“The clothes are commonplace,” remarked Holmes, “save only the overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches.”  He held it tenderly towards the light.  “Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into the lining in such fashion as to give ample space for the truncated fowling piece.  The tailor’s tab is on the neck—­’Neal, Outfitter, Vermissa, U.S.A.’  I have spent an instructive afternoon in the rector’s library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of the best known coal and iron valleys in the United States.  I have some recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated the coal districts with Mr. Douglas’s first wife, and it would surely not be too far-fetched an inference that the V.V. upon the card by the dead body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which sends forth emissaries of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we have heard.  So much is fairly clear.  And now, Mr. Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the way of your explanation.”

It was a sight to see Cecil Barker’s expressive face during this exposition of the great detective.  Anger, amazement, consternation, and indecision swept over it in turn.  Finally he took refuge in a somewhat acrid irony.

“You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some more,” he sneered.

“I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr. Barker; but it would come with a better grace from you.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?  Well, all I can say is that if there’s any secret here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it away.”

“Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker,” said the inspector quietly, “we must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant and can hold you.”

“You can do what you damn please about that,” said Barker defiantly.

The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he was concerned; for one had only to look at that granite face to realize that no peine forte et dure would ever force him to plead against his will.  The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman’s voice.  Mrs. Douglas had been standing listening at the half opened door, and now she entered the room.

“You have done enough for now, Cecil,” said she.  “Whatever comes of it in the future, you have done enough.”

“Enough and more than enough,” remarked Sherlock Holmes gravely.  “I have every sympathy with you, madam, and should strongly urge you to have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to take the police voluntarily into your complete confidence.  It may be that I am myself at fault for not following up the hint which you conveyed to me through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had every reason to believe that you were directly concerned in the crime.  Now I am assured that this is not so.  At the same time, there is much that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr. Douglas to tell us his own story.”