The Valley of Fear | Page 7

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

Chapter 2
- Sherlock Holmes Discourses

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