“Yes， he was delirious with fever once when he had his huntingaccident three years ago. Then I remember that there was a namethat came continually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sortof horror. McGinty was the name—Bodymaster McGinty. I askedhim when he recovered who Bodymaster McGinty was， and whosebody he was master of. ‘Never of mine， thank God！’ he answeredwith a laugh， and that was all I could get from him. But there is aconnection between Bodymaster McGinty and the Valley of Fear.”
“There is one other point，” said Inspector MacDonald. “Youmet Mr. Douglas in a boarding house in London， did you not， andbecame engaged to him there？ Was there any romance， anythingsecret or mysterious， about the wedding？”
“There was romance. There is always romance. There wasnothing mysterious.”
“He had no rival？”
“No， I was quite free.”
“You have heard， no doubt， that his wedding ring has been taken.
Does that suggest anything to you？ Suppose that some enemy ofhis old life had tracked him down and committed this crime， whatpossible reason could he have for taking his wedding ring？”
For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of asmile flickered over the woman’s lips.
“I really cannot tell，” she answered. “It is certainly a mostextraordinary thing.”
“Well， we will not detain you any longer， and we are sorry to haveput you to this trouble at such a time，” said the inspector. “Thereare some other points， no doubt； but we can refer to you as theyarise.”
She rose， and I was again conscious of that quick， questioningglance with which she had just surveyed us. “What impression hasmy evidence made upon you？” The question might as well havebeen spoken. Then， with a bow， she swept from the room.
“She’s a beautiful woman—a very beautiful woman，” saidMacDonald thoughtfully， after the door had closed behind her.
“This man Barker has certainly been down here a good deal. Heis a man who might be attractive to a woman. He admits that thedead man was jealous， and maybe he knew best himself what causehe had for jealousy. Then there’s that wedding ring. You can’t getpast that. The man who tears a wedding ring off a dead man’s—What do you say to it， Mr. Holmes？”
My friend had sat with his head upon his hands， sunk in thedeepest thought. Now he rose and rang the bell. “Ames，” he said，when the butler entered， “where is Mr. Cecil Barker now？”
“I’ll see， sir.”
He came back in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.
“Can you remember， Ames， what Mr. Barker had on his feet lastnight when you joined him in the study？”
“Yes， Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I broughthim his boots when he went for the police.”
“Where are the slippers now？”
“They are still under the chair in the hall.”
“Very good， Ames. It is， of course， important for us to knowwhich tracks may be Mr. Barker’s and which from outside.”
“Yes， sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stainedwith blood—so indeed were my own.”
“That is natural enough， considering the condition of the room.
Very good， Ames. We will ring if we want you.”
A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had broughtwith him the carpet slippers from the hall. As Ames had observed，the soles of both were dark with blood.
“Strange！” murmured Holmes， as he stood in the light of thewindow and examined them minutely. “Very strange indeed！”
Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces， he placed theslipper upon the blood mark on the sill. It exactly corresponded.
He smiled in silence at his colleagues.
The inspector was transfigured with excitement. His nativeaccent rattled like a stick upon railings.
“Man，” he cried， “there’s not a doubt of it！ Barker has justmarked the window himself. It’s a good deal broader than anybootmark. I mind that you said it was a splay-foot， and here’s theexplanation. But what’s the game， Mr. Holmes—what’s the game？”
“Ay， what’s the game？” my friend repeated thoughtfully.
White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in hisprofessional satisfaction. “I said it was a snorter！” he cried. “And areal snorter it is！”
A Dawning Light
The three detectives had many matters of detail into which toinquire； so I returned alone to our modest quarters at the villageinn. But before doing so I took a stroll in the curious old-worldgarden which flanked the house. Rows of very ancient yew treescut into strange designs girded it round. Inside was a beautifulstretch of lawn with an old sundial in the middle， the whole effectso soothing and restful that it was welcome to my somewhatjangled nerves.
In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget， orremember only as some fantastic nightmare， that darkened studywith the sprawling， bloodstained figure on the floor. And yet， asI strolled round it and tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm， astrange incident occurred， which brought me back to the tragedyand left a sinister impression in my mind.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. Atthe end farthest from the house they thickened into a continuoushedge. On the other side of this hedge， concealed from the eyes ofanyone approaching from the direction of the house， there was astone seat. As I approached the spot I was aware of voices， someremark in the deep tones of a man， answered by a little ripple offeminine laughter.
An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge andmy eyes lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before theywere aware of my presence. Her appearance gave me a shock.
In the dining-room she had been demure and discreet. Now allpretense of grief had passed away from her. Her eyes shone withthe joy of living， and her face still quivered with amusement atsome remark of her companion. He sat forward， his hands claspedand his forearms on his knees， with an answering smile upon hisbold， handsome face. In an instant—but it was just one instanttoo late—they resumed their solemn masks as my figure cameinto view. A hurried word or two passed between them， and thenBarker rose and came towards me.
