Barker had seized his outstretched hand.
“It’s best this way， Jack，” his wife repeated； “I am sure that it isbest.”
“Indeed， yes， Mr. Douglas，” said Sherlock Holmes， “I am surethat you will find it best.”
The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one whocomes from the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face， boldgray eyes， a strong， short-clipped， grizzled moustache， a square，projecting chin， and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at usall， and then to my amazement he advanced to me and handed mea bundle of paper.
“I’ve heard of you，” said he in a voice which was not quiteEnglish and not quite American， but was altogether mellow andpleasing. “You are the historian of this bunch. Well， Dr. Watson，you’ve never had such a story as that pass through your handsbefore， 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 asyou have those. I’ve been cooped up two days， and I’ve spent thedaylight hours—as much daylight as I could get in that rat trap—in putting the thing into words. You’re welcome to them—you andyour 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 rememberright， and you’ll guess what it is to be sitting for two days withtobacco in your pocket and afraid that the smell will give youaway.” He leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked at the cigarwhich Holmes had handed him. “I’ve heard of you， Mr. Holmes. Inever guessed that I should meet you. But before you are throughwith that，” he nodded at my papers， “you will say I’ve brought yousomething fresh.”
Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer withthe greatest amazement. “Well， this fairly beats me！” he cried atlast. “If you are Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone Manor， then whosedeath have we been investigating for these two days， and where inthe world have you sprung from now？ You seemed to me to comeout of the floor like a jack-in-a-box.”
“Ah， Mr. Mac，” said Holmes， shaking a reproving forefinger， “youwould not read that excellent local compilation which describedthe concealment of King Charles. People did not hide in thosedays without excellent hiding places， and the hiding place thathas once been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that weshould 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 allowedus to waste ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurdone？”
“Not one instant， my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I formmy views of the case. As they could not be put to the proofuntil this evening， I invited you and your colleague to take aholiday for the day. Pray what more could I do？ When I foundthe suit of clothes in the moat， it at once became apparent tome that the body we had found could not have been the body ofMr. John Douglas at all， but must be that of the bicyclist fromTunbridge Wells. No other conclusion was possible. Therefore Ihad to determine where Mr. John Douglas himself could be， andthe balance of probability was that with the connivance of hiswife and his friend he was concealed in a house which had suchconveniences for a fugitive， and awaiting quieter times when hecould make his final escape.”
“Well， you figured it out about right，” said Douglas approvingly.
“I thought I’d dodge your British law； for I was not sure how Istood under it， and also I saw my chance to throw these houndsonce for all off my track. Mind you， from first to last I have donenothing to be ashamed of， and nothing that I would not do again；but you’ll judge that for yourselves when I tell you my story. Nevermind warning me， Inspector： I’m ready to stand pat upon the truth.
“I’m not going to begin at the beginning. That’s all there，” heindicated my bundle of papers， “and a mighty queer yarn you’llfind it. It all comes down to this： That there are some men thathave good cause to hate me and would give their last dollar toknow that they had got me. So long as I am alive and they arealive， there is no safety in this world for me. They hunted me fromChicago to California， then they chased me out of America； butwhen I married and settled down in this quiet spot I thought mylast years were going to be peaceable.
“I never explained to my wife how things were. Why should Ipull her into it？ She would never have a quiet moment again； butwould always be imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something，for I may have dropped a word here or a word there； but untilyesterday， after you gentlemen had seen her， she never knew therights of the matter. She told you all she knew， and so did Barkerhere； for on the night when this thing happened there was mightylittle time for explanations. She knows everything now， and Iwould have been a wiser man if I had told her sooner. But it was ahard question， dear，” he took her hand for an instant in his own，“and I acted for the best.
“Well， gentlemen， the day before these happenings I was over inTunbridge Wells， and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It wasonly a glimpse； but I have a quick eye for these things， and I neverdoubted who it was. It was the worst enemy I had among themall—one who has been after me like a hungry wolf after a caribouall these years. I knew there was trouble coming， and I came homeand made ready for it. I guessed I’d fight through it all right onmy own， my luck was a proverb in the States about ‘76. I neverdoubted that it would be with me still.
“I was on my guard all that next day， and never went out intothe park. It’s as well， or he’d have had the drop on me with thatbuckshot gun of his before ever I could draw on him. After thebridge was up—my mind was always more restful when that bridgewas up in the evenings—I put the thing clear out of my head. Inever dreamed of his getting into the house and waiting for me.
