________________________________________________
_ The police trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas
was referred to a higher court. So had the Quarter Sessions, at
which he was acquitted as having acted in self-defense.
"Get him out of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the
wife. "There are forces here which may be more dangerous than
those he has escaped. There is no safety for your husband in
England."
Two months had gone by, and the case had to some extent
passed from our minds. Then one morning there came an enigmatic
note slipped into our letter box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes.
Dear me!" said this singular epistle. There was neither
superscription nor signature. I laughed at the quaint message;
but Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.
"Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded
brow.
Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a
message that a gentleman wished to see Holmes, and that the
matter was of the utmost importance. Close at the heels of his
messenger came Cecil Barker, our friend of the moated Manor
House. His face was drawn and haggard.
"I've had bad news -- terrible news, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"I feared as much," said Holmes.
"You have not had a cable, have you?"
"I have had a note from someone who has."
"It's poor Douglas. They tell me his name is Edwards; but he
will always be Jack Douglas of Benito Canyon to me. I told you
that they started together for South Africa in the Palmyra three
weeks ago."
"Exactly."
"The ship reached Cape Town last night. I received this cable from Mrs
Douglas this morning: --
"Jack has been lost overboard in gale off St Helena. No one knows how
accident occurred. -- Ivy Douglas."
"Ha! It came like that, did it?" said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Well, I've
no doubt it was well stage-managed."
"You mean that you think there was no accident?"
"None in the world."
"He was murdered?"
"Surely!"
"So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed vindictive nest of
criminals --"
"No, no, my good sir," said Holmes. "There is a master hand here. It is no
case of sawed-off shot-guns and clumsy six-shooters. You can tell an old
master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty when I see one.
This crime is from London, not from America."
"But for what motive?"
"Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail -- one whose whole
unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must succeed. A
great brain and a huge organization have been turned to the extinction of
one man. It is crushing the nut with the hammer -- an absurd extravagance
of energy -- but the nut is very effectually crushed all the same."
"How came this man to have anything to do with it?"
"I can only say that the first word that ever came to us of the business
was from one of his lieutenants. These Americans were well advised.
Having an English job to do, they took into partnership, as any foreign
criminal could do, this great consultant in crime. From that moment
their man was doomed. At first he would content himself by using his
machinery in order to find their victim. Then he would indicate how the
matter might be treated. Finally, when he read in the reports of the
failure of this agent, he would step in himself with a master touch. You
heard me warn this man at Birlstone Manor House that the coming danger
was greater than the past. Was I right?"
Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in his impotent anger.
"Do you tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that
no one can ever get level with this king-devil?"
"No, I don't say that," said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be looking far
into the future. "I don't say that he can't be beat. But you must give me
time -- you must give me time!"
We all sat in silence for some minutes, while those fateful eyes still
strained to pierce the veil.
THE END.
'The Valley of Fear', by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _
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