still you are new to it, and your conscience cannot yet be as
hardened as theirs. That was why I thought to speak with you.”
“Well, what have you to say?”
“If you give me away, may a curse be on you!”
“Sure, I said I would not.”
“I would ask you, then, when you joined the Freeman’s society in
Chicago and swore vows of charity and fidelity, did ever it cross your mind
that you might find it would lead you to crime?”
“If you call it crime,” McMurdo answered.
“Call it crime!” cried Morris, his voice vibrating with passion. “You have
seen little of it if you can call it anything else. Was it crime last night when

a man old enough to be your father was beaten till the blood dripped from
his white hairs? Was that crime—or what else would you call it?”
“There are some would say it was war,” said McMurdo, “a war of two
classes with all in, so that each struck as best it could.”
“Well, did you think of such a thing when you joined the Freeman’s
society at Chicago?”
“No, I’m bound to say I did not.”
“Nor did I when I joined it at Philadelphia. It was just a benefit club and
a meeting place for one’s fellows. Then I heard of this place—curse the
hour that the name first fell upon my ears!—and I came to better myself!
My God! to better myself! My wife and three children came with me. I
started a drygoods store on Market Square, and I prospered well. The word
had gone round that I was a Freeman, and I was forced to join the local
lodge, same as you did last night. I’ve the badge of shame on my forearm
and something worse branded on my heart. I found that I was under the
orders of a black villain and caught in a 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, 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
stove of his sitting-room, the door swung open and its framework was filled
with the huge figure of Boss McGinty. He passed the sign, and then seating
himself opposite to the young man he looked at him steadily for some time,
a look which was as steadily returned.
“I’m not much of a visitor, Brother McMurdo,” he said at last. “I guess I
am too busy over the folk that visit me. But I thought I’d stretch a point and
drop down to see you in your own house.”
“I’m proud to see you here, Councillor,” McMurdo answered heartily,
bringing his whisky bottle out of the cupboard. “It’s an honour that I had
not expected.”
“How’s the arm?” asked the Boss.
McMurdo made a wry face. “Well, I’m not forgetting it,” he said; “but
it’s worth it.”
“Yes, it’s worth it,” the other answered, “to those that are loyal and go
through with it and are a help to the lodge. What were you speaking to
Brother Morris about on Miller Hill this morning?”
The question came so suddenly that it was well that he had his answer
prepared. He burst into a hearty laugh. “Morris didn’t know I could earn a
living here at home. He shan’t know either; for he has got too much
conscience for the likes of me. But he’s a good-hearted old chap. It was his
idea that I was at a loose end, and that he would do me a good turn by
offering me a clerkship in a drygoods store.”
“Oh, that was it?”
“Yes, that was it.”
“And you refused it?”
“Sure. Couldn’t I earn ten times as much in my own bedroom with four
hours’ work?”
“That’s so. But I wouldn’t get about too much with Morris.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I guess because I tell you not. That’s enough for most folk in these
parts.”

“It may be enough for most folk; but it ain’t enough for me, Councillor,”
said McMurdo boldly. “If you are a judge of men, you’ll know that.”
The swarthy giant glared at him, and his hairy paw closed for an instant
round the glass as though he would hurl it at the head of his companion.
Then he laughed in his loud, boisterous, insincere fashion.
“You’re a queer card, for sure,” said he. “Well, if you want reasons, I’ll
give them. Did Morris say nothing to you against the lodge?”
“No.”
“Nor against me?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s because he daren’t trust you. But in his heart he is not a
loyal brother. We know that well. So we watch him and we wait for the time
to admonish him. I’m thinking that the time is drawing near. There’s no
room for scabby sheep in our pen. But if you keep company with a disloyal
man, we might think that you were disloyal, too. See?”
“There’s no chance of my keeping company with him; for I dislike the
man,” McMurdo answered. “As to being disloyal, if it was any man but you
he would not use the word to me twice.”
“Well, that’s enough,” said McGinty, draining off his glass. “I came down
to give you a word in season, and you’ve had it.”
“I’d like to know,” said McMurdo, “how you ever came to learn that I
had spoken with Morris at all?”
McGinty laughed. “It’s my business to know what goes on in this
township,” said he. “I guess you’d best reckon on my hearing all that
passes. Well, time’s up, and I’ll just say—”
But his leavetaking was cut short in a very unexpected fashion. With a
sudden crash the door flew open, and three frowning, intent faces glared in
at them from under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang to his feet
and half drew his revolver; but his arm stopped midway as he became
conscious that two Winchester rifles were levelled at his head. A man in
uniform advanced into the room, a six-shooter in his hand. It was Captain
Marvin, once of Chicago, and now of the Mine Constabulary. He shook his
head with a half-smile at McMurdo.

“I thought you’d be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo of
Chicago,” said he. “Can’t keep out of it, can you? Take your hat and come
along with us.”
“I guess you’ll pay for this, Captain Marvin,” said McGinty. “Who are
you, I’d like to know, to break into a house in this fashion and molest
honest, law-abiding men?”
“You’re standing out in this deal, Councillor McGinty,” said the police
captain. “We are not out after you, but after this man McMurdo. It is for you
to help, not to hinder us in our duty.”
“He is a friend of mine, and I’ll answer for his conduct,” said the Boss.
“By all accounts, Mr. McGinty, you may have to answer for your own
conduct some of these days,” the captain answered. “This man McMurdo
was a crook before ever he came here, and he’s a crook still. Cover him,
Patrolman, while I disarm him.”
“There’s my pistol,” said McMurdo coolly. “Maybe, Captain Marvin, if
you and I were alone and face to face you would not take me so easily.”
“Where’s your warrant?” asked McGinty. “By Gar! a man might as well
live in Russia as in Vermissa while folk like you are running the police. It’s
a capitalist outrage, and you’ll hear more of it, I reckon.”
“You do what you think is your duty the best way you can, Councillor.
We’ll look after ours.”
“What am I accused of?” asked McMurdo.
“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 from the inspector in charge he was put into the common cell.
Here he found Baldwin and three other criminals of the night before, all
arrested that afternoon and waiting their trial next morning.
But even within this inner fortress of the law the long arm of the Freemen
was able to extend. Late at night there came a jailer with a straw bundle for
their bedding, out of which he extracted two bottles of whisky, some
glasses, and a pack of cards. They spent a hilarious night, without an
anxious thought as to the ordeal of the morning.
Nor had they cause, as the result was to show. The magistrate could not
possibly, on the evidence, have held them for a higher court. On the one
hand the compositors and pressmen were forced to admit that the light was
uncertain, that they were themselves much perturbed, and that it was
difficult for them to swear to the identity of the assailants; although they
believed that the accused were among them. Cross examined by the clever
attorney who had been engaged by McGinty, they were even more nebulous
in their evidence.
The injured man had already deposed that he was so taken by surprise by
the suddenness of the attack that he could state nothing beyond the fact that
the first man who struck him wore a moustache. He added that he knew

them to be Scowrers, since no one else in the community could possibly
have any enmity to him, and he had long been threatened on account of his
outspoken editorials. On the other hand, it was clearly shown by the united
and unfaltering evidence of six citizens, including that high municipal
official, Councillor McGinty, that the men had been at a card party at the
Union House until an hour very much later than the commission of the
outrage.
Needless to say that they were discharged with something very near to an
apology from the bench for the inconvenience to which they had been put,
together with an implied censure of Captain Marvin and the police for their
officious zeal.
The verdict was greeted with loud applause by a court in which
McMurdo saw many familiar faces. Brothers of the lodge smiled and
waved. But there were others who sat with compressed lips and brooding
eyes as the men filed out of the dock. One of them, a little, dark-bearded,
resolute fellow, put the thoughts of himself and comrades into words as the
ex-prisoners passed him.
“You damned murderers!” he said. “We’ll fix you yet!”

Chapter V
The Darkest Hour

If anything had been needed to give an impetus to Jack McMurdo’s
popularity among his fellows it would have been his arrest and acquittal.
That a man on the very night of joining the lodge should have done
something which brought him before the magistrate was a new record in the
annals of the society. Already he had earned the reputation of a good boon
companion, a cheery reveller, and withal a man of high temper, who would
not take an insult even from the all-powerful Boss himself. But in addition
to this he impressed his comrades with the idea that among them all there
was not one whose brain was so ready to devise a bloodthirsty scheme, or
whose hand would be more capable of carrying it out. “He’ll be the boy for
the clean job,” said the oldsters to one another, and waited their time until
they could set him to his work.
McGinty had instruments enough already; but he recognized that this was
a supremely able one. He felt like a man holding a fierce bloodhound in
leash. There were curs to do the smaller work; but some day he would slip
this creature upon its prey. A few members of the lodge, Ted Baldwin
among them, resented the rapid rise of the stranger and hated him for it; but
they kept clear of him, for he was as ready to fight as to laugh.
But if he gained favour with his fellows, there was another quarter, one
which had become even more vital to him, in which he lost it. Ettie
Shafter’s father would have nothing more to do with him, nor would he
allow him to enter the house. Ettie herself was too deeply in love to give
him up altogether, and yet her own good sense warned her of what would
come from a marriage with a man who was regarded as a criminal.
One morning after a sleepless night she determined to see him, possibly
for the last time, and make one strong endeavour to draw him from those
evil influences which were sucking him down. She went to his house, as he

had often begged her to do, and made her way into the room which he used
as his sitting-room. He was seated at a table, with his back turned and a
letter in front of him. A sudden spirit of girlish mischief came over her—she
was still only nineteen. He had not heard her when she pushed open the
door. Now she tiptoed forward and laid her hand lightly upon his bended
shoulders.
If she had expected to startle him, she certainly succeeded; but only in
turn to be startled herself. With a tiger spring he turned on her, and his right
hand was feeling for her throat. At the same instant with the other hand he
crumpled up the paper that lay before him. For an instant he stood glaring.
Then astonishment and joy took the place of the ferocity which had
convulsed his features—a ferocity which had sent her shrinking back in
horror as from something which had never before intruded into her gentle
life.
“It’s you!” said he, mopping his brow. “And to think that you should
come to me, heart of my heart, and I should find nothing better to do than to
want to strangle you! Come then, darling,” and he held out his arms, “let me
make it up to you.”
But she had not recovered from that sudden glimpse of guilty fear which
she had read in the man’s face. All her woman’s instinct told her that it was
not the mere fright of a man who is startled. Guilt—that was it—guilt and
fear!
“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 criminals, when I never know the day that I may hear you are in
court for murder? ‘McMurdo the Scowrer,’ that’s what one of our boarders
called you yesterday. It went through my heart like a knife.”
“Sure, hard words break no bones.”
“But they were true.”
“Well, dear, it’s not so bad as you think. We are but poor men that are
trying in our own way to get our rights.”
Ettie threw her arms round her lover’s neck. “Give it up, Jack! For my
sake, for God’s sake, give it up! It was to ask you that I came here to-day.
Oh, Jack, see—I beg it of you on my bended knees! Kneeling here before
you I implore you to give it up!”

“Oh, Jack, I implore you to give it up!”

He raised her and soothed her with her head against his breast.
“Sure, my darlin’, you don’t know what it is you are asking. How could I
give it up when it would be to break my oath and to desert my comrades? If
you could see how things stand with me you could never ask it of me.
Besides, if I wanted to, how could I do it? You don’t suppose that the lodge
would let a man go free with all its secrets?”

“I’ve thought of that, Jack. I’ve planned it all. Father has saved some
money. He is weary of this place where the fear of these people darkens our
lives. He is ready to go. We would fly together to Philadelphia or New
York, where we would be safe from them.”
McMurdo laughed. “The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it could not
stretch from here to Philadelphia or New York?”
“Well, then, to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where father
came from—anywhere to get away from this Valley of Fear!”
McMurdo thought of old Brother Morris. “Sure, it is the second time I
have heard the valley so named,” said he. “The shadow does indeed seem to
lie heavy on some of you.”
“It darkens every moment of our lives. Do you suppose that Ted Baldwin
has ever forgiven us? If it were not that he fears you, what do you suppose
our chances would be? If you saw the look in those dark, hungry eyes of his
when they fall on me!”
“By Gar! I’d teach him better manners if I caught him at it! But see here,
little girl. I can’t leave here. I can’t—take that from me once and for all. But
if you will leave me to find my own way, I will try to prepare a way of
getting honourably out of it.”
“There is no honour in such a matter.”
“Well, well, it’s just how you look at it. But if you’ll give me six months,
I’ll work it so that I can leave without being ashamed to look others in the
face.”
The girl laughed with joy. “Six months!” she cried. “Is it a promise?”
“Well, it may be seven or eight. But within a year at the furthest we will
leave the valley behind us.”
It was the most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was something. There
was this distant light to illuminate the gloom of the immediate future. She
returned to her father’s house more light-hearted than she had ever been
since Jack McMurdo had come into her life.
It might be thought that as a member, all the doings of the society would
be told to him; but he was soon to discover that the organization was wider
and more complex than the simple lodge. Even Boss McGinty was ignorant
as to many things; for there was an official named the County Delegate,
living at Hobson’s Patch farther down the line, who had power over several

different lodges which he wielded in a sudden and arbitrary way. Only once
did McMurdo see him, a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a slinking
gait and a sidelong glance which was charged with malice. Evans Pott was
his name, and even the 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. “They can count on us saying no more than we should. You must
not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate that we obey.”
“Sure, we are all in it together,” said Scanlan, McMurdo’s mate, as the
four sat together at supper.

“That’s true enough, and we’ll talk till the cows come home of the killing
of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the past. But till
the work is done we say nothing.”
“There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,” said
McMurdo, with an oath. “I suppose it isn’t Jack Knox of Ironhill that you
are after. I’d go some way to see him get his deserts.”
“No, it’s not him yet.”
“Or Herman Strauss?”
“No, nor him either.”
“Well, if you won’t tell us we can’t make you; but I’d be glad to know.”
Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.
In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were quite
determined to be present at what they called “the fun.” When, therefore, at
an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping down the stairs
he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their clothes. When they were
dressed they found that the others had stolen out, leaving the door open
behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by the light of the lamps they could
see the two men some distance down the street. They followed them warily,
treading noiselessly in the deep snow.
The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were at
the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were waiting,
with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager conversation. Then
they all moved on together. It was clearly some notable job which needed
numbers. At 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 doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but another of
the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking and clawing among
a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a roar of rage at the sight
and rushed with an iron spanner at the murderers; but was met by two balls
in the face which dropped him dead at their very feet.
There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate cry
of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their six-shooters
over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and scattered, some of them
rushing wildly back to their homes in Vermissa.
When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the mine,
the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning, without a single
witness being able to swear to the identity of these men who in front of a
hundred spectators had wrought this double crime.
Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat
subdued, for it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes,
and it appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The horrible
screams of the dead manager’s wife pursued them as they hurried to the

town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed no sympathy for
the weakening of his companion.
“Sure, it is like a war,” he repeated. “What is it but a war between us and
them, and we hit back where we best can.”
There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow Hill
mine, which would bring this organization into line with the other
blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but also over a
distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of the lodge itself.
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, bloodshot 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 suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were harmless
folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were sternly bidden to
drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall them. And so the blood-
mottled figure had been left as a warning to all such hard-hearted
employers, and the three noble avengers had hurried off into the mountains
where unbroken nature comes down to the very edge of the furnaces and the
slag heaps. Here they were, safe and sound, their work well done, and the
plaudits of their companions in their ears.
It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even
darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of
victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have no time to
steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking out upon the
scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious eyes, had devised a
new attack upon those who opposed him. That very night, as the half-
drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on the arm and led him
aside into that inner room where they had their first interview.
“See here, my lad,” said he, “I’ve got a job that’s worthy of you at last.
You’ll have the doing of it in your own hands.”
“Proud I am to hear it,” McMurdo answered.
“You can take two men with you—Manders and Reilly. They have been
warned for service. We’ll never be right in this district until Chester Wilcox
has been settled, and you’ll have the thanks of every lodge in the coal fields
if you can down him.”
“I’ll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?”
McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the corner
of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page torn from
his 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 will be a great day when you bring us the news. It’s just the last
stroke that will bring them all to their knees.”
McMurdo thought long and deeply over the commission which had been
so suddenly placed in his hands. The isolated house in which Chester
Wilcox lived was about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That very night
he started off all alone to prepare for the attempt. It was daylight before he
returned from his reconnaissance. Next day he interviewed his two
subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless youngsters who were as elated
as if it were a deer-hunt.
Two nights later they met outside the town, all three armed, and one of
them carrying a sack stuffed with the powder which was used in the
quarries. It was two in the morning before they came to the lonely house.
The night was a windy one, with broken clouds drifting swiftly across the

face of a three-quarter moon. They had been warned to be on their guard
against bloodhounds; so they moved forward cautiously, with their pistols
cocked in their hands. But there was no sound save the howling of the wind,
and no movement but the swaying branches above them.
McMurdo listened at the door of the lonely house; but all was still within.
Then he leaned the powder bag against it, ripped a hole in it with his knife,
and attached the fuse. When it was well alight he and his two companions
took to their heels, and were some distance off, safe and snug in a sheltering
ditch, before the shattering roar of the explosion, with the low, deep rumble
of the collapsing building, told them that their work was done. No cleaner
job had ever been carried out in the bloodstained annals of the society.
But alas that work so well organized and boldly carried out should all
have gone for nothing! Warned by the fate of the various victims, and
knowing that he was marked down for destruction, Chester Wilcox had
moved himself and his family only the day before to some safer and less
known quarters, where a guard of police should watch over them. It was an
empty house which had been torn down by the gunpowder, and the grim old
colour sergeant of the war was still teaching discipline to the miners of Iron
Dike.
“Leave him to me,” said McMurdo. “He’s my man, and I’ll get him sure
if I have to wait a year for him.”
A vote of thanks and confidence was passed in full lodge, and so for the
time the matter ended. When a few weeks later it was reported in the papers
that Wilcox had been shot at from an ambuscade, it was an open secret that
McMurdo was still at work upon his unfinished job.
Such were the methods of the Society of Freemen, and such were the
deeds of the Scowrers by which they spread their rule of fear over the great
and rich district which was for so long a period haunted by their terrible
presence. Why should these pages be stained by further crimes? Have I not
said enough to show the men and their methods?
These deeds are written in history, and there are records wherein one may
read the details of them. There one may learn of the shooting of Policemen
Hunt and Evans because they had ventured to arrest two members of the
society—a double outrage planned at the Vermissa lodge and carried out in
cold blood upon two helpless and disarmed men. There also one may read
of the shooting of Mrs. Larbey when she was nursing her husband, who had

been beaten almost to death by orders of Boss McGinty. The killing of the
elder Jenkins, shortly followed by that of his brother, the mutilation of
James Murdoch, the blowing up of the Staphouse family, and the murder of
the Stendals all followed hard upon one another in the same terrible winter.
Darkly the shadow lay upon the Valley of Fear. The spring had come with
running brooks and blossoming trees. There was hope for all Nature bound
so 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 VI
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 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 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.”
“But this man—your friend—has he any other person that he would be
likely to write to?”
“Well, I dare say he knows one or two more.”
“Of the lodge?”
“It’s likely enough.”
“I was asking because it is likely that he may have given some
description of this fellow Birdy Edwards—then we could get on his trail.”
“Well, it’s possible. But I should not think he knew him. He is just telling
me the news that came to him by way of business. How would he know this

Pinkerton man?”
McMurdo gave a violent start.
“By Gar!” he cried, “I’ve got him. What a fool I was not to know it.
Lord! but we’re in luck! We will fix him before he can do any harm. See
here, Morris, will you leave this thing in my hands?”
“Sure, if you will only take it off mine.”
“I’ll do that. You can stand right back and let me run it. Even your name
need not be mentioned. I’ll take it all on myself, as if it were to me that this
letter has come. Will that content you?”
“It’s just what I would ask.”
“Then leave it at that and keep your head shut. Now I’ll get down to the
lodge, and we’ll soon make old man Pinkerton sorry for himself.”
“You wouldn’t kill this man?”
“The less you know, Friend Morris, the easier your conscience will be,
and the better you will sleep. Ask no questions, and let these things settle
themselves. I have hold of it now.”
Morris shook his head sadly as he left. “I feel that his blood is on my
hands,” he groaned.
“Self-protection is no murder, anyhow,” said McMurdo, smiling grimly.
“It’s him or us. I guess this man would destroy us all if we left him long in
the valley. Why, Brother Morris, we’ll have to elect you Bodymaster yet;
for you’ve surely saved the lodge.”
And yet it was clear from his actions that he thought more seriously of
this new intrusion than his words would show. It may have been his guilty
conscience, it may have been the reputation of the Pinkerton organization, it
may have been the knowledge that great, rich corporations had set
themselves the task of clearing out the Scowrers; but, whatever his reason,
his actions were those of a man who is preparing for the worst. Every paper
which would incriminate him was destroyed before he left the house. After
that he gave a long sigh of satisfaction; for it seemed to him that he was
safe. And yet the danger must still have pressed somewhat upon him; for on
his way to the lodge he stopped at old man Shafter’s. The house was
forbidden him; but when he tapped at the window Ettie came out to him.
The dancing Irish deviltry had gone from her lover’s eyes. She read his
danger in his earnest face.

“Something has happened!” she cried. “Oh, Jack, you are in danger!”
“Sure, it is not very bad, my sweetheart. And yet it may be wise that we
make a move before it is worse.”
“Make a move?”
“I promised you once that I would go some day. I think the time is
coming. I had news to-night, bad news, and I see trouble coming.”
“The police?”
“Well, a Pinkerton. But, sure, you wouldn’t know what that is, acushla,
nor what it may mean to the likes of me. I’m too deep in this thing, and I
may have to get out of it quick. You said you would come with me if I
went.”
“Oh, Jack, it would be the saving of you!”
“I’m an honest man in some things, Ettie. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your
bonny head for all that the world can give, nor ever pull you down one inch
from the golden throne above the clouds where I always see you. Would
you trust me?”
She put her hand in his without a word. “Well, then, listen to what I say,
and 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 countersigns 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.”
“It’s Lander and Egan,” explained his neighbour as he took his seat.
“They both claim the head money given by the lodge for the shooting of old
man Crabbe over at Stylestown, and who’s to say which fired the bullet?”
McMurdo rose in his place and raised his hand. The expression of his
face froze the attention of the audience. There was a dead hush of
expectation.
“Eminent Bodymaster,” he said, in a solemn voice, “I claim urgency!”
“Brother McMurdo claims urgency,” said McGinty. “It’s a claim that by
the rules of this lodge takes precedence. Now Brother, we attend you.”
McMurdo took the letter from his pocket.
“Eminent Bodymaster and Brethren,” he said, “I am the bearer of ill
news this day; but it is better that it should be known and discussed, than
that a blow should fall upon us without warning which would destroy us all.
I have information that the most powerful and richest organizations in this
state have bound themselves together for our destruction, and that at this
very moment there is a Pinkerton detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in
the valley collecting the evidence which may put a rope round the necks of
many of us, and send every man in this room into a felon’s cell. That is the
situation for the discussion of which I have made a claim of urgency.”
There was a dead silence in the room. It was broken by the chairman.
“What is your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?” he asked.
“It is in this letter which has come into my hands,” said McMurdo. He
read the passage aloud. “It is a matter of honour with me that I can give no
further particulars about the letter, nor put it into your hands; but I assure

you that there is nothing else in it which can affect the interests of the lodge.
I put the case before you as it has reached me.”
“Let me say, Mr. Chairman,” said one of the older brethren, “that I have
heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the name of being the best man in
the Pinkerton service.”
“Does anyone know him by sight?” asked McGinty.
“Yes,” said McMurdo, “I do.”
There was a murmur of astonishment through the hall.
“I believe we hold him in the hollow of our hands,” he continued with an
exulting smile upon his face. “If we act quickly and wisely, we can cut this
thing short. If I have your confidence and your help, it is little that we have
to fear.”
“What have we to fear, anyhow? What can he know of our affairs?”
“You might say so if all were as stanch as you, Councillor. But this man
has all the millions of the capitalists at his back. Do you think there is no
weaker brother among all our lodges that could not be bought? He will get
at our secrets—maybe has got them already. There’s only one sure cure.”
“That he never leaves the valley,” said Baldwin.
McMurdo nodded. “Good for you, Brother Baldwin,” he said. “You and I
have had our differences, but you have said the true word to-night.”
“Where is he, then? Where shall we know him?”
“Eminent Bodymaster,” said McMurdo, earnestly, “I would put it to you
that this is too vital a thing for us to discuss in open lodge. God forbid that I
should throw a doubt on anyone here; but if so much as a word of gossip
got to the ears of this man, there would be an end of any chance of our
getting him. I would ask the lodge to choose a trusty committee, Mr.
Chairman—yourself, if I might suggest it, and Brother Baldwin here, and
five more. Then I can talk freely of what I know and of what I advise
should be done.”
The proposition was at once adopted, and the committee chosen. Besides
the chairman and Baldwin there were the vulture-faced secretary, Harraway,
Tiger Cormac, the brutal young assassin, Carter, the treasurer, and the
brothers Willaby, fearless and desperate men who would stick at nothing.

The usual revelry of the lodge was short and subdued: for there was a
cloud upon the men’s spirits, and many there for the first time began to see
the cloud of avenging Law drifting up in that serene sky under which they
had dwelt so long. The horrors they had dealt out to others had been so
much a part of their settled lives that the thought of retribution had become
a remote one, and so seemed the more startling now that it came so closely
upon them. They broke up early and left their leaders to their council.
“Now, McMurdo!” said McGinty when they were alone. The seven men
sat frozen in their seats.
“I said just now that I knew Birdy Edwards,” McMurdo explained. “I
need not tell you that he is not here under that name. He’s a brave man, but
not a crazy one. He passes under the name of Steve Wilson, and he is
lodging at Hobson’s Patch.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I fell into talk with him. I thought little of it at the time, nor
would have given it a second thought but for this letter; but now I’m sure
it’s the man. I met him on the cars when I went down the line on
Wednesday—a hard case if ever there was one. He said he was a reporter. I
believed it for the moment. Wanted to know all he could about the Scowrers
and what he called ‘the outrages’ for a New York paper. Asked me every
kind of question so as to get something. You bet I was giving nothing away.
‘I’d pay for it and pay well,’ said he, ‘if I could get some stuff that would
suit my editor.’ I said what I thought would please him best, and he handed
me a twenty-dollar bill for my information. ‘There’s ten times that for you,’
said he, ‘if you can find me all that I want.’”
“What did you tell him, then?”
“Any stuff I could make up.”
“How do you know he wasn’t a newspaper man?”
“I’ll tell you. He got out at Hobson’s Patch, and so did I. I chanced into
the telegraph bureau, and he was leaving it.
“‘See here,’ said the operator after he’d gone out, ‘I guess we should
charge double rates for this.’—‘I guess you should,’ said I. He had filled the
form with stuff that might have been Chinese, for all we could make of it.
‘He fires a sheet of this off every day,’ said the clerk. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘it’s
special news for his paper, and he’s scared that the others should tap it.’

That was what the operator thought and what I thought at the time; but I
think differently now.”
“By Gar! I believe you are right,” said McGinty. “But what do you allow
that we should do about it?”
“Why not go right down now and fix him?” someone suggested.
“Ay, the sooner the better.”
“I’d start this next minute if I knew where we could find him,” said
McMurdo. “He’s in Hobson’s Patch; but I don’t know the house. I’ve got a
plan, though, if you’ll only take my advice.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’ll go to the Patch to-morrow morning. I’ll find him through the
operator. He can locate him, I guess. Well, then I’ll tell him that I’m a
Freeman myself. I’ll offer him all the secrets of the lodge for a price. You
bet he’ll tumble to it. I’ll tell him the papers are at my house, and that it’s as
much as my life would be worth to let him come while folk were about.
He’ll see that that’s horse sense. Let him come at ten o’clock at night, and
he shall see everything. That will fetch him sure.”
“Well?”
“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 VII
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
particular interest in him that morning, and Captain Marvin—he who had
claimed the old acquaintance with him at Chicago—actually addressed him
as he waited at the station. McMurdo turned away and refused to speak with
him. He was back from his mission in the afternoon, and saw McGinty at the
Union House.
“He is coming,” he said.
“Good!” said McGinty. The giant was in his shirt sleeves, with chains and
seals gleaming athwart his ample waistcoat and a diamond twinkling through
the fringe of his bristling beard. Drink and politics had made the Boss a very
rich as well as powerful man. The more terrible, therefore, seemed that

glimpse of the prison or the gallows which had risen before him the night
before.
“Do you reckon he knows much?” he asked anxiously.
McMurdo shook his head gloomily. “He’s been here some time—six
weeks at the least. I guess he didn’t come into these parts to look at the
prospect. If he has been working among us all that time with the railroad
money at his back, I should expect that he has got results, and that he has
passed them on.”
“There’s not a weak man in the lodge,” cried McGinty. “True as steel,
every man of them. And yet, by the Lord! there is that skunk Morris. What
about him? If any man gives us away, it would be he. I’ve a mind to send a
couple of the boys round before evening to give him a beating up and see
what they can get from him.”
“Well, there would be no harm in that,” McMurdo answered. “I won’t
deny that I have a liking for Morris and would be sorry to see him come to
harm. He has spoken to me once or twice over lodge matters, and though he
may not see them the same as you or I, he never seemed the sort that squeals.
But still it is not for me to stand between him and you.”
“I’ll fix the old devil!” said McGinty with an oath. “I’ve had my eye on
him this year past.”
“Well, you know best about that,” McMurdo answered. “But whatever
you do must be to-morrow; for we must lie low until the Pinkerton affair is
settled up. We can’t afford to set the police buzzing, to-day of all days.”
“True for you,” said McGinty. “And we’ll learn from Birdy Edwards
himself where he got his news if we have to cut his heart out first. Did he
seem to scent a trap?”
McMurdo laughed. “I guess I took him on his weak point,” he said. “If he
could get on a good trail of the Scowrers, he’s ready to follow it into hell. I
took his money,” McMurdo grinned as he produced a wad of dollar notes,
“and as much more when he has seen all my papers.”
“What papers?”
“Well, there are no papers. But I filled him up about constitutions and
books of rules and forms of membership. He expects to get right down to the
end of everything before he leaves.”

“Faith, he’s right there,” said McGinty grimly. “Didn’t he ask you why
you didn’t bring him the papers?”
“As if I would carry such things, and me a suspected man, and Captain
Marvin after speaking to me this very day at the depot!”
“Ay, I heard of that,” said McGinty. “I guess the heavy end of this
business is coming on to you. We could put him down an old shaft when
we’ve done with him; but however we work it we can’t get past the man
living at Hobson’s Patch and you being there to-day.”
McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. “If we handle it right, they can never
prove the killing,” said he. “No one can see him come to the house after
dark, and I’ll lay to it that no one will see him go. Now see here, Councillor,
I’ll show you my plan and I’ll ask you to fit the others into it. You will all
come in good time. Very well. He comes at ten. He is to tap three times, and
me to open the door for him. Then I’ll get behind him and shut it. He’s our
man then.”
“That’s all easy and plain.”
“Yes; but the next step wants considering. He’s a hard proposition. He’s
heavily armed. I’ve fooled him proper, and yet he is likely to be on his
guard. Suppose I show him right into a room with seven men in it where he
expected to find me alone. There is going to be shooting, and somebody is
going to be hurt.”
“That’s so.”
“And the noise is going to bring every damned copper in the township on
top of it.”
“I guess you are right.”
“This is how I should work it. You will all be in the big room—same as
you saw when you had a chat with me. I’ll open the door for him, show him
into the parlour beside the door, and leave him there while I get the papers.
That will give me the chance of telling you how things are shaping. Then I
will go back to him with some faked papers. As he is reading them I will
jump for him and get my grip on his pistol arm. You’ll hear me call and in
you will rush. The quicker the better; for he is as strong a man as I, and I
may have more than I can manage. But I allow that I can hold him till you
come.”

“It’s a good plan,” said McGinty. “The lodge will owe you a debt for this.
I guess when I move out of the chair I can put a name to the man that’s
coming after me.”
“Sure, Councillor, I am little more than a recruit,” said McMurdo; but his
face showed what he thought of the great man’s compliment.
When he had returned home he made his own preparations for the grim
evening in front of him. First he cleaned, oiled, and loaded his Smith &
Wesson revolver. Then he surveyed the room in which the detective was to
be trapped. It was a large apartment, with a long deal table in the centre, and
the big stove at one side. At each of the other sides were windows. There
were no shutters on these: only light curtains which drew across. McMurdo
examined these attentively. No doubt it must have struck him that the
apartment was very exposed for so secret a meeting. Yet its distance from the
road made it of less consequence. Finally he discussed the matter with his
fellow lodger. Scanlan, though a Scowrer, was an inoffensive little man who
was too weak to stand against the opinion of his comrades, but was secretly
horrified by the deeds of blood at which he had sometimes been forced to
assist. McMurdo told him shortly what was intended.
“And if I were you, Mike Scanlan, I would take a night off and keep clear
of it. There will be bloody work here before morning.”
“Well, indeed then, Mac,” Scanlan answered. “It’s not the will but the
nerve that is wanting in me. When I saw Manager Dunn go down at the
colliery yonder it was just more than I could stand. I’m not made for it, same
as you or McGinty. If the lodge will think none the worse of me, I’ll just do
as you advise and leave you to yourselves for the evening.”
The men came in good time as arranged. They were outwardly respectable
citizens, well clad and cleanly; but a judge of faces would have read little
hope for Birdy Edwards in those hard mouths and remorseless eyes. There
was not a man in the room whose hands had not been reddened a dozen
times before. They were as hardened to human murder as a butcher to sheep.
Foremost, of course, both in appearance and in guilt, was the formidable
Boss. Harraway, the secretary, was a lean, bitter man with a long, scraggy
neck and nervous, jerky limbs, a man of incorruptible fidelity where the
finances of the order were concerned, and with no notion of justice or
honesty to anyone beyond. The treasurer, Carter, was a middle-aged man,
with an impassive, rather sulky expression, and a yellow parchment skin. He

was a capable organizer, and the actual details of nearly every outrage had
sprung from his plotting brain. The two Willabys were men of action, tall,
lithe young fellows with determined faces, while their companion, Tiger
Cormac, a heavy, dark youth, was feared even by his own comrades for the
ferocity of his disposition. These were the men who assembled that night
under the roof of McMurdo for the killing of the Pinkerton detective.
Their host had placed whisky upon the table, and they had hastened to
prime themselves for the work before them. Baldwin and Cormac were
already half-drunk, and the liquor had brought out all their ferocity. Cormac
placed his hands on the stove for an instant—it had been lighted, for the
nights were still cold.
“That will do,” said he, with an oath.
“Ay,” said Baldwin, catching his meaning. “If he is strapped to that, we
will have the truth out of him.”
“We’ll have the truth out of him, never fear,” said McMurdo. He had
nerves of steel, this man; for though the whole weight of the affair was on
him his manner was as cool and unconcerned as ever. The others marked it
and applauded.
“You are the one to handle him,” said the Boss approvingly. “Not a
warning will he get till your hand is on his throat. It’s a pity there are no
shutters to your windows.”
McMurdo went from one to the other and drew the curtains tighter. “Sure
no one can spy upon us now. It’s close upon the hour.”
“Maybe he won’t come. Maybe he’ll get a sniff of danger,” said the
secretary.
“He’ll come, never fear,” McMurdo answered. “He is as eager to come as
you can be to see him. Hark to that!”
They all sat like wax figures, some with their glasses arrested halfway to
their lips. Three loud knocks had sounded at the door.
“Hush!” McMurdo raised his hand in caution. An exulting glance went
round the circle, and hands were laid upon their weapons.
“Not a sound, for your lives!” McMurdo whispered, as he went from the
room, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Not a sound, for your lives!” McMurdo whispered.

With strained ears the murderers waited. They counted the steps of their
comrade down the passage. Then they heard him open the outer door. There
were a few words as of greeting. Then they were aware of a strange step
inside and of an unfamiliar voice. An instant later came the slam of the door
and the turning of the key in the lock. Their prey was safe within the trap.
Tiger Cormac laughed horribly, and Boss McGinty clapped his great hand
across his mouth.
“Be quiet, you fool!” he whispered. “You’ll be the undoing of us yet!”
There was a mutter of conversation from the next room. It seemed
interminable. Then the door opened, and McMurdo appeared, his finger
upon his lip.

He came to the end of the table and looked round at them. A subtle change
had come over him. His manner was as of one who has great work to do. His
face had set into granite firmness. His eyes shone with a fierce excitement
behind his spectacles. He had become a visible leader of men. They stared at
him with eager interest; but he said nothing. Still with the same singular gaze
he looked from man to man.
“Well!” cried Boss McGinty at last. “Is he here? Is Birdy Edwards here?”
“Yes,” McMurdo answered slowly. “Birdy Edwards is here. I am Birdy
Edwards!”
There were ten seconds after that brief speech during which the room
might have been empty, so profound was the silence. The hissing of a kettle
upon the stove rose sharp and strident to the ear. Seven white faces, all
turned upward to 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
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 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.
The trial of the Scowrers was held far from the place where their
adherents might have terrified the guardians of the law. In vain they
struggled. In vain the money of the lodge—money squeezed by blackmail
out of the whole countryside—was spent like water in the attempt to save
them. That cold, clear, unimpassioned statement from one who knew every
detail of their lives, their organization, and their crimes was unshaken by all
the wiles of their defenders. At last after so many years they were broken
and scattered. The cloud was lifted forever from the valley.
McGinty met his fate upon the scaffold, cringing and whining when the
last hour came. Eight of his chief followers shared his fate. Fifty-odd had
various degrees of imprisonment. The work of Birdy Edwards was complete.
And yet, as he had guessed, the game was not over yet. There was another
hand to be played, and yet another and another. Ted Baldwin, for one, had
escaped the scaffold; so had the Willabys; so had several others of the
fiercest spirits of the gang. For ten years they were out of the world, and then
came a day when they were free once more—a day which Edwards, who
knew his men, was very sure would be an end of his life of peace. They had

sworn an oath on all that they thought holy to have his blood as a vengeance
for their comrades. And well they strove to keep their vow!
From Chicago he was chased, after two attempts so near success that it
was sure that the third would get him. From Chicago he went under a
changed name to California, and it was there that the light went for a time
out of his life when Ettie Edwards died. Once again he was nearly killed, and
once again under the name of Douglas he worked in a lonely canyon, where
with an English partner named Barker he amassed a fortune. At last there
came a warning to him that the bloodhounds were on his track once more,
and he cleared—only just in time—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 Mr. 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 accident occurred.

“IVY DOUGLAS.”

“Ha! It came like that, did it?” said Holmes thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve no
doubt it was well stage-managed.”
“You mean that you think there was no accident?”
“None in the world.”
“He was murdered?”
“Surely!”
“So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed vindictive nest of
criminals—”
“No, no, my good sir,” said Holmes. “There is a master hand here. It is
no case of sawed-off shotguns and clumsy six-shooters. You can tell an old
master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty when I see one. This
crime is from London, not from America.”
“But for what motive?”
“Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail, one whose whole
unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must succeed. A great
brain and a huge organization have been turned to the extinction of one
man. It is crushing the nut with the triphammer—an absurd extravagance of
energy—but the nut is very effectually crushed all the same.”
“How came this man to have anything to do with it?”
“I can only say that the first word that ever came to us of the business
was from one of his lieutenants. These Americans were well advised.
Having an English job to do, they took into partnership, as any foreign
criminal could do, this great consultant in crime. From that moment their
man was doomed. At first he would content himself by using his machinery
in order to find their victim. Then he would indicate how the matter might
be treated. Finally, when he read in the reports of the failure of this agent,
he would step in himself with a master touch. You heard me warn this man
at Birlstone Manor House that the coming danger was greater than the past.
Was I right?”

Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in his impotent anger. “Do not
tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that no one can ever
get level with this king devil?”
“No, I don’t say that,” said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be looking
far into the future. “I don’t say that he can’t be beat. But you must give me
time—you must give me time!”
We all sat in silence for some minutes while those fateful eyes still
strained to pierce the veil.

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