Danger! and Other Stories by Arthur Conan Doyle (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📖

as though in greeting, and then—even now I feel the horror of the instant—the tall man rushed upon and knocked his companion to the earth, then whipping up his body, ran with great speed over the intervening ground and disappeared with his burden into the house.

Case hardened as I was by my varied life, the suddenness and violence of the thing made me shudder.  The man’s age, his feeble frame, his humble and deprecating manner, all cried shame against the deed.  So hot was my anger, that I was on the point of striding up to the cabin, unarmed as I was, when the sound of voices from within showed me that the victim had recovered.  The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and all was grey, save a red feather in the cap of Pennigent.  Secure in the failing light, I approached near and strained my ears to catch what was passing.  I could hear the high, querulous voice of the elder man and the deep, rough monotone of his assailant, mixed with a strange metallic jangling and clanking.  Presently the surgeon came out, locked the door behind him and stamped up and down in the twilight, pulling at his hair and brandishing his arms, like a man demented.  Then he set off, walking rapidly up the valley, and I soon lost sight of him among the rocks.

When his footsteps had died away in the distance, I drew nearer to the cottage.  The prisoner within was still pouring forth a stream of words, and moaning from time to time like a man in pain.  These words resolved themselves, as I approached, into prayers—shrill, voluble prayers, pattered forth with the intense earnestness of one who sees impending an imminent danger.  There was to me something inexpressibly awesome in this gush of solemn entreaty from the lonely sufferer, meant for no human ear, and jarring upon the silence of the night.  I was still pondering whether I should mix myself in the affair or not, when I heard in the distance the sound of the surgeon’s returning footfall.  At that I drew myself up quickly by the iron bars and glanced in through the diamond-paned window.  The interior of the cottage was lighted up by a lurid glow, coming from what I afterward discovered to be a chemical furnace.  By its rich light I could distinguish a great litter of retorts, test tubes and condensers, which sparkled over the table, and threw strange, grotesque shadows on the wall.  On the further side of the room was a wooden framework resembling a hencoop, and in this, still absorbed in prayer, knelt the man whose voice I heard.  The red glow beating upon his upturned face made it stand out from the shadow like a painting from Rembrandt, showing up every wrinkle upon the parchment-like skin.  I had but time for a fleeting glance; then, dropping from the window, I made off through the rocks and the heather, nor slackened my pace until I found myself back in my cabin once more.  There I threw myself upon my couch, more disturbed and shaken than I had ever thought to feel again.

Such doubts as I might have had as to whether I had indeed seen my former fellow-lodger upon the night of the thunderstorm were resolved the next morning.  Strolling along down the path which led to the fell, I saw in one spot where the ground was soft the impressions of a foot—the small, dainty foot of a well-booted woman.  That tiny heel and high instep could have belonged to none other than my companion of Kirkby-Malhouse.  I followed her trail for some distance, till it still pointed, as far as I could discern it, to the lonely and ill-omened cottage.  What power could there be to draw this tender girl, through wind and rain and darkness, across the fearsome moors to that strange rendezvous?

I have said that a little beck flowed down the valley and past my very door.  A week or so after the doings which I have described, I was seated by my window when I perceived something white drifting slowly down the stream.  My first thought was that it was a drowning sheep; but picking up my stick, I strolled to the bank and hooked it ashore.  On examination it proved to be a large sheet, torn and tattered, with the initials J. C. in the corner.  What gave it its sinister significance, however, was that from hem to hem it was all dabbled and discoloured.

Shutting the door of my cabin, I set off up the glen in the direction of the surgeon’s cabin.  I had not gone far before I perceived the very man himself.  He was walking rapidly along the hillside, beating the furze bushes with a cudgel and bellowing like a madman.  Indeed, at the sight of him, the doubts as to his sanity which had arisen in my mind were strengthened and confirmed.

As he approached I noticed that his left arm was suspended in a sling.  On perceiving me he stood irresolute, as though uncertain whether to come over to me or not.  I had no desire for an interview with him, however, so I hurried past him, on which he continued on his way, still shouting and striking about with his club.  When he had disappeared over the fells, I made my way down to his cottage, determined to find some clue to what had occurred.  I was surprised, on reaching it, to find the iron-plated door flung wide open.  The ground immediately outside it was marked with the signs of a struggle.  The chemical apparatus within and the furniture were all dashed about and shattered.  Most suggestive of all, the sinister wooden cage was stained with blood-marks, and its unfortunate occupant had disappeared.  My heart was heavy for the little man, for I was assured I should never see him in this world more.

There was nothing in the cabin to throw any light upon the identity of my neighbours.  The room was stuffed with chemical instruments.  In one corner a small bookcase contained a choice selection of works of science.  In another was a pile of geological specimens collected from the limestone.

I caught no glimpse of the surgeon upon my homeward journey; but when I reached my cottage I was astonished and indignant to find that somebody had entered it in my absence.  Boxes had been pulled out from under the bed, the curtains disarranged, the chairs drawn out from the wall.  Even my study had not been safe from this rough intruder, for the prints of a heavy boot were plainly visible on the ebony-black carpet.

IV—OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT

The night set in gusty and tempestuous, and the moon was all girt with ragged clouds.  The wind blew in melancholy gusts, sobbing and sighing over the moor, and setting all the gorse bushes agroaning.  From time to time a little sputter of rain pattered up against the window-pane.  I sat until near midnight, glancing over the fragment on immortality by Iamblichus, the Alexandrian platonist, of whom the Emperor Julian said that he was posterior to Plato in time but not in genius.  At last, shutting up my book, I opened my door and took a last look at the dreary fell and still more dreary sky.  As I protruded my head, a swoop of wind caught me and sent the red ashes of my pipe sparkling and dancing through the darkness.  At the same moment the moon shone brilliantly out from between two clouds, and I saw, sitting on the hillside, not two hundred yards from my door, the man who called himself the surgeon of Gaster Fell.  He was squatted among the heather, his elbows upon his knees, and his chin resting upon his hands, as motionless as a stone, with his gaze fixed steadily upon the door of my dwelling.

At the sight of this ill-omened sentinel, a chill of horror and of fear shot through me, for his gloomy and mysterious associations had cast a glamour round the man, and the hour and place were in keeping with his sinister presence.  In a moment, however, a manly glow of resentment and self-confidence drove this petty emotion from my mind, and I strode fearlessly in his direction.  He rose as I approached and faced me, with the moon shining on his grave, bearded face and glittering on his eyeballs.  “What is the meaning of this?” I cried, as I came upon him.  “What right have you to play the spy on me?”

I could see the flush of anger rise on his face.  “Your stay in the country has made you forget your manners,” he said.  “The moor is free to all.”

“You will say next that my house is free to all,” I said, hotly.  “You have had the impertience to ransack it in my absence this afternoon.”

He started, and his features showed the most intense excitement.  “I swear to you that I had no hand in it!” he cried.  “I have never set foot in your house in my life.  Oh, sir, sir, if you will but believe me, there is a danger hanging over you, and you would do well to be careful.”

“I have had enough of you,” I said.  “I saw that cowardly blow you struck when you thought no human eye rested upon you.  I have been to your cottage, too, and know all that it has to tell.  If there is a law in England, you shall hang for what you have done.  As to me, I am an old soldier, sir, and I am armed.  I shall not fasten my door.  But if you or any other villain attempt to cross my threshold it shall be at your own risk.”  With these words, I swung round upon my heel and strode into my cabin.

For two days the wind freshened and increased, with constant squalls of rain until on the third night the most furious storm was raging which I can ever recollect in England.  I felt that it was positively useless to go to bed, nor could I concentrate my mind sufficiently to read a book.  I turned my lamp half down to moderate the glare, and leaning back in my chair, I gave myself up to reverie.  I must have lost all perception of time, for I have no recollection how long I sat there on the borderland betwixt thought and slumber.  At last, about 3 or possibly 4 o’clock, I came to myself with a start—not only came to myself, but with every sense and nerve upon the strain.  Looking round my chamber in the dim light, I could not see anything to justify my sudden trepidation.  The homely room, the rain-blurred window and the rude wooden door were all as they had been.  I had begun to persuade myself that some half-formed dream had sent that vague thrill through my nerves, when in a moment I became conscious of what it was.  It was a sound—the sound of a human step outside my solitary cottage.

Amid the thunder and the rain and the wind I could hear it—a dull, stealthy footfall, now on the grass, now on the stones—occasionally stopping entirely, then resumed, and ever drawing nearer.  I sat breathlessly, listening to the eerie sound.  It had stopped now at my very door, and was replaced by a panting and gasping, as of one who has travelled fast and far.

By the flickering light of the expiring lamp I could see that the latch of my door was twitching, as though a gentle pressure was exerted on