Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes’s words. The detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who seemed to have emerged from the wall, who advanced now from the gloom of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in an instant her arms were round him. Barker had seized his outstretched hand.
“It’s best this way, Jack,” his wife repeated; “I am sure that it is best.”
“Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas,” said Sherlock Holmes, “I am sure that you will find it best.”
The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes from the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin, and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at us all, and then to my amazement he advanced to me and handed me a bundle of paper.
“I’ve heard of you,” said he in a voice which was not quite English and not quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. “You are the historian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you’ve never had such a story as that pass through your hands before, 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 as you have those. I’ve been cooped up two days, and I’ve spent the daylight hours—as much daylight as I could get in that rat trap—in putting the thing into words. You’re welcome to them—you and your public. There’s the story of the Valley of Fear.”