He had spoken in jesting vein， but the twitching of his bushyeyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helplessand unhappy， staring into the fire. A long silence was broken bya sudden exclamation from Holmes， who dashed at a cupboard，from which he emerged with a second yellow-covered volume inhis hand.
“We pay the price， Watson， for being too up-to-date！” he cried.
“We are before our time， and suffer the usual penalties. Beingthe seventh of January， we have very properly laid in the newalmanac. It is more than likely that Porlock took his message fromthe old one. No doubt he would have told us so had his letterof explanation been written. Now let us see what page 534 hasin store for us. Number thirteen is ‘There，’ which is much morepromising. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is ‘is’—‘Thereis’ “—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 reasonand its fruit？ If the green-grocer had such a thing as a laurelwreath， I should send Billy round for it.”
I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled， as hedeciphered 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，” saidHolmes. “When you search a single column for words with whichto express your meaning， you can hardly expect to get everythingyou want. You are bound to leave something to the intelligence ofyour correspondent. The purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltryis intended against one Douglas， whoever he may be， residing asstated， a rich country gentleman. He is sure—‘confidence’ was asnear as he could get to ‘confident’—that it is pressing. There is ourresult—and a very workmanlike little bit of analysis it was！”
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his betterwork， even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high levelto which he aspired. He was still chuckling over his success whenBilly swung open the door and Inspector MacDonald of ScotlandYard was ushered into the room.
Those were the early days at the end of the ‘80’s， when AlecMacDonald was far from having attained the national famewhich he has now achieved. He was a young but trusted memberof the detective force， who had distinguished himself in severalcases which had been intrusted to him. His tall， bony figure gavepromise of exceptional physical strength， while his great craniumand deep-set， lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of the keenintelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows.
He was a silent， precise man with a dour nature and a hardAberdonian accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attainsuccess， his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of theproblem. For this reason the affection and respect of theScotchman for his amateur colleague were profound， and heshowed them by the frankness with which he consulted Holmesin every difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself；but talent instantly recognizes genius， and MacDonald had talentenough for his profession to enable him to perceive that therewas no humiliation in seeking the assistance of one who alreadystood alone in Europe， both in his gifts and in his experience.
Holmes was not prone to friendship， but he was tolerant of thebig Scotchman， and smiled at the sight of him.
“You are an early bird， Mr. Mac，” said he. “I wish you luck withyour worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot.”
“If you said ‘hope’ instead of ‘fear，’ it would be nearer thetruth， I’m thinking， Mr. Holmes，” the inspector answered， witha knowing grin. “Well， maybe a wee nip would keep out the rawmorning chill. No， I won’t smoke， I thank you. I’ll have to bepushing on my way； for the early hours of a case are the preciousones， as no man knows better than your own self. But—but—”
The inspector had stopped suddenly， and was staring with a lookof absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheetupon 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 wonderfuldid 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 dazedastonishment. “Just this，” said he， “that Mr. Douglas of BirlstoneManor House was horribly murdered last night！”
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It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friendexisted. It would be an overstatement to say that he was shockedor even excited by the amazing announcement. Without having atinge of cruelty in his singular composition， he was undoubtedlycallous from long overstimulation. Yet， if his emotions weredulled， his intellectual perceptions were exceedingly active. Therewas no trace then of the horror which I had myself felt at this curtdeclaration； but his face showed rather the quiet and interestedcomposure of the chemist who sees the crystals falling intoposition from his oversaturated solution.
“Remarkable！” said he. “Remarkable！”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Interested， Mr. Mac， but hardly surprised. Why should I besurprised？ I receive an anonymous communication from a quarterwhich I know to be important， warning me that danger threatensa certain person. Within an hour I learn that this danger hasactually materialized and that the person is dead. I am interested；but， as you observe， I am not surprised.”
