THE VALLEY OF FEAR 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?”