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!”
II
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 over-stimulation. 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 which Holmes had handed him. “Posted in Camberwell—that doesn’t help us much. Name, you say, is assumed. Not much to go on, certainly. Didn’t you say that you have sent him money?”
“Twice.”
“And how?”
“In notes to Camberwell post-office.”
“Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?”
“No.”
The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. “Why not?”
“Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote that I would not try to trace him.”
“You think there is someone behind him?”
“I know there is.”
“This professor that I’ve heard you mention?”
“Exactly!”
Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced towards me. “I won’t conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in the C.I.D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this professor. I made some inquiries myself about the matter. He seems to be a very respectable, learned, and talented sort of man.”
“I’m glad you’ve got so far as to recognize the talent.”
“Man, you can’t but recognize it! After I heard your view I made it my business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses. How the talk got that way I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern and a globe, and made it all clear in a minute. He lent me a book; but I don’t mind saying that it was a bit above my head, though I had a good Aberdeen upbringing. He’d have made a grand meenister with his thin face and gray hair and solemn-like way of talking. When he put his hand on my shoulder as we were parting, it was like a father’s blessing before you go out into the cold, cruel world.”
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Great!” he said. “Great! Tell me, Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview was, I suppose, in the professor’s study?”
“That’s so.”
“A fine room, is it not?”
“Very fine—very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes.”
“You sat in front of his writing desk?”
“Just so.”
“Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?”
“Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my face.”
“It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the professor’s head?”
“I don’t miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you. Yes, I saw the picture—a young woman with her head on her hands, peeping at you sideways.”
“That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze.”
The inspector endeavoured to look interested.
“Jean Baptiste Greuze,” Holmes continued, joining his finger tips and leaning well back in his chair, “was a French artist who flourished between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his working career. Modern criticism has more than endorsed the high opinion formed of him by his contemporaries.”
The inspector’s eyes grew abstracted. “Hadn’t we better—” he said.
“We are doing so,” Holmes interrupted. “All that I am saying has a very direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the Birlstone Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre of it.”
MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. “Your thoughts move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two, and I can’t get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can be the connection between this
