Chapter 1

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?”

“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”

“My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.

“I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.”

“A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a
certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must
learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are
uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the
wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every
deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might
have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s the man! But so aloof
is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in
his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you
have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year’s
pension as a solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the
celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends
to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there
was no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a
man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor—such would
be your respective rôles! That’s genius, Watson. But if I am spared by
lesser men, our day will surely come.”

“May I be there to see!” I exclaimed devoutly. “But you were speaking
of this man Porlock.”

“Ah, yes—the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some little way
from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound link—between
ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as I have been able
to test it.”

“But no chain is stronger than its weakest link.”

“Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of Porlock. Led
on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and encouraged by the
judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound note sent to him by
devious methods, he has once or twice given me advance information
which has been of value—that highest value which anticipates and
prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot doubt that, if we had the
cipher, we should find that this communication is of the nature that I
indicate.”

Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose and,
leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription, which ran as
follows:

534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE 26
BIRLSTONE 9 47 171

“What do you make of it, Holmes?”

“It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information.”

“But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?”

“In this instance, none at all.”

“Why do you say ‘in this instance’?”

“Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I do
the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the
intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is clearly
a reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I am told which
page and which book I am powerless.”

“But why ‘Douglas’ and ‘Birlstone’?”

“Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the page
in question.”

“Then why has he not indicated the book?”

“Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which is
the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing
cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry, you are
undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before any harm comes from it.
Our second post is now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it does not
bring us either a further letter of explanation, or, as is more
probable, the very volume to which these figures refer.”

Holmes’s calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by the
appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we were
expecting.

“The same writing,” remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope, “and
actually signed,” he added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the
epistle. “Come, we are getting on, Watson.” His brow clouded, however,
as he glanced over the contents.

“Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all our
expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock will come to
no harm.

“‘Dear Mr. Holmes,’ he says, ‘I will go no further in this matter. It
is too dangerous—he suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came
to me quite unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope
with the intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to
cover it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I
read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message, which can
now be of no use to you.

“‘FRED PORLOCK.’”

Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his
fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.

“After all,” he said at last, “there may be nothing in it. It may be
only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor, he may
have read the accusation in the other’s eyes.”

“The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty.”

“No less! When any of that party talk about ‘He’ you know whom they
mean. There is one predominant ‘He’ for all of them.”

“But what can he do?”

“Hum! That’s a large question. When you have one of the first brains of
Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back,
there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock is evidently
scared out of his senses—kindly compare the writing in the note to that
upon its envelope; which was done, he tells us, before this ill-omened
visit. The one is clear and firm. The other hardly legible.”

“Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?”

“Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in that case,
and possibly bring trouble on him.”

“No doubt,” said I. “Of course.” I had picked up the original cipher
message and was bending my brows over it. “It’s pretty maddening to
think that an important secret may lie here on this slip of paper, and
that it is beyond human power to penetrate it.”

Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit the
unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations. “I
wonder!” said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Perhaps
there are points which have escaped your Machiavellian intellect. Let
us consider the problem in the light of pure reason. This man’s
reference is to a book. That is our point of departure.”

“A somewhat vague one.”

“Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind upon it,
it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications have we as to this
book?”

“None.”

“Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher message
begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as a working
hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the cipher refers.
So our book has already become a _large_ book, which is surely
something gained. What other indications have we as to the nature of
this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you make of that,
Watson?”

“Chapter the second, no doubt.”

“Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if the
page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if
page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length of the first
one must have been really intolerable.”

“Column!” I cried.

“Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it is not
column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we begin to
visualize a large book printed in double columns which are each of a
considerable length, since one of the words is numbered in the document
as the two hundred and ninety-third. Have we reached the limits of what
reason can supply?”

“I fear that we have.”

“Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation, my dear
Watson—yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an unusual one, he
would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he had intended, before his
plans were nipped, to send me the clue in this envelope. He says so in
his note. This would seem to indicate that the book is one which he
thought I would have no difficulty in finding for myself. He had it—and
he imagined that I would have it, too. In short, Watson, it is a very
common book.”

“What you say certainly sounds plausible.”

“So we have contracted our field of search to a large book, printed in
double columns and in common use.”

“The Bible!” I cried triumphantly.

“Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough! Even
if I accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly name any volume
which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one of Moriarty’s
associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ are so numerous that he
could hardly suppose that two copies would have the same pagination.
This is clearly a book which is standardized. He knows for certain that
his page 534 will exactly agree with my page 534.”

“But very few books would correspond with that.”

“Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed down to
standardized books which anyone may be supposed to possess.”

“Bradshaw!”

“There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is nervous
and terse, but limited. The selection of words would hardly lend itself
to the sending of general messages. We will eliminate Bradshaw. The
dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the same reason. What then is
left?”

“An almanac!”

“Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not touched the
spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of Whitaker’s Almanac. It
is in common use. It has the requisite number of pages. It is in double
column. Though reserved in its earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I
remember right, quite garrulous towards the end.” He picked the volume
from his desk. “Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of
print dealing, I perceive, with the trade and resources of British
India. Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is ‘Mahratta.’ Not,
I fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred and
twenty-seven is ‘Government’; which at least makes sense, though
somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor Moriarty. Now let us try
again. What does the Mahratta government do? Alas! the next word is
‘pig’s-bristles.’ We are undone, my good Watson! It is finished!”

He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy eyebrows
bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless and unhappy,
staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by a sudden
exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, from which he
emerged with a second yellow-covered volume in his hand.

“We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!” he cried. “We are
before our time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being the seventh of
January, we have very properly laid in the new almanac. It is more than
likely that Porlock took his message from the old one. No doubt he
would have told us so had his letter of explanation been written. Now
let us see what page 534 has in store for us. Number thirteen is
‘There,’ which is much more promising. Number one hundred and
twenty-seven is ‘is’—‘There is’ “—Holmes’s eyes were gleaming with
excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted the
words—“‘danger.’ Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. ‘There is
danger—may—come—very soon—one.’ Then we have the name
‘Douglas’—‘rich—country—now—at
Birlstone—House—Birlstone—confidence—is—pressing.’ There, Watson! What
do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had such
a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it.”

I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.

“What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!” said I.

“On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well,” said Holmes.
“When you search a single column for words with which to express your
meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you want. You are
bound to leave something to the intelligence of your correspondent. The
purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended against one
Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as stated, a rich country
gentleman. He is sure—‘confidence’ was as near as he could get to
‘confident’—that it is pressing. There is our result—and a very
workmanlike little bit of analysis it was!”

Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work,
even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which he
aspired. He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung open
the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered into the
room.

Those were the early days at the end of the ’80’s, when Alec MacDonald
was far from having attained the national fame which he has now
achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective force, who
had distinguished himself in several cases which had been intrusted to
him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional physical
strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no
less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled out from behind
his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with a dour nature and
a hard Aberdonian accent.

Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain success,
his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For this
reason the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his amateur
colleague were profound, and he showed them by the frankness with which
he consulted Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing
higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius, and
MacDonald had talent enough for his profession to enable him to
perceive that there was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of one
who already stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his
experience. Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of
the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.

“You are an early bird, Mr. Mac,” said he. “I wish you luck with your
worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot.”

“If you said ‘hope’ instead of ‘fear,’ it would be nearer the truth,
I’m thinking, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector answered, with a knowing grin.
“Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill. No, I
won’t smoke, I thank you. I’ll have to be pushing on my way; for the
early hours of a case are the precious ones, as no man knows better
than your own self. But—but—”

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!”