prompt:
Chapter: 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Watson narrates the background of the mystery as it stood before they arrived. The village of Birlstone is small and old, but attracted some well-to-do residents who built stately villas in and on the outskirts of the woods. One of these is the Manor House, part of it as old as the First Crusade and other parts added in the 1500s and 1600s. This unique home was effectively an island, as it had a drawbridge that went over a moat and was kept raised every night. Only John Douglas and his wife lived there. Douglas was fifty, imposing but genial. He was said to have earned money in the gold fields in California. He had a good reputation and was seemingly indifferent to danger. His younger wife was also popular, but was very absorbed in her husband and duties of the home. Some people noted that she seemed anxious, and that there may have been issues between the two of them. Another man lodged with them as well: Cecil James Barker of Hales Lodge, Hampstead. A wealthy young bachelor, he had apparently known Douglas in America. He was very friendly with both Douglasses, but there were rumors about his closeness to the wife. Ames the butler and Mrs. Allen the housekeeper were the only other two people whose presence in the house mattered that night. The events of the night are thus: Cecil Barker rushed to the small police station near midnight and said Douglas was murdered. Sergeant Wilson accompanied him to Manor House, where the drawbridge was down and the windows lit up. Dr. Wood, a local physician, joined them. The dead man was on his back in the study. A sawed-off shotgun fired at close range had killed him. He wore only a pink dressing gown. There was one dumbbell in the room. Barker explained that he had just gone to bed when he heard the noise of the shot and came down and saw Douglas lying there. He blew out the candle and lit the lamp. When Mrs. Douglas started to come down, he held her off. He lowered the drawbridge at that point. Wilson asked if perhaps Douglas shot himself, but Barker said that, while he thought that too at first, he had discovered a smudge of blood on the windowsill. It appeared someone shot Douglas and then left through the window. The man may have waded across the moat to escape. In terms of when he got there, he must have arrived earlier that day and hid. Wilson noticed something on the floor and picked up a card labeled 'V. V. 341'. Barker had not yet seen that, and was surprised. There were muddy boot prints near one of the other curtains, which Ames told them had been drawn around four. Barker asked if they ought to try to find the man because he probably did not get too far. Wilson replied that there were no trains before six, so he could not have left by rail. Perhaps someone else would see him when the search began. The doctor bent down and pointed out a mark that had been branded on Douglas's arm. It was a brown design with a triangle inside a circle; Barker said he had seen it on Douglas many times these past ten years, but didn't know what it meant. The butler burst out suddenly that Douglas's wedding ring was taken. Since it was the middle ring between two others, the killer must have taken them off and put them back on in order to take the ring. Wilson shook his head in amazement and said it was time to get White Mason here on the case


prompt:
Chapter: 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!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Watson picks up the narrative of the present day. White Mason is a friendly, quiet, but capable man. He meets Holmes, Watson, and MacDonald at Birlstone and helps everyone get settled, all the while talking about the case. He explains to Holmes how he checked the hammer that was found near the body and the gun, which had the initials P, E, and N on it. Holmes informs them it is an American gun put out by the Pennsylvania Small Arms Company; this knowledge surprises and pleases Mason. The group discuss the possibility of whether an outsider was in the house, or if the murder was staged. MacDonald proffers his interpretation. He assumes the murder was premeditated, but wonders why the killer would choose such a loud weapon. Holmes asks about signs of someone climbing out of the moat, but there were none. The men walk toward Manor House and Watson contemplates that the scene seems fit for a tragedy. As they near the house Mason points out the window and informs Holmes of how shallow the moat is: three feet at the deepest. Ames admits the group to the house. The conversation returns to the murder. Suicide is ruled out, but the issue of the loud weapon remains. It seems unlikely that the person made the muddy footprint, opened the window, marked the sill, took the ring off, and left before Cecil found Douglas. Surely someone came in earlier that day, hid, and then killed Douglas, using the sawed-off shotgun because the murder was personal. Douglas probably came in, put down the candle, struggled, grabbed the hammer, and was then shot. The man left the card and escaped across the moat. Holmes listens; even though the men ask for his opinion, he demurs until he has more facts. He asks for Ames, and questions him. He inquires about the mark, and Ames said he had seen it before. Ames also says Douglas was a bit more nervous the last day he saw him than usual. After this line of questioning Holmes turns to the card, which MacDonald says seems like it belongs to a secret society; he also considers the strangeness of the wedding ring and the fact that there has been no arrest yet. A knock sounds, and Cecil Barker interrupts to say they've found the killer's bicycle hidden in a clump of evergreens not far off


prompt:
Chapter: "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.

"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!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Ames recounts his version of the events of the night of Douglas's murder. He had worked for Douglas for about five years and found him a friendly employer. Douglas never seemed very restless except for the day of his murder. That night Ames did not hear the shot because he was in the pantry at the time, but he did hear the bell ringing wildly. He saw Mrs. Douglas coming down the stairs and Mr. Barker urging her to go back. She was not screaming or crying. The housekeeper was nearer to the front of the house but only heard the bell ringing. She was hard of hearing and may not have heard the shot because of that. She saw Mr. Barker, pale and anxious, coming out of the study. He told Mrs. Allen to stay with Mrs. Douglas, and she did. Cecil Barker speaks with the men next. He adds nothing to the account that he'd told the other detectives. He sees the bloodstain as conclusive, but does not know how the killer escaped. He speaks of Douglas next, explaining that they met when Cecil was a young man in California. Douglas emigrated there and the two became partners at a mining claim. Douglas sold his share and moved to England; when Barker moved there as well, they renewed their friendship. It seemed to Barker than Douglas had some sort of danger hanging over him, and he wondered if some sort of secret society Douglas belonged to was after him--perhaps that was why he moved to England. Answering the detectives' questions, Barker states that he and Douglas knew each other for five years. The only place Douglas had mentioned was Chicago. He was not very social at the mining claim, and one time a hard-looking crowd came looking for him. They were Americans but not miners, which had seemed suspicious. Barker also tells them that Douglas was always armed. MacDonald asks how close Barker is to Mrs. Douglas. When the detective's questions become a bit more probing, Barker grows angry. Finally he says that Douglas's one fault was jealousy. He was fond of Barker and his wife, but Douglas always seemed angry whenever the two of them would talk or share a look. MacDonald asks if Barker knew the wedding ring is gone, and Barker says it seems that way. MacDonald fixates on that and asks what he means; Barker explains that yes, the ring is gone, but he does not know why. MacDonald also asks about when the candle was lit; Barker explains that he lit the lamp and blew out the candle when he came in. Not long after this interview, the group meets Mrs. Douglas, a beautiful and elegant woman of thirty. She asks if they have found anything; Watson thinks it sounds like there is more of an undertone of fear than hope to her query. She gives her account of hearing the shot and being sent back to her room. When asked about her background she replies that she had been married to Douglas for five years. She admits that she knew there was some sort of danger about him but he always refused to tell her anything. Her intuition and listening skills, though, helped her ascertain some of what bothered him. The words 'Valley of Fear' stuck out in her mind, and she would hear him bemoan the fact that they would never get out of this valley. When she would ask him about this, he explained nothing to her, but she figured out that the name 'Bodymaster McGinty' has something to do with this terrible place. MacDonald asks if there is any reason she can think of that someone would take the wedding ring, especially as she professed to a lot of romance between she and her husband, and for a second Watson thinks he sees a smile on her face. She says she has no idea. The questioning ends and Mrs. Douglas leaves. Holmes muses for a moment and asks Ames to come in. He inquires what shoes Barker was wearing the night of the murder. Ames responds that he was wearing house slippers. Holmes finds the slippers and looks on the bottom. They are covered in blood, and the mark of the window matches that of the sole of the slipper. The men are all astonished