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,”
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,”
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