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

and the State.  A great defeat, the death of thousands of men, might spring from my misplaced confidence.  There was still time, by judgment and energy, to stop this frightful evil.  I heard her step upon the stairs outside, and an instant later she had come through the doorway.  She started, and her face was bloodless as she saw me seated there with the open letter in my hand.

“How did you get that?” she gasped.  “How dared you break my desk and steal my letter?”

I said nothing.  I simply sat and looked at her and pondered what I should do.  She suddenly sprang forward and tried to snatch the letter.  I caught her wrist and pushed her down on to the sofa, where she lay, collapsed.  Then I rang the bell, and told the maid that I must see Mr. Murreyfield at once.

He was a genial, elderly man, who had treated this woman with as much kindness as if she were his daughter.  He was horrified at what I said.  I could not show him the letter on account of the secret that it contained, but I made him understand that it was of desperate importance.

“What are we to do?” he asked.  “I never could have imagined anything so dreadful.  What would you advise us to do?”

“There is only one thing that we can do,” I answered.  “This woman must be arrested, and in the meanwhile we must so arrange matters that she cannot possibly communicate with any one.  For all we know, she has confederates in this very village.  Can you undertake to hold her securely while I go to Colonel Worral at Pedley and get a warrant and a guard?”

“We can lock her in her bedroom.”

“You need not trouble,” said she.  “I give you my word that I will stay where I am.  I advise you to be careful, Captain Fowler.  You’ve shown once before that you are liable to do things before you have thought of the consequence.  If I am arrested all the world will know that you have given away the secrets that were confided to you.  There is an end of your career, my friend.  You can punish me, no doubt.  What about yourself?”

“I think,” said I, “you had best take her to her bedroom.”

“Very good, if you wish it,” said she, and followed us to the door.  When we reached the hall she suddenly broke away, dashed through the entrance, and made for her motor-bicycle, which was standing there.  Before she could start we had both seized her.  She stooped and made her teeth meet in Murreyfield’s hand.  With flashing eyes and tearing fingers she was as fierce as a wild cat at bay.  It was with some difficulty that we mastered her, and dragged her—almost carried her—up the stairs.  We thrust her into her room and turned the key, while she screamed out abuse and beat upon the door inside.

“It’s a forty-foot drop into the garden,” said Murreyfield, tying up his bleeding hand.  “I’ll wait here till you come back.  I think we have the lady fairly safe.”

“I have a revolver here,” said I.  “You should be armed.”  I slipped a couple of cartridges into it and held it out to him.  “We can’t afford to take chances.  How do you know what friends she may have?”

“Thank you,” said he.  “I have a stick here, and the gardener is within call.  Do you hurry off for the guard, and I will answer for the prisoner.”

Having taken, as it seemed to me, every possible precaution, I ran to give the alarm.  It was two miles to Pedley, and the colonel was out, which occasioned some delay.  Then there were formalities and a magistrate’s signature to be obtained.  A policeman was to serve the warrant, but a military escort was to be sent in to bring back the prisoner.  I was so filled with anxiety and impatience that I could not wait, but I hurried back alone with the promise that they would follow.

The Pedley-Woodrow Road opens into the high-road to Colchester at a point about half a mile from the village of Radchurch.  It was evening now and the light was such that one could not see more than twenty or thirty yards ahead.  I had proceeded only a very short way from the point of junction when I heard, coming towards me, the roar of a motor-cycle being ridden at a furious pace.  It was without lights, and close upon me.  I sprang aside in order to avoid being ridden down, and in that instant, as the machine flashed by, I saw clearly the face of the rider.  It was she—the woman whom I had loved.  She was hatless, her hair streaming in the wind, her face glimmering white in the twilight, flying through the night like one of the Valkyries of her native land.  She was past me like a flash and tore on down the Colchester Road.  In that instant I saw all that it would mean if she could reach the town.  If she once was allowed to see her agent we might arrest him or her, but it would be too late.  The news would have been passed on.  The victory of the Allies and the lives of thousands of our soldiers were at stake.  Next instant I had pulled out the loaded revolver and fired two shots after the vanishing figure, already only a dark blur in the dusk.  I heard a scream, the crashing of the breaking cycle, and all was still.

I need not tell you more, gentlemen.  You know the rest.  When I ran forward I found her lying in the ditch.  Both of my bullets had struck her.  One of them had penetrated her brain.  I was still standing beside her body when Murreyfield arrived, running breathlessly down the road.  She had, it seemed, with great courage and activity scrambled down the ivy of the wall; only when he heard the whirr of the cycle did he realize what had occurred.  He was explaining it to my dazed brain when the police and soldiers arrived to arrest her.  By the irony of fate it was me whom they arrested instead.

It was urged at the trial in the police-court that jealousy was the cause of the crime.  I did not deny it, nor did I put forward any witnesses to deny it.  It was my desire that they should believe it.  The hour of the French advance had not yet come, and I could not defend myself without producing the letter which would reveal it.  But now it is over—gloriously over—and so my lips are unsealed at last.  I confess my fault—my very grievous fault.  But it is not that for which you are trying me.  It is for murder.  I should have thought myself the murderer of my own countrymen if I had let the woman pass.  These are the facts, gentlemen.  I leave my future in your hands.  If you should absolve me I may say that I have hopes of serving my country in a fashion which will atone for this one great indiscretion, and will also, as I hope, end for ever those terrible recollections which weigh me down.  If you condemn me, I am ready to face whatever you may think fit to inflict.

X.  THREE OF THEM I—A CHAT ABOUT CHILDREN, SNAKES, AND ZEBUS

These little sketches are called “Three of Them,” but there are really five, on and off the stage.  There is Daddy, a lumpish person with some gift for playing Indian games when he is in the mood.  He is then known as “The Great Chief of the Leatherskin Tribe.”  Then there is my Lady Sunshine.  These are the grown-ups, and don’t really count.  There remain the three, who need some differentiating upon paper, though their little spirits are as different in reality as spirits could be—all beautiful and all quite different.  The eldest is a boy of eight whom we shall call “Laddie.”  If ever there was a little cavalier sent down ready-made it is he.  His soul is the most gallant, unselfish, innocent thing that ever God sent out to get an extra polish upon earth.  It dwells in a tall, slight, well-formed body, graceful and agile, with a head and face as clean-cut as if an old Greek cameo had come to life, and a pair of innocent and yet wise grey eyes that read and win the heart.  He is shy and does not shine before strangers.  I have said that he is unselfish and brave.  When there is the usual wrangle about going to bed, up he gets in his sedate way.  “I will go first,” says he, and off he goes, the eldest, that the others may have the few extra minutes while he is in his bath.  As to his courage, he is absolutely lion-hearted where he can help or defend any one else.  On one occasion Daddy lost his temper with Dimples (Boy Number 2), and, not without very good provocation, gave him a tap on the side of the head.  Next instant he felt a butt down somewhere in the region of his waist-belt, and there was an angry little red face looking up at him, which turned suddenly to a brown mop of hair as the butt was repeated.  No one, not even Daddy, should hit his little brother.  Such was Laddie, the gentle and the fearless.

Then there is Dimples.  Dimples is nearly seven, and you never saw a rounder, softer, dimplier face, with two great roguish, mischievous eyes of wood-pigeon grey, which are sparkling with fun for the most part, though they can look sad and solemn enough at times.  Dimples has the making of a big man in him.  He has depth and reserves in his tiny soul.  But on the surface he is a boy of boys, always in innocent mischief.  “I will now do mischuff,” he occasionally announces, and is usually as good as his word.  He has a love and understanding of all living creatures, the uglier and more slimy the better, treating them all in a tender, fairylike fashion which seems to come from some inner knowledge.  He has been found holding a buttercup under the mouth of a slug “to see if he likes butter.”  He finds creatures in an astonishing way.  Put him in the fairest garden, and presently he will approach you with a newt, a toad, or a huge snail in his custody.  Nothing would ever induce him to hurt them, but he gives them what he imagines to be a little treat and then restores them to their homes.  He has been known to speak bitterly to the Lady when she has given orders that caterpillars be killed if found upon the cabbages, and even the explanation that the caterpillars were doing the work of what he calls “the Jarmans” did not reconcile him to their fate.

He has an advantage over Laddie, in that he suffers from no trace of shyness and is perfectly friendly in an instant with any one of every class of life, plunging straight into conversation with some such remark as “Can your Daddy give a war-whoop?” or “Were you ever chased by a bear?”  He is a sunny creature but combative sometimes, when he draws down his brows, sets his eyes, his chubby cheeks flush, and his lips go back from his almond-white teeth.  “I am Swankie the Berserker,” says he, quoting out of his favourite “Erling the Bold,” which Daddy reads aloud at bed-time.  When he is in this fighting mood he can even drive back