The Complete Sherlock Holmes

“How could I have heard of him when you
know that I am a stranger in these parts?”
“Well, I thought his name was known clear
across the country. It’s been in the papers often
enough.”
“What for?”
“Well,” the miner lowered his voice—“over the
affairs.”
“What affairs?”
“Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must
say it without offense. There’s only one set of affairs
that you’ll hear of in these parts, and that’s
the affairs of the Scowrers.”
“Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in
Chicago. A gang of murderers, are they not?”
“Hush, on your life!” cried the miner, standing
still in alarm, and gazing in amazement at his companion.
“Man, you won’t live long in these parts
if you speak in the open street like that. Many a
man has had the life beaten out of him for less.”
“Well, I know nothing about them. It’s only
what I have read.”
“And I’m not saying that you have not read the
truth.” The man looked nervously round him as
he spoke, peering into the shadows as if he feared
to see some lurking danger. “If killing is murder,
then God knows there is murder and to spare.
But don’t you dare to breathe the name of Jack
McGinty in connection with it, stranger; for every
whisper goes back to him, and he is not one that
is likely to let it pass. Now, that’s the house you’re
after, that one standing back from the street. You’ll
find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a man
as lives in this township.”
“I thank you,” said McMurdo, and shaking
hands with his new acquaintance he plodded,
gripsack in hand, up the path which led to the
dwelling house, at the door of which he gave a
resounding knock.
It was opened at once by someone very different
from what he had expected. It was a woman,
young and singularly beautiful. She was of the
German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant
contrast of a pair of beautiful dark eyes with
which she surveyed the stranger with surprise and
The Valley Of Fear
704
a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave
of colour over her pale face. Framed in the bright
light of the open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo
that he had never seen a more beautiful picture;
the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid
and gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet
growing upon one of those black slag-heaps of the
mines would not have seemed more surprising. So
entranced was he that he stood staring without a
word, and it was she who broke the silence.
“I thought it was father,” said she with a pleasing
little touch of a German accent. “Did you come
to see him? He is downtown. I expect him back
every minute.”
McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration
until her eyes dropped in confusion before
this masterful visitor.
“No, miss,” he said at last, “I’m in no hurry to
see him. But your house was recommended to me
for board. I thought it might suit me—and now I
know it will.”
“You are quick to make up your mind,” said
she with a smile.
“Anyone but a blind man could do as much,”
the other answered.
She laughed at the compliment. “Come right
in, sir,” she said. “I’m Miss Ettie Shafter, Mr.
Shafter’s daughter. My mother’s dead, and I run
the house. You can sit down by the stove in the
front room until father comes along—Ah, here he
is! So you can fix things with him right away.”
A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the
path. In a few words McMurdo explained his business.
A man of the name of Murphy had given him
the address in Chicago. He in turn had had it from
someone else. Old Shafter was quite ready. The
stranger made no bones about terms, agreed at
once to every condition, and was apparently fairly
flush of money. For seven dollars a week paid in
advance he was to have board and lodging.
So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed
fugitive from justice, took up his abode under the
roof of the Shafters, the first step which was to lead
to so long and dark a train of events, ending in a
far distant land.