The Valley of Fear

“I am inclined to think—” said I.

“I should do so,” Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.

I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I'lladmit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption. “Really, Holmes,”said I severely, “you are a little trying at times.”

He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediateanswer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untastedbreakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had justdrawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up tothe light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.

“It is Porlock's writing,” said he thoughtfully. “I can hardly doubt thatit is Porlock's writing, though I have seen it only twice before. TheGreek e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it isPorlock, then it must be something of the very first importance.”

He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation disappearedin the interest which the words awakened.

“Who then is Porlock?” I asked.

“Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; butbehind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter hefrankly informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me ever totrace him among the teeming millions of this great city. Porlock isimportant, not for himself, but for the great man with whom he is intouch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with the shark, the jackal withthe lion—anything that is insignificant in companionship with whatis formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but sinister—in thehighest degree sinister. That is where he comes within my purview. Youhave heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”

“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”

“My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.

“I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.”

“A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certainunexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn toguard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel inthe eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it!The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, thecontrolling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made ormarred the destiny of nations—that's the man! But so aloof is hefrom general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in hismanagement and self-effacement, that for those very words that you haveuttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's pensionas a solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated authorof The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefiedheights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in thescientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce?Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor—such would be yourrespective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by lesser men,our day will surely come.”