The Hound of the Baskervilles. *
                   ANOTHER ADVENTURE OF
                     SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                      BY CONAN DOYLE.



                        CHAPTER I.
                   MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.

MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night,
was seated at the breakfast table.  I stood upon the hearth-rug
and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the
night before.  It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed,
of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." 
Just under the head was a broad silver band, nearly an inch across. 
"To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,"
was engraved upon it, with the date "1884."  It was just such a 
stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry --
dignified, solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him 
no sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing?  I believe you have eyes 
in the back of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished silver-plated coffee-pot 
in front of me," said he.  "But, tell me, Watson, what do 
you make of our visitor's stick?  Since we have been so 
unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, 
this accidental souvenir becomes of importance.  Let me hear 
you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.
"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods 
of my companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful elderly 
medical man, well-esteemed, since those who know him give 
him this mark of their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes.  "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being 
a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting 
on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one, 
has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town 
practitioner carrying it.  The thick iron ferrule is worn 
down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of 
walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' 
I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt 
to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance,
and which has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing 
back his chair and lighting a cigarette.  "I am bound to say 
that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to 
give of my own small achievements you have habitually 
underrated your own abilities.  It may be that you are not 
yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light.  Some 
people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of 
stimulating it.  I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very 
much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his 
words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by 
his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which 
I had made to give publicity to his methods.  I was proud 
too to think that I had so far mastered his system as to 
apply it in a way which earned his approval.  He now took 
the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes 
with his naked eyes.  Then with an expression of interest
he laid down his cigarette and, carrying the cane to the 
window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he, as he returned to 
his favourite corner of the settee.  "There are certainly 
one or two indications upon the stick.  It gives us the 
basis for several deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked, with some self-importance. 
"I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have
overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions 
were erroneous.  When I said that you stimulated me I meant, 
to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was 
occasionally guided towards the truth.  Not that you are 
entirely wrong in this instance.  The man is certainly a 
country practitioner.  And he walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all -- by no means all. 
I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor 
is more likely to come from an hospital than from a hunt, 
and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that 
hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest 
themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction.  And if we take 
this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from 
which to start our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing 
Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves?  You know my methods.  Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has 
practised in town before going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this.  
Look at it in this light.  On what occasion would it be most 
probable that such a presentation would be made?  When would 
his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will?  
Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the 
service of the hospital in order to start in practice for 
himself.  We know there has been a presentation.  We believe 
there has been a change from a town hospital to a country 
practice.  Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to 
say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the 
_staff_ of the hospital, since only a man well-established 
in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a 
one would not drift into the country.  What was he, then?  
If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could 
only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician -- 
little more than a senior student.  And he left five years 
ago -- the date is on the stick.  So your grave, middle-aged 
family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, 
and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, 
unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite 
dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a 
terrier and smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in 
his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the 
ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," 
said I, "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few 
particulars about the man's age and professional career."  
From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical 
Directory and turned up the name.  There were several 
Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. 
I read his record aloud.

"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.  
House surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.  
Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with 
essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'  Corresponding 
member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of 'Some 
Freaks of Atavism' (_Lancet_, 1882).  'Do We Progress?' 
(_Journal of Psychology_, March, 1883).  Medical Officer for 
the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes,
with a mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very 
astutely observed.  I think that I am fairly justified in my 
inferences.  As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember 
right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded.  It is my 
experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who 
receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons 
a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded 
one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after 
waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his 
master.  Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by 
the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly 
visible.  The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these 
marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not 
broad enough for a mastiff.  It may have been -- yes,
by Jove, it _is_ a curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke.  Now he halted 
in the recess of the window.  There was such a ring of 
conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on 
our very doorstep, and there is the ring of its owner.  
Don't move, I beg you, Watson.  He is a professional brother 
of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me.  Now 
is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step 
upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know 
not whether for good or ill.  What does Dr. James Mortimer, 
the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist 
in crime?  Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I 
had expected a typical country practitioner.  He was a very 
tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted 
out between two keen, grey eyes, set closely together and 
sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed 
glasses.  He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly 
fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. 
Though young, his long back was already bowed, and 
he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general 
air of peering benevolence.  As he entered his eyes fell 
upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with 
an exclamation of joy.  "I am so very glad," said he. 
"I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping 
Office.  I would not lose that stick for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.

"Why was it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. 
Your marriage, you say?"

"Yes, sir.  I married, and so left the hospital, and with it 
all hopes of a consulting practice.  It was necessary to 
make a home of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong after all," said Holmes. 
"And now, Dr. James Mortimer ----"

"Mister, sir, Mister -- a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on 
the shores of the great unknown ocean.  I presume that it is 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not ----"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir.  I have heard your name mentioned in 
connection with that of your friend.  You interest me very 
much, Mr. Holmes.  I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic 
a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development.  
Would you have any objection to my running my finger along 
your parietal fissure?  A cast of your skull, sir, until
the original is available, would be an ornament to any 
anthropological museum.  It is not my intention to be 
fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair.  
"You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, 
sir, as I am in mine," said he.  "I observe from your 
forefinger that you make your own cigarettes.  Have no 
hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in 
the other with surprising dexterity.  He had long, quivering 
fingers as agile and restless as the antennae {1} of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me 
the interest which he took in our curious companion.

"I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely 
for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me 
the honour to call here last night and again to-day?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity 
of doing that as well.  I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I 
recognise that I am myself an unpractical man, and because I 
am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary 
problem.  Recognising, as I do, that you are the second 
highest expert in Europe ----"

"Indeed, sir!  May I inquire who has the honour to be the 
first?" asked Holmes, with some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of 
Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind.  But as a 
practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand 
alone.  I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently ----"

"Just a little," said Holmes.  "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you 
would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me 
plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you 
demand my assistance."



                        CHAPTER II.
               THE CURSE OF THE BASKERVILLES.

"I HAVE in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

"It is an old manuscript."

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

"How can you say that, sir?"

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination 
all the time that you have been talking.  It would be a poor 
expert who could not give the date of a document within a 
decade or so.  You may possibly have read my little 
monograph upon the subject.  I put that at 1730."

"The exact date is 1742."  Dr. Mortimer drew it from his 
breast-pocket.  "This family paper was committed to my care 
by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death 
some three months ago created so much excitement in 
Devonshire.  I may say that I was his personal friend as 
well as his medical attendant.  He was a strong-minded man, 
sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself.  
Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was 
prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him."

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and 
flattened it upon his knee.

"You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long 
_s_ and the short.  It is one of several indications which 
enabled me to fix the date."

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded 
script.  At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and 
below, in large, scrawling figures: "1742."

"It appears to be a statement of some sort."

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in 
the Baskerville family."

"But I understand that it is something more modern and 
practical upon which you wish to consult me?"

"Most modern.  A most practical, pressing matter, which must 
be decided within twenty-four hours.  But the manuscript is 
short and is intimately connected with the affair.  With 
your permission I will read it to you."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips 
together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation.  
Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in 
a high, crackling voice the following curious, old-world 
narrative:--

"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have 
been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from 
Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who 
also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief 
that it occurred even as is here set forth.  And I would 
have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which 
punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that 
no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may 
be removed.  Learn then from this story not to fear the 
fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future,
that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so
grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.

"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the 
history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most 
earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of 
Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be 
gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man.  
This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing 
that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there 
was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his 
name a byword through the West.  It chanced that this Hugo 
came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known 
under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held 
lands near the Baskerville estate.  But the young maiden, 
being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him,
for she feared his evil name.  So it came to pass that one 
Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and 
wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off 
the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he 
well knew.  When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden 
was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends 
sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom.  
Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned 
at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up 
to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo 
Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast 
the man who said them.  At last in the stress of her fear 
she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most 
active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which 
covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from 
under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there 
being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests 
to carry food and drink -- with other worse things, 
perchance -- to his captive, and so found the cage empty and 
the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became as one 
that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the 
dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and 
trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all 
the company that he would that very night render his body 
and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the 
wench.  And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of 
the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than 
the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon 
her.  Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms 
that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and 
giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to 
the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to 
understand all that had been done in such haste.  But anon 
their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was 
like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything was now in 
an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their 
horses, and some for another flask of wine.  But at length 
some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of 
them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit.  
The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly 
abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have 
taken if she were to reach her own home.

"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the 
night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him
to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as the story 
goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, 
but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy 
maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  'But I have seen 
more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me 
upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a 
hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' 
So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onwards.  
But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping 
across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white 
froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle.  
Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was 
on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, 
had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned 
his horse's head.  Riding slowly in this fashion they came 
at last upon the hounds.  These, though known for their 
valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the 
head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, 
some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and 
staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

"The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may 
guess, than when they started.  The most of them would by no 
means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be 
the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.  Now, it 
opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great 
stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain 
forgotten peoples in the days of old.  The moon was shining 
bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the 
unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of 
fatigue.  But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was 
it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, 
which raised the hair upon the heads of these three 
dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, 
and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a 
great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any 
hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.  And even as 
they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo 
Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and 
dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and 
rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. 
One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen,
and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of
their days.

"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which 
is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since.  If 
I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known 
hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and 
guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many of the family have 
been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, 
bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we shelter ourselves in the 
infinite goodness of Providence, which would not for ever 
punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation 
which is threatened in Holy Writ.  To that Providence, my 
sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of 
caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark 
hours when the powers of evil are exalted.

"[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, 
with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their 
sister Elizabeth.]"

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular 
narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and 
stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  The latter yawned
and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more 
recent.  This is the _Devon County Chronicle_ of May 14th of 
this year.  It is a short account of the facts elicited at 
the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few 
days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became 
intent.  Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:--

"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose 
name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate 
for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over 
the county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville 
Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of 
character and extreme generosity had won the affection and 
respect of all who had been brought into contact with him.  
In these days of _nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find 
a case where the scion of an old county family which has 
fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to 
bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his 
line.  Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of 
money in South African speculation.  More wise than those 
who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized 
his gains and returned to England with them.  It is only two 
years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, 
and it is common talk how large were those schemes of 
reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted 
by his death.  Being himself childless, it was his 
openly-expressed desire that the whole countryside should, 
within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and 
many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely 
end.  His generous donations to local and county charities 
have been frequently chronicled in these columns.

"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles 
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the 
inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of 
those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.  
There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to 
imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.  
Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have 
been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.  In spite 
of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal 
tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall 
consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband 
acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.  Their 
evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to 
show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been 
impaired, and points especially to some affection of the 
heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, 
breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.  
Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

"The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville 
was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking 
down the famous Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall.  The evidence 
of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. 
On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of 
starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to 
prepare his luggage.  That night he went out as usual for 
his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the 
habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.  At twelve 
o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became 
alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his 
master.  The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks 
were easily traced down the Alley.  Half-way down this walk 
there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.  There were 
indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time 
here.  He then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the 
far end of it that his body was discovered.  One fact which 
has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that 
his master's footprints altered their character from the 
time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from 
thence onwards to have been walking upon his toes.  One 
Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great 
distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession 
to have been the worse for drink.  He declares that he heard 
cries, but is unable to state from what direction they came.  
No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir 
Charles's person, and though the doctor's evidence pointed 
to an almost incredible facial distortion -- so great that 
Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed 
his friend and patient who lay before him -- it was 
explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in 
cases of dyspnoea {2} and death from cardiac exhaustion.  
This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem 
examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and 
the coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the 
medical evidence.  It is well that this is so, for it is 
obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir 
should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which 
has been so sadly interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of 
the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories 
which have been whispered in connection with the affair it 
might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville 
Hall.  It is understood that the next-of-kin is Mr. Henry 
Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles 
Baskerville's younger brother.  The young man when last 
heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted 
with a view to informing him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.

"Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with 
the death of Sir Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my 
attention to a case which certainly presents some features 
of interest.  I had observed some newspaper comment at the 
time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little 
affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige 
the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. 
This article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones."  He leaned back, put 
his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and 
judicial expression.

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show 
signs of some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I 
have not confided to anyone.  My motive for withholding it 
from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks 
from placing himself in the public position of seeming to 
indorse a popular superstition.  I had the further motive 
that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly 
remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its 
already rather grim reputation.  For both these reasons I 
thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I 
knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with 
you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live 
near each other are thrown very much together.  For this 
reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville.  With 
the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. 
Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of 
education within many miles.  Sir Charles was a retiring 
man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and 
a community of interests in science kept us so.  He had 
brought back much scientific information from South Africa, 
and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing
the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to 
me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to 
breaking point.  He had taken this legend which I have read 
you exceedingly to heart -- so much so that, although he 
would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to 
go out upon the moor at night.  Incredible as it may appear 
to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a 
dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records 
which he was able to give of his ancestors were not 
encouraging.  The idea of some ghastly presence constantly 
haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me 
whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any 
strange creature or heard the baying of a hound.  The latter 
question he put to me several times, and always with a voice 
which vibrated with excitement.

"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening, 
some three weeks before the fatal event.  He chanced to be 
at his hall door.  I had descended from my gig and was 
standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves 
over my shoulder, and stare past me with an expression of 
the most dreadful horror.  I whisked round and had just time 
to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large 
black calf passing at the head of the drive.  So excited and 
alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot 
where the animal had been and look around for it.  It was 
gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst 
impression upon his mind.  I stayed with him all the 
evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion 
which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that 
narrative which I read to you when first I came.  I mention 
this small episode because it assumes some importance in 
view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at 
the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his 
excitement had no justification.

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to 
London.  His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant 
anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of 
it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his 
health.  I thought that a few months among the distractions 
of town would send him back a new man.  Mr. Stapleton, a 
mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, 
was of the same opinion.  At the last instant came this 
terrible catastrophe.

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, 
who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback 
to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach 
Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event.  I checked and 
corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the 
inquest.  I followed the footsteps down the Yew Alley, I saw 
the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I 
remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that 
point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those 
of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully 
examined the body, which had not been touched until my 
arrival.  Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his 
fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with 
some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly 
have sworn to his identity.  There was certainly no physical 
injury of any kind.  But one false statement was made by 
Barrymore at the inquest.  He said that there were no traces 
upon the ground round the body.  He did not observe any.  
But I did -- some little distance off, but fresh and clear."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his 
voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered:--

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"



                       CHAPTER III.
                       THE PROBLEM.

I CONFESS that at these words a shudder passed through me.  
There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that 
he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us.  
Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the 
hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly 
interested.

"You saw this?"

"As clearly as I see you."

"And you said nothing?"

"What was the use?"

"How was it that no one else saw it?"

"The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one 
gave them a thought.  I don't suppose I should have done so 
had I not known this legend."

"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"

"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."

"You say it was large?"

"Enormous."

"But it had not approached the body?"

"No."

"What sort of night was it?"

"Damp and raw."

"But not actually raining?"

"No."

"What is the alley like?"

"There are two lines of old yew hedge, 12ft. high and 
impenetrable.  The walk in the centre is about 8ft. across."

"Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"

"Yes, there is a strip of grass about 6ft. broad on either side."

"I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point 
by a gate?"

"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."

"Is there any other opening?"

"None."

"So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down 
it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?"

"There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."

"Had Sir Charles reached this?"

"No; he lay about fifty yards from it."

"Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer -- and this is important -- the 
marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?"

"No marks could show on the grass."

"Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"

"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as 
the moor-gate."

"You interest me exceedingly.  Another point.  Was the 
wicket-gate closed?"

"Closed and padlocked."

"How high was it?"

"About 4ft. high."

"Then anyone could have got over it?"

"Yes."

"And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"

"None in particular."

"Good Heaven!  Did no one examine?"

"Yes, I examined myself."

"And found nothing?"

"It was all very confused.  Sir Charles had evidently stood 
there for five or ten minutes."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."

"Excellent!  This is a colleague, Watson, after our own 
heart.  But the marks?"

"He had left his own marks all over that small patch of 
gravel.  I could discern no others."

Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an 
impatient gesture.

"If I had only been there!" he cried.  "It is evidently a 
case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented 
immense opportunities to the scientific expert.  That gravel 
page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere 
this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious 
peasants.  Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you 
should not have called me in!  You have indeed much to 
answer for."

"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing 
these facts to the world, and I have already given my 
reasons for not wishing to do so.  Besides, besides ----"

"Why do you hesitate?"

"There is a realm in which the most acute and most 
experienced of detectives is helpless."

"You mean that the thing is supernatural?"

"I did not positively say so."

"No, but you evidently think it."

"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears 
several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the 
settled order of Nature."

"For example?"

"I find that before the terrible event occurred several 
people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds 
with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be 
any animal known to science.  They all agreed that it was a 
huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral.  I have 
cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed 
countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who 
all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly 
corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend.  I assure you 
that there is a reign of terror in the district and that it 
is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night."

"And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be 
supernatural?"

"I do not know what to believe."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," 
said he.  "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take 
on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too 
ambitious a task.  Yet you must admit that the footmark is 
material."

"The original hound was material enough to tug a man's 
throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well."

"I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. 
But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this.  If you hold these views,
why have you come to consult me at all?  You tell me in the same
breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death,
and that you desire me to do it."

"I did not say that I desired you to do it."

"Then, how can I assist you?"

"By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville,
who arrives at Waterloo Station" -- Dr. Mortimer looked at his
watch -- "in exactly one hour and a quarter."

"He being the heir?"

"Yes.  On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this 
young gentleman, and found that he had been farming in 
Canada.  From the accounts which have reached us he is an 
excellent fellow in every way.  I speak now not as a medical 
man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles's will."

"There is no other claimant, I presume?"

"None.  The only other kinsman whom we have been able to 
trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers 
of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder.  The second brother, 
who died young, is the father of this lad Henry.  The third, 
Rodger, was the black sheep of the family.  He came of the 
old masterful Baskerville strain, and was the very image, 
they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo.  He made 
England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and 
died there in 1876 of yellow fever.  Henry is the last of 
the Baskervilles.  In one hour and five minutes I meet him 
at Waterloo Station.  I have had a wire that he arrived at 
Southampton this morning.  Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you 
advise me to do with him?"

"Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"

"It seems natural, does it not?  And yet, consider that 
every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. 
I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me 
before his death he would have warned me against bringing 
this the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, 
to that deadly place.  And yet it cannot be denied that the 
prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side depends 
upon his presence.  All the good work which has been done by 
Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant 
of the Hall.  I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my 
own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring 
the case before you and ask for your advice."

Holmes considered for a little time.

"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. 
"In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes 
Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville -- that is your 
opinion?"

"At least I might go the length of saying that there is some 
evidence that this may be so."

"Exactly.  But surely, if your supernatural theory be 
correct, it could work the young man evil in London as 
easily as in Devonshire.  A devil with merely local powers 
like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing."

"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you 
would probably do if you were brought into personal contact 
with these things.  Your advice, then, as I understand it, 
is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in 
London.  He comes in fifty minutes.  What would you recommend?"

"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your 
spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to 
Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville."

"And then?"

"And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have 
made up my mind about the matter."

"How long will it take you to make up your mind?"

"Twenty-four hours.  At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, 
I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, 
and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if 
you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you."

"I will do so, Mr. Holmes."  He scribbled the appointment on 
his shirt cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, 
absent-minded fashion.  Holmes stopped him at the head of 
the stair.

"Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer.  You say that before 
Sir Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this 
apparition upon the moor?"

"Three people did."

"Did any see it after?"

"I have not heard of any."

"Thank you.  Good morning."

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward 
satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before 
him.

"Going out, Watson?"

"Unless I can help you."

"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn 
to you for aid.  But this is splendid, really unique from 
some points of view.  When you pass Bradley's would you ask 
him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco?  Thank 
you.  It would be as well if you could make it convenient 
not to return before evening.  Then I should be very glad to 
compare impressions as to this most interesting problem 
which has been submitted to us this morning."

I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for 
my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration 
during which he weighed every particle of evidence, 
constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the 
other, and made up his mind as to which points were 
essential and which immaterial.  I therefore spent the day 
at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening.  
It was nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the 
sitting-room once more.

My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had 
broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the 
light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it.  As I 
entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the 
acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the 
throat and set me coughing.  Through the haze I had a vague 
vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an 
arm-chair with his black clay pipe between his lips.  
Several rolls of paper lay around him.

"Caught cold, Watson?" said he.

"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."

"I suppose it _is_ pretty thick, now that you mention it."

"Thick!  It is intolerable."

"Open the window, then!  You have been at your club all day, 
I perceive."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Am I right?"

"Certainly, but how ----?"

He laughed at my bewildered expression.

"There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which 
makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I 
possess at your expense.  A gentleman goes forth on a 
showery and miry day.  He returns immaculate in the evening 
with the gloss still on his hat and his boots.  He has been 
a fixture therefore all day.  He is not a man with intimate 
friends.  Where, then, could he have been?  Is it not obvious?"

"Well, it is rather obvious."

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any 
chance ever observes.  Where do you think that I have been?"

"A fixture also."

"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."

"In spirit?"

"Exactly.  My body has remained in this arm-chair, and has, 
I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots 
of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco.  After you 
left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this 
portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all 
day.  I flatter myself that I could find my way about."

"A large scale map, I presume?"

"Very large."  He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. 
"Here you have the particular district which concerns us. 
That is Baskerville Hall in the middle."

"With a wood round it?"

"Exactly.  I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under 
that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as 
you perceive, upon the right of it.  This small clump of 
buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend 
Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters.  Within a radius of five 
miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered 
dwellings.  Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the 
narrative.  There is a house indicated here which may be the 
residence of the naturalist -- Stapleton, if I remember right,
was his name.  Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor
and Foulmire.  Then fourteen miles away the great 
convict prison of Princetown.  Between and around these 
scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor.  This, 
then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and 
upon which we may help to play it again."

"It must be a wild place."

"Yes, the setting is a worthy one.  If the devil did desire 
to have a hand in the affairs of men ----"

"Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural 
explanation."

"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?  
There are two questions waiting for us at the outset.  The 
one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the 
second is, what is the crime and how was it committed?  Of 
course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we 
are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, 
there is an end of our investigation.  But we are bound to 
exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. 
I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. 
It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated
atmosphere helps a concentration of thought.  I have not pushed
it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is
the logical outcome of my convictions.  Have you turned the
case over in your mind?"

"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."

"What do you make of it?"

"It is very bewildering."

"It has certainly a character of its own.  There are points 
of distinction about it.  That change in the footprints, for 
example.  What do you make of that?"

"Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that 
portion of the alley."

"He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest.  
Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?"

"What then?"

"He was running, Watson -- running desperately, running for 
his life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead 
upon his face."

"Running from what?"

"There lies our problem.  There are indications that the man 
was crazed with fear before ever he began to run."

"How can you say that?"

"I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him 
across the moor.  If that were so, and it seems most 
probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run 
_from_ the house instead of towards it.  If the gipsy's 
evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in 
the direction where help was least likely to be.  Then, 
again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he 
waiting for him in the Yew Alley rather than in his own 
house?"

"You think that he was waiting for someone?"

"The man was elderly and infirm.  We can understand his 
taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the 
night inclement.  Is it natural that he should stand for 
five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical 
sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from 
the cigar ash?"

"But he went out every evening."

"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every 
evening.  On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided 
the moor.  That night he waited there.  It was the night 
before he made his departure for London.  The thing takes 
shape, Watson.  It becomes coherent.  Might I ask you to 
hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought 
upon this business until we have had the advantage of 
meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the 
morning."



                       CHAPTER IV.
                  SIR HENRY BASKERVILLE.

OUR breakfast-table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in 
his dressing-gown for the promised interview.  Our clients 
were punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just 
struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the 
young Baronet.  The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man 
about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick 
black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face.  He wore a 
ruddy-tinted tweed suit, and had the weather-beaten 
appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open 
air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the 
quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman.

"This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer.

"Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round 
to you this morning I should have come on my own. 
I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had 
one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am 
able to give to it."

"Pray take a seat, Sir Henry.  Do I understand you to say 
that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since 
you arrived in London?"

"Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes.  Only a joke, as 
like as not.  It was this letter, if you can call it a 
letter, which reached me this morning."

He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it.  
It was of common quality, greyish in colour.  The address, 
"Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed 
in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the 
date of posting the preceding evening.

"Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" 
asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

"No one could have known.  We only decided after I met Dr. 
Mortimer."

"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"

"No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor.  
"There was no possible indication that we intended to go to 
this hotel."

"Hum!  Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your 
movements."  Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of 
foolscap paper folded into four.  This he opened and spread 
flat upon the table.  Across the middle of it a single 
sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed 
words upon it.  It ran: "as you value your life or your 
reason keep away from the moor."  The word "moor" only was 
printed in ink.

"Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me,
Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who
it is that takes so much interest in my affairs?"

"What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer?  You must allow that 
there is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?"

"No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was 
convinced that the business is supernatural."

"What business?" asked Sir Henry, sharply.  "It seems to me 
that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do 
about my own affairs."

"You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, 
Sir Henry.  I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes.  "We 
will confine ourselves for the present with your permission 
to this very interesting document, which must have been put 
together and posted yesterday evening.  Have you yesterday's 
_Times_, Watson?"

"It is here in the corner."

"Might I trouble you for it -- the inside page, please, with 
the leading articles?"  He glanced swiftly over it, running 
his eyes up and down the columns.  "Capital article this on 
Free Trade.  Permit me to give you an extract from it.  'You 
may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or 
your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, 
but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the 
long run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the 
value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of 
life in this island.'  What do you think of that, Watson?" 
cried Holmes, in high glee, rubbing his hands together with 
satisfaction.  "Don't you think that is an admirable 
sentiment?"

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional 
interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled 
dark eyes upon me.

"I don't know much about the tariff and things of that 
kind," said he; "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the 
trail so far as that note is concerned."

"On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the 
trail, Sir Henry.  Watson here knows more about my methods 
than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped 
the significance of this sentence."

"No, I confess that I see no connection."

"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a 
connection that the one is extracted out of the other.  
'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep 
away,' 'from the.'  Don't you see now whence these words 
have been taken?"

"By thunder, you're right!  Well, if that isn't smart!" 
cried Sir Henry.

"If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact 
that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece."

"Well, now -- so it is!"

"Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could 
have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in 
amazement.  "I could understand anyone saying that the words 
were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and 
add that it came from the leading article, is really one of 
the most remarkable things which I have ever known.  How did 
you do it?"

"I presume, doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro 
from that of an Esquimaux?"

"Most certainly."

"But how?"

"Because that is my special hobby.  The differences are 
obvious.  The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the 
maxillary curve, the ----"

"But this is my special hobby, and the differences are 
equally obvious.  There is as much difference to my eyes 
between the leaded bourgeois type of a _Times_ article and 
the slovenly print of an evening halfpenny paper as there 
could be between your negro and your Esquimaux.  The 
detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of 
knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess 
that once when I was very young I confused the _Leeds 
Mercury_ with the _Western Morning News_.  But a _Times_ 
leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have 
been taken from nothing else.  As it was done yesterday the 
strong probability was that we should find the words in 
yesterday's issue."

"So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir 
Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a 
scissors ----"

"Nail-scissors," said Holmes.  "You can see that it was a 
very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two 
snips over 'keep away.'"

"That is so.  Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair 
of short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste ----"

"Gum," said Holmes.

"With gum on to the paper.  But I want to know why the word 
'moor' should have been written?"

"Because he could not find it in print.  The other words 
were all simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' 
would be less common."

"Why, of course, that would explain it.  Have you read 
anything else in this message, Mr. Holmes?"

"There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains 
have been taken to remove all clues.  The address, you 
observe, is printed in rough characters.  But the _Times_ is 
a paper which is seldom found in any hands but those of the 
highly educated.  We may take it, therefore, that the letter 
was composed by an educated man who wished to pose as an 
uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own writing 
suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be 
known, by you.  Again, you will observe that the words are 
not gummed on in an accurate line, but that some are much 
higher than others.  'Life,' for example, is quite out of 
its proper place.  That may point to carelessness or it may 
point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter.  
On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter 
was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the 
composer of such a letter would be careless.  If he were in 
a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should 
be in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning 
would reach Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. 
Did the composer fear an interruption -- and from whom?"

"We are coming now rather into the region of guess work," 
said Dr. Mortimer.

"Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities 
and choose the most likely.  It is the scientific use of the 
imagination, but we have always some material basis on which 
to start our speculations.  Now, you would call it a guess, 
no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been 
written in an hotel."

"How in the world can you say that?"

"If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen 
and the ink have given the writer trouble.  The pen has 
spluttered twice in a single word, and has run dry three 
times in a short address, showing that there was very little 
ink in the bottle.  Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is 
seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of 
the two must be quite rare.  But you know the hotel ink and 
the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. 
Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we 
examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels round Charing 
Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated _Times_ 
leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who 
sent this singular message.  Halloa! Halloa!  What's this?"

He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words
were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

"Well?"

"Nothing," said he, throwing it down.  "It is a blank 
half-sheet of paper, without even a watermark upon it. 
I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious 
letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest 
happened to you since you have been in London?"

"Why, no, Mr. Holmes.  I think not."

"You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?"

"I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime 
novel," said our visitor.  "Why in thunder should anyone 
follow or watch me?"

"We are coming to that.  You have nothing else to report to 
us before we go into this matter?"

"Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting."

"I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well 
worth reporting."

Sir Henry smiled.

"I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent 
nearly all my time in the States and in Canada.  But I hope 
that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary 
routine of life over here."

"You have lost one of your boots?"

"My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. 
You will find it when you return to the hotel.  What is the
use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?"

"Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine."

"Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. 
You have lost one of your boots, you say?"

"Well, mislaid it, anyhow.  I put them both outside my door 
last night, and there was only one in the morning.  I could 
get no sense out of the chap who cleans them.  The worst of 
it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, 
and I have never had them on."

"If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be 
cleaned?"

"They were tan boots, and had never been varnished. 
That was why I put them out."

"Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday 
you went out at once and bought a pair of boots?"

"I did a good deal of shopping.  Dr. Mortimer here went 
round with me.  You see, if I am to be squire down there I 
must dress the part, and it may be that I have got a little 
careless in my ways out West.  Among other things I bought 
these brown boots -- gave six dollars for them -- and had 
one stolen before ever I had them on my feet."

"It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said 
Sherlock Holmes.  "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's 
belief that it will not be long before the missing boot is 
found."

"And, now, gentlemen," said the Baronet, with decision, "it 
seems to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little 
that I know.  It is time that you kept your promise and gave 
me a full account of what we are all driving at."

"Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered.  
"Dr. Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell 
your story as you told it to us."

Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from 
his pocket, and presented the whole case as he had done upon 
the morning before.  Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the 
deepest attention, and with an occasional exclamation of 
surprise.

"Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a 
vengeance," said he, when the long narrative was finished.  
"Of course, I've heard of the hound ever since I was in the 
nursery.  It's the pet story of the family, though I never 
thought of taking it seriously before.  But as to my uncle's 
death -- well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and I 
can't get it clear yet.  You don't seem quite to have made up
your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman."

"Precisely."

"And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. 
I suppose that fits into its place."

"It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about 
what goes on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer.

"And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed 
towards you, since they warn you of danger."

"Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes,
to scare me away."

"Well, of course, that is possible also.  I am very much 
indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a 
problem which presents several interesting alternatives.  
But the practical point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry,
is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to 
Baskerville Hall."

"Why should I not go?"

"There seems to be danger."

"Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean 
danger from human beings?"

"Well, that is what we have to find out."

"Which ever it is, my answer is fixed.  There is no devil in 
hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can 
prevent me from going to the home of my own people, and you 
may take that to be my final answer."  His dark brows 
knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. 
It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was 
not extinct in this their last representative.  "Meanwhile," 
said he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you 
have told me.  It's a big thing for a man to have to 
understand and to decide at one sitting.  I should like to 
have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind.  Now, look 
here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going 
back right away to my hotel.  Suppose you and your friend, 
Dr. Watson, come round and lunch with us at two?  I'll be 
able to tell you more clearly then how this thing strikes me."

"Is that convenient to you, Watson?"

"Perfectly."

"Then you may expect us.  Shall I have a cab called?"

"I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather."

"I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion.

"Then we meet again at two o'clock.  Au revoir, and good morning!"

We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the 
bang of the front door.  In an instant Holmes had changed 
from the languid dreamer to the man of action.

"Your hat and boots, Watson, quick!  Not a moment to lose!"  
He rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back 
again in a few seconds in a frock-coat.  We hurried together 
down the stairs and into the street.  Dr. Mortimer and 
Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead 
of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

"Shall I run on and stop them?"

"Not for the world, my dear Watson.  I am perfectly 
satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine.  Our 
friends are wise, for it is certainly a very fine morning 
for a walk."

He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance 
which divided us by about half.  Then, still keeping a 
hundred yards behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so 
down Regent Street.  Once our friends stopped and stared 
into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same.  An 
instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction, 
and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a 
hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on the other 
side of the street was now walking slowly onwards again.

"There's our man, Watson!  Come along!  We'll have a good 
look at him, if we can do no more."

At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a 
pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window 
of the cab.  Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, 
something was screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly 
off down Regent Street.  Holmes looked eagerly round for 
another, but no empty one was in sight.  Then he dashed in 
wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the start 
was too great, and already the cab was out of sight.

"There now!" said Holmes, bitterly, as he emerged panting 
and white with vexation from the tide of vehicles.  "Was 
ever such bad luck and such bad management, too?  Watson, 
Watson, if you are an honest man you will record this also 
and set it against my successes!"

"Who was the man?"

"I have not an idea."

"A spy?"

"Well, it was evident from what we have heard that 
Baskerville has been very closely shadowed by someone since 
he has been in town.  How else could it be known so quickly 
that it was the Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen?  
If they had followed him the first day I argued that they 
would follow him also the second.  You may have observed 
that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer 
was reading his legend."

"Yes, I remember."

"I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw 
none.  We are dealing with a clever man, Watson.  This 
matter cuts very deep, and though I have not finally made up 
my mind whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent agency 
which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of power 
and design.  When our friends left I at once followed them 
in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant.  So 
wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but 
he had availed himself of a cab, so that he could loiter 
behind or dash past them and so escape their notice.  His 
method had the additional advantage that if they were to 
take a cab he was all ready to follow them.  It has, 
however, one obvious disadvantage."

"It puts him in the power of the cabman."

"Exactly."

"What a pity we did not get the number!"

"My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not 
seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? 
2704 is our man.  But that is no use to us for the moment."

"I fail to see how you could have done more."

"On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and 
walked in the other direction.  I should then at my leisure 
have hired a second cab and followed the first at a 
respectful distance, or, better still, have driven to the 
Northumberland Hotel and waited there.  When our unknown had 
followed Baskerville home we should have had the opportunity 
of playing his own game upon himself, and seeing where he 
made for.  As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was 
taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy 
by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man."

We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this 
conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long 
vanished in front of us.

"There is no object in our following them," said Holmes.  
"The shadow has departed and will not return.  We must see 
what further cards we have in our hands, and play them with 
decision.  Could you swear to that man's face within the cab."

"I could swear only to the beard."

"And so could I -- from which I gather that in all 
probability it was a false one.  A clever man upon so 
delicate an errand has no use for a beard save to conceal 
his features.  Come in here, Watson!"

He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where 
he was warmly greeted by the manager.

"Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in 
which I had the good fortune to help you?"

"No, sir, indeed I have not.  You saved my good name, and 
perhaps my life."

"My dear fellow, you exaggerate.  I have some recollection, 
Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, 
who showed some ability during the investigation."

"Yes, sir, he is still with us."

"Could you ring him up? -- thank you!  And I should be glad 
to have change of this five-pound note."

A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the 
summons of the manager.  He stood now gazing with great 
reverence at the famous detective.

"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes.  "Thank you!  
Now, Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels 
here, all in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross.  
Do you see?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will visit each of these in turn."

"Yes, sir."

"You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter 
one shilling.  Here are twenty-three shillings."

"Yes, sir."

"You will tell him that you want to see the waste paper of 
yesterday.  You will say that an important telegram has 
miscarried and that you are looking for it.  You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"But what you are really looking for is the centre page of 
the _Times_ with some holes cut in it with scissors.  Here 
is a copy of the _Times_.  It is this page.  You could 
easily recognise it, could you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"In each case the outside porter will send for the hall 
porter, to whom also you will give a shilling.  Here are 
twenty-three shillings.  You will then learn in possibly 
twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the waste of the 
day before has been burned or removed.  In the three other 
cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look 
for this page of the _Times_ among it.  The odds are 
enormously against your finding it.  There are ten shillings 
over in case of emergencies.  Let me have a report by wire 
at Baker Street before evening.  And now, Watson, it only 
remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the 
cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond 
Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are 
due at the hotel."



                        CHAPTER V.
                  THREE BROKEN THREADS.

SHERLOCK HOLMES had, in a very remarkable degree, the power 
of detaching his mind at will.  For two hours the strange 
business in which we had been involved appeared to be 
forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of 
the modern Belgian masters.  He would talk of nothing but 
art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the 
gallery until we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel.

"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the 
clerk.  "He asked me to show you up at once when you came."

"Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" 
said Holmes.

"Not in the least."

The book showed that two names had been added after that of 
Baskerville.  One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of 
Newcastle; the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, 
Alton.

"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," 
said Holmes to the porter.  "A lawyer, is he not, 
grey-headed, and walks with a limp?"

"No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson the coal-owner, a very active 
gentleman, not older than yourself."

"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"

"No, sir; he has used this hotel for many years, and he is 
very well known to us."

"Ah, that settles it.  Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember 
the name.  Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon 
one friend one finds another."

"She is an invalid lady, sir.  Her husband was once Mayor of 
Gloucester.  She always comes to us when she is in town."

"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. 
We have established a most important fact by these questions, 
Watson," he continued, in a low voice, as we went upstairs 
together.  "We know now that the people who are so 
interested in our friend have not settled down in his own 
hotel.  That means that while they are, as we have seen, 
very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he 
should not see them.  Now, this is a most suggestive fact."

"What does it suggest?"

"It suggests -- halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the 
matter?"

As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against 
Sir Henry Baskerville himself.  His face was flushed with 
anger, and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. 
So furious was he that he was hardly articulate, and 
when he did speak it was in a much broader and more Western 
dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning.

"Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,"
he cried.  "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the
wrong man unless they are careful.  By thunder, if that chap
can't find my missing boot there will be trouble.  I can take
a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over
the mark this time."

"Still looking for your boot?"

"Yes, sir, and mean to find it."

"But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?"

"So it was, sir.  And now it's an old black one."

"What! you don't mean to say ----?"

"That's just what I do mean to say.  I only had three pairs 
in the world -- the new brown, the old black, and the patent 
leathers, which I am wearing.  Last night they took one of 
my brown ones, and to-day they have sneaked one of the black. 
Well, have you got it?  Speak out, man, and don't stand staring!"

An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

"No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can 
hear no word of it."

"Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll 
see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of 
this hotel."

"It shall be found, sir -- I promise you that if you will 
have a little patience it will be found."

"Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose 
in this den of thieves.  Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll 
excuse my troubling you about such a trifle ----"

"I think it's well worth troubling about."

"Why, you look very serious over it."

"How do you explain it?"

"I just don't attempt to explain it.  It seems the very 
maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me."

"The queerest, perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully.

"What do you make of it yourself?"

"Well, I don't profess to understand it yet.  This case of 
yours is very complex, Sir Henry.  When taken in conjunction 
with your uncle's death I am not sure that of all the five 
hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled 
there is one which cuts so deep.  But we hold several threads
in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides
us to the truth.  We may waste time in following the wrong one,
but sooner or later we must come upon the right."

We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the 
business which had brought us together.  It was in the 
private sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that 
Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions.

"To go to Baskerville Hall."

"And when?"

"At the end of the week."

"On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is 
a wise one.  I have ample evidence that you are being dogged 
in London, and amid the millions of this great city it is 
difficult to discover who these people are or what their 
object can be.  If their intentions are evil they might do 
you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it.  
You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this 
morning from my house?"

Dr. Mortimer started violently.

"Followed!  By whom?"

"That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you.  Have you 
among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man 
with a black, full beard?"

"No -- or, let me see -- why, yes.  Barrymore, Sir Charles's 
butler, is a man with a full, black beard."

"Ha!  Where is Barrymore?"

"He is in charge of the Hall."

"We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any 
possibility he might be in London."

"How can you do that?"

"Give me a telegraph form.  'Is all ready for Sir Henry?'  
That will do.  Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall.  
Which is the nearest telegraph-office?  Grimpen.  Very good, 
we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: 
'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore, to be delivered into his own hand. 
If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville,
Northumberland Hotel.'  That should let us know before evening
whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not."

"That's so," said Baskerville.  "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, 
who is this Barrymore, anyhow?"

"He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead.  They have 
looked after the Hall for four generations now.  So far as I 
know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in 
the county."

"At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough 
that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall 
these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do."

"That is true."

"Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked 
Holmes.

"He and his wife had five hundred pounds each."

"Ha!  Did they know that they would receive this?"

"Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the 
provisions of his will."

"That is very interesting."

"I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with 
suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir 
Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me."

"Indeed!  And anyone else?"

"There were many insignificant sums to individuals and a 
large number of public charities.  The residue all went to 
Sir Henry."

"And how much was the residue?"

"Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "I had no idea that 
so gigantic a sum was involved," said he.

"Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did 
not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his 
securities.  The total value of the estate was close on to a 
million."

"Dear me!  It is a stake for which a man might well play
a desperate game.  And one more question, Dr. Mortimer.  
Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here -- 
you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis! -- who would 
inherit the estate?"

"Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother, 
died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, 
who are distant cousins.  James Desmond is an elderly 
clergyman in Westmorland."

"Thank you.  These details are all of great interest. 
Have you met Mr. James Desmond?"

"Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles.  He is a man 
of venerable appearance and of saintly life.  I remember 
that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, 
though he pressed it upon him."

"And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir 
Charles's thousands?"

"He would be the heir to the estate, because that is 
entailed.  He would also be the heir to the money unless it 
were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of 
course, do what he likes with it."

"And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I have not.  I've had no time, for it was 
only yesterday that I learned how matters stood.  But in any 
case I feel that the money should go with the title and 
estate.  That was my poor uncle's idea.  How is the owner 
going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has 
not money enough to keep up the property?  House, land, and 
dollars must go together."

"Quite so.  Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to 
the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without 
delay.  There is only one provision which I must make.  You 
certainly must not go alone."

"Dr. Mortimer returns with me."

"But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his 
house is miles away from yours.  With all the good will in 
the world, he may be unable to help you.  No, Sir Henry, you 
must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always 
by your side."

"Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

"If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be 
present in person; but you can understand that, with my 
extensive consulting practice and with the constant appeals 
which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me 
to be absent from London for an indefinite time.  At the 
present instant one of the most revered names in England is 
being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a 
disastrous scandal.  You will see how impossible it is for 
me to go to Dartmoor."

"Whom would you recommend, then?"

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.

"If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is 
better worth having at your side when you are in a tight 
place.  No one can say so more confidently than I."

The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I 
had time to answer Baskerville seized me by the hand and 
wrung it heartily.

"Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he.  
"You see how it is with me, and you know just as much about 
the matter as I do.  If you will come down to Baskerville 
Hall and see me through I'll never forget it."

The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, 
and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the 
eagerness with which the Baronet hailed me as a companion.

"I will come, with pleasure," said I.  "I do not know how I 
could employ my time better."

"And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes.  
"When a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you 
shall act.  I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?"

"Would that suit Dr. Watson?"

"Perfectly."

"Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall 
meet at the 10.30 train from Paddington."

We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph,
and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown
boot from under a cabinet.

"My missing boot!" he cried.

"May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes.

"But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked.  
"I searched this room carefully before lunch."

"And so did I," said Baskerville.  "Every inch of it."

"There was certainly no boot in it then."

"In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we 
were lunching."

The German was sent for, but professed to know nothing of 
the matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up.  Another item 
had been added to that constant and apparently purposeless 
series of small mysteries which had succeeded each other
so rapidly.  Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir 
Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all 
within the limits of two days, which included the receipt of 
the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the 
loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, 
and now the return of the new brown boot.  Holmes sat in 
silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I 
knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like 
my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into 
which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes 
could be fitted.  All afternoon and late into the evening he 
sat lost in tobacco and thought.

Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in.  The first 
ran:--

"Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. -- 
BASKERVILLE."  The second:--

"Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to 
report unable to trace cut sheet of _Times_. -- CARTWRIGHT."

"There go two of my threads, Watson.  There is nothing more 
stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.  
We must cast round for another scent."

"We have still the cabman who drove the spy."

"Exactly.  I have wired to get his name and address from the 
Official Registry.  I should not be surprised if this were 
an answer to my question."

The ring at the bell proved to be something even more 
satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened 
and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man 
himself.

"I got a message from the head office that a gent at this 
address had been inquiring for 2,704," said he.  "I've 
driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. 
I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face
what you had against me."

"I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said 
Holmes.  "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you 
if you will give me a clear answer to my questions."

"Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman, 
with a grin.  "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?"

"First of all your name and address, in case I want you again."

"John Clayton, 3, Turpey Street, the Borough.  My cab is out 
of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station."

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

"Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and 
watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and 
afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street."

The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed.  "Why, 
there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know 
as much as I do already," said he.  "The truth is that the 
gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to 
say nothing about him to anyone."

"My good fellow, this is a very serious business, and you 
may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to 
hide anything from me.  You say that your fare told you that 
he was a detective?"

"Yes, he did."

"When did he say this?"

"When he left me."

"Did he say anything more?"

"He mentioned his name."

Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. 
"Oh, he mentioned his name, did he?  That was imprudent. 
What was the name that he mentioned?"

"His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than 
by the cabman's reply.  For an instant he sat in silent 
amazement.  Then he burst into a hearty laugh.

"A touch, Watson -- an undeniable touch!" said he.  "I feel 
a foil as quick and supple as my own.  He got home upon me 
very prettily that time.  So his name was Sherlock Holmes, 
was it?"

"Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name."

"Excellent!  Tell me where you picked him up and all that 
occurred."

"He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square.  He 
said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas 
if I would do exactly what he wanted all day and ask no 
questions.  I was glad enough to agree.  First we drove down 
to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two 
gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank.  We 
followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here."

"This very door," said Holmes.

"Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I daresay my fare 
knew all about it.  We pulled up half-way down the street 
and waited an hour and a half.  Then the two gentlemen 
passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and 
along ----"

"I know," said Holmes.

"Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street.  Then my 
gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should 
drive right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go.  
I whipped up the mare and we were there under the ten 
minutes.  Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, 
and away he went into the station.  Only just as he was 
leaving he turned round and said: 'It might interest you
to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'  
That's how I come to know the name."

"I see.  And you saw no more of him?"

"Not after he went into the station."

"And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The cabman scratched his head.  "Well, he wasn't altogether 
such an easy gentleman to describe.  I'd put him at forty 
years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three 
inches shorter than you, sir.  He was dressed like a toff, 
and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale 
face.  I don't know as I could say more than that."

"Colour of his eyes?"

"No, I can't say that."

"Nothing more that you can remember?"

"No, sir; nothing."

"Well, then, here is your half-sovereign.  There's another 
one waiting for you if you can bring any more information.  
Good-night!"

"Good-night, sir, and thank you!"

John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me 
with a shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile.

"Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," 
said he.  "The cunning rascal!  He knew our number, knew 
that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I 
was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number 
of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent 
back this audacious message.  I tell you, Watson, this time 
we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel.  I've been 
checkmated in London.  I can only wish you better luck in 
Devonshire.  But I'm not easy in my mind about it."

"About what?"

"About sending you.  It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly, 
dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like 
it.  Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my 
word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and 
sound in Baker Street once more."



                        CHAPTER VI.
                     BASKERVILLE HALL.

SIR HENRY BASKERVILLE and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the 
appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire.  
Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me 
his last parting injunctions and advice.

"I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or 
suspicions, Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report 
facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can 
leave me to do the theorizing."

"What sort of facts?" I asked.

"Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect 
upon the case, and especially the relations between young 
Baskerville and his neighbours, or any fresh particulars 
concerning the death of Sir Charles.  I have made some 
inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, 
I fear, been negative.  One thing only appears to be 
certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next 
heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, 
so that this persecution does not arise from him.  I really 
think that we may eliminate him entirely from our 
calculations.  There remain the people who will actually 
surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor."

"Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this 
Barrymore couple?"

"By no means.  You could not make a greater mistake.  If 
they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they 
are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it 
home to them.  No, no, we will preserve them upon our list 
of suspects.  Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I 
remember right.  There are two moorland farmers.  There is 
our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely 
honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing.  
There is this naturalist Stapleton, and there is his sister, 
who is said to be a young lady of attractions.  There is Mr. 
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, 
and there are one or two other neighbours.  These are the 
folk who must be your very special study."

"I will do my best."

"You have arms, I suppose?"

"Yes, I thought it as well to take them."

"Most certainly.  Keep your revolver near you night and day, 
and never relax your precautions."

Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage, and 
were waiting for us upon the platform.

"No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer, in 
answer to my friend's questions.  "I can swear to one thing, 
and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last 
two days.  We have never gone out without keeping a sharp 
watch, and no one could have escaped our notice."

"You have always kept together, I presume?"

"Except yesterday afternoon.  I usually give up one day to 
pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the 
Museum of the College of Surgeons."

"And I went to look at the folk in the park," said 
Baskerville.  "But we had no trouble of any kind."

"It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his 
head and looking very grave.  "I beg, Sir Henry, that you 
will not go about alone.  Some great misfortune will befall 
you if you do.  Did you get your other boot?"

"No, sir, it is gone for ever."

"Indeed.  That is very interesting.  Well, good-bye,"
he added, as the train began to glide down the platform. 
"Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old 
legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor 
in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted."

I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind,
and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless
and gazing after us.

The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in 
making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions 
and in playing with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel.  In a very few 
hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had 
changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged 
fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation 
spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate.  Young Baskerville 
stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight
as he recognised the familiar features of the Devon scenery.

"I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, 
Dr. Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to 
compare with it."

"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his 
county," I remarked.

"It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the 
county," said Dr. Mortimer.  "A glance at our friend here 
reveals the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside 
it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment.  Poor Sir 
Charles's head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half 
Ivernian in its characteristics.  But you were very young 
when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?"

"I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father's death, 
and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little 
cottage on the south coast.  Thence I went straight to a 
friend in America.  I tell you it is all as new to me as it 
is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as possible to see the moor."

"Are you?  Then your wish is easily granted, for there is 
your first sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing 
out of the carriage window.

Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a 
wood there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, 
with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, 
like some fantastic landscape in a dream.  Baskerville sat 
for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his 
eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of 
that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway 
so long and left their mark so deep.  There he sat, with his 
tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a 
prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark 
and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a 
descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, 
and masterful men.  There were pride, valour, and strength 
in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large 
hazel eyes.  If on that forbidding moor a difficult and 
dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a 
comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the 
certainty that he would bravely share it.

The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all 
descended.  Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a 
wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting.  Our coming was 
evidently a great event, for station-master and porters 
clustered round us to carry out our luggage.  It was a 
sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe 
that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark 
uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced 
keenly at us as we passed.  The coachman, a hard-faced, 
gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in 
a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white 
road.  Rolling pasture lands curved upwards on either side 
of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick 
green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit country-side
there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy
curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.

The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved 
upwards through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high 
banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy 
hart's-tongue ferns.  Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble 
gleamed in the light of the sinking sun.  Still steadily 
rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted 
a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and 
roaring amid the grey boulders.  Both road and stream wound 
up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir.  At every 
turning Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking 
eagerly about him and asking countless questions.  To his 
eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy 
lay upon the country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of 
the waning year.  Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and 
fluttered down upon us as we passed.  The rattle of our 
wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting 
vegetation -- sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to 
throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the 
Baskervilles.

"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"

A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the 
moor, lay in front of us.  On the summit, hard and clear 
like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted 
soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his 
forearm.  He was watching the road along which we travelled.

"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat.

"There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir.  He's been 
out three days now, and the warders watch every road and 
every station, but they've had no sight of him yet.  The 
farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact."

"Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can 
give information."

"Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing 
compared to the chance of having your throat cut.  You see, 
it isn't like any ordinary convict.  This is a man that 
would stick at nothing."

"Who is he, then?"

"It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes 
had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of 
the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the 
actions of the assassin.  The commutation of his death 
sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete 
sanity, so atrocious was his conduct.  Our wagonette had 
topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of 
the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors.  
A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering.  
Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this 
fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his 
heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had 
cast him out.  It needed but this to complete the grim 
suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and 
the darkling sky.  Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled 
his overcoat more closely around him.

We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. 
We looked back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun 
turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the 
red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of 
the woodlands.  The road in front of us grew bleaker and 
wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with 
giant boulders.  Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, 
walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its 
harsh outline.  Suddenly we looked down into a cup-like 
depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had 
been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm.  Two 
high, narrow towers rose over the trees.  The driver pointed 
with his whip.

"Baskerville Hall," said he.

Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks
and shining eyes.  A few minutes later we had reached the 
lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, 
with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with 
lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the 
Baskervilles.  The lodge was a ruin of black granite and 
bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, 
half constructed, the firstfruit of Sir Charles's South 
African gold.

Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the 
wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees 
shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads.  
Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive 
to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end.

"Was it here?" he asked, in a low voice.

"No, no, the Yew Alley is on the other side."

The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

"It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on 
him in such a place as this," said he.  "It's enough to 
scare any man.  I'll have a row of electric lamps up here 
inside of six months, and you won't know it again, with a 
thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front
of the hall door."

The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the 
house lay before us.  In the fading light I could see that 
the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch 
projected.  The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch 
clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat-of-arms 
broke through the dark veil.  From this central block rose 
the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many 
loopholes.  To right and left of the turrets were more 
modern wings of black granite.  A dull light shone through 
heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which 
rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single 
black column of smoke.

"Welcome, Sir Henry!  Welcome, to Baskerville Hall!"

A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open 
the door of the wagonette.  The figure of a woman was 
silhouetted against the yellow light of the hall.  She came 
out and helped the man to hand down our bags.

"You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said 
Dr. Mortimer.  "My wife is expecting me."

"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"

"No, I must go.  I shall probably find some work awaiting me. 
I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore 
will be a better guide than I.  Good-bye, and never hesitate 
night or day to send for me if I can be of service."

The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I 
turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind 
us.  It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, 
large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge balks of 
age-blackened oak.  In the great old-fashioned fireplace 
behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped.  
Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb 
from our long drive.  Then we gazed round us at the high, 
thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the 
stags' heads, the coats-of-arms upon the walls, all dim and 
sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp.

"It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry.  "Is it not 
the very picture of an old family home?  To think that this 
should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my 
people have lived.  It strikes me solemn to think of it."

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he 
gazed about him.  The light beat upon him where he stood, 
but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a 
black canopy above him.  Barrymore had returned from taking 
our luggage to our rooms.  He stood in front of us now with 
the subdued manner of a well-trained servant.  He was a 
remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black 
beard, and pale, distinguished features.

"Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?"

"Is it ready?"

"In a very few minutes, sir.  You will find hot water in 
your rooms.  My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay 
with you until you have made your fresh arrangements, but 
you will understand that under the new conditions this house 
will require a considerable staff."

"What new conditions?"

"I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired 
life, and we were able to look after his wants.  You would, 
naturally, wish to have more company, and so you will need 
changes in your household."

"Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?"

"Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir."

"But your family have been with us for several generations, 
have they not?  I should be sorry to begin my life here by 
breaking an old family connection."

I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's 
white face.

"I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife.  But to tell 
the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir 
Charles, and his death gave us a shock and made these 
surroundings very painful to us.  I fear that we shall never 
again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall."

"But what do you intend to do?"

"I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing 
ourselves in some business.  Sir Charles's generosity has 
given us the means to do so.  And now, sir, perhaps I had 
best show you to your rooms."

A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old 
hall, approached by a double stair.  From this central point 
two long corridors extended the whole length of the 
building, from which all the bedrooms opened.  My own was in 
the same wing as Baskerville's and almost next door to it.  
These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the central 
part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles 
did something to remove the sombre impression which our 
arrival had left upon my mind.

But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place 
of shadow and gloom.  It was a long chamber with a step 
separating the dais {3} where the family sat from the lower 
portion reserved for their dependents.  At one end a 
minstrels' gallery overlooked it.  Black beams shot across 
above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them.  
With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the colour 
and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have 
softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in 
the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's 
voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued.  A dim line of 
ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan 
knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and 
daunted us by their silent company.  We talked little, and I 
for one was glad when the meal was over and we were able to 
retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

"My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry.  
"I suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of 
the picture at present.  I don't wonder that my uncle got a 
little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this.  
However, if it suits you, we will retire early to-night, and 
perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning."

I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out 
from my window.  It opened upon the grassy space which lay 
in front of the hall door.  Beyond, two copses of trees 
moaned and swung in a rising wind.  A half moon broke 
through the rifts of racing clouds.  In its cold light I saw 
beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks and the long, low 
curve of the melancholy moor.  I closed the curtain, feeling 
that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last.  I found myself weary and 
yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking 
for the sleep which would not come.  Far away a chiming 
clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a 
deathly silence lay upon the old house.  And then suddenly, 
in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my 
ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable.  It was the sob of 
a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by 
an uncontrollable sorrow.  I sat up in bed and listened 
intently.  The noise could not have been far away, and was 
certainly in the house.  For half an hour I waited with 
every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save 
the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.



                       CHAPTER VII.
             THE STAPLETONS OF MERRIPIT HOUSE.

THE fresh beauty of the following morning did something to 
efface from our minds the grim and grey impression which had 
been left upon both of us by our first experience of 
Baskerville Hall.  As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the 
sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, 
throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms 
which covered them.  The dark panelling glowed like bronze 
in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was 
indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our 
souls upon the evening before.

"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to 
blame!" said the baronet.  "We were tired with our journey 
and chilled by our drive, so we took a grey view of the 
place.  Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful 
once more."

"And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I 
answered.  "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a 
woman I think, sobbing in the night?"

"That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy 
that I heard something of the sort.  I waited quite a time, 
but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all 
a dream."

"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the 
sob of a woman."

"We must ask about this right away."  He rang the bell and 
asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience.  
It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler 
turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's 
question.

"There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he 
answered.  "One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the 
other wing.  The other is my wife, and I can answer for it 
that the sound could not have come from her."

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after 
breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the 
sun full upon her face.  She was a large, impassive, 
heavy-featured woman with a stern, set expression of mouth.  
But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced at me from 
between swollen lids.  It was she, then, who wept in the 
night, and if she did so her husband must know it.  Yet he 
had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it 
was not so.  Why had he done this?  And why did she weep so 
bitterly?  Already round this pale-faced, handsome, 
black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of 
mystery and of gloom.  It was he who had been the first to 
discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word 
for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's 
death.  Was it possible that it was Barrymore after all whom 
we had seen in the cab in Regent Street?  The beard might 
well have been the same.  The cabman had described a 
somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily 
have been erroneous.  How could I settle the point for ever?  
Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen 
postmaster, and find whether the test telegram had really 
been placed in Barrymore's own hands.  Be the answer what it 
might, I should at least have something to report to 
Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so 
that the time was propitious for my excursion.  It was a 
pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, 
leading me at last to a small grey hamlet, in which two 
larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house 
of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest.  The postmaster, 
who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of 
the telegram.

"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to 
Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed."

"Who delivered it?"

"My boy here.  James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. 
Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?"

"Yes, father, I delivered it."

"Into his own hands?" I asked.

"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could 
not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. 
Barrymore's hands, and she promised to deliver it at once."

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said 
the postmaster, testily.  "Didn't he get the telegram?  If 
there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to 
complain."

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it 
was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof 
that Barrymore had not been in London all the time.  Suppose 
that it were so -- suppose that the same man had been the 
last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog 
the new heir when he returned to England.  What then?  Was 
he the agent of others, or had he some sinister design of 
his own?  What interest could he have in persecuting the 
Baskerville family?  I thought of the strange warning 
clipped out of the leading article of the _Times_.  Was that 
his work, or was it possibly the doing of someone who was 
bent upon counteracting his schemes?  The only conceivable 
motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that 
if the family could be scared away a comfortable and 
permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores.  But 
surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate 
to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to 
be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet.  Holmes 
himself had said that no more complex case had come to him 
in all the long series of his sensational investigations.  I 
prayed, as I walked back along the grey, lonely road, that 
my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and 
able to come down to take this heavy burden of 
responsibility from my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of 
running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by 
name.  I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my 
surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me.  He was a 
small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and 
lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed 
in a grey suit and wearing a straw hat.  A tin box for 
botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a 
green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," 
said he, as he came panting up to where I stood.  "Here on 
the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal 
introductions.  You may possibly have heard my name from our 
mutual friend, Mortimer.  I am Stapleton, of Merripit 
House."

"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for 
I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist.  But how did you 
know me?"

"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to 
me from the window of his surgery as you passed.  As our 
road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you 
and introduce myself.  I trust that Sir Henry is none the 
worse for his journey?"

"He is very well, thank you."

"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir 
Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here.  It is 
asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself 
in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it 
means a very great deal to the country-side.  Sir Henry has, 
I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?"

"I do not think that it is likely."

"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts 
the family?"

"I have heard it."

"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about 
here!  Any number of them are ready to swear that they have 
seen such a creature upon the moor."  He spoke with a smile, 
but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter 
more seriously.  "The story took a great hold upon the 
imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led 
to his tragic end."

"But how?"

"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog 
might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart.  I 
fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that 
last night in the Yew Alley.  I feared that some disaster 
might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew 
that his heart was weak."

"How did you know that?"

"My friend Mortimer told me."

"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and 
that he died of fright in consequence?"

"Have you any better explanation?"

"I have not come to any conclusion."

"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance 
at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed 
that no surprise was intended.

"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, 
Dr. Watson," said he.  "The records of your detective have 
reached us here, and you could not celebrate him without 
being known yourself.  When Mortimer told me your name he 
could not deny your identity.  If you are here, then it 
follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in 
the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he 
may take."

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit 
himself?"

"He cannot leave town at present.  He has other cases which 
engage his attention."

"What a pity!  He might throw some light on that which is so 
dark to us.  But as to your own researches if there is any 
possible way in which I can be of service to you I trust 
that you will command me.  If I had any indication of the 
nature of your suspicions, or how you propose to investigate 
the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or 
advice."

"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my 
friend Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

"Excellent!" said Stapleton.  "You are perfectly right to be 
wary and discreet.  I am justly reproved for what I feel was 
an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will 
not mention the matter again."

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off 
from the road and wound away across the moor.  A steep, 
boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in 
bygone days been cut into a granite quarry.  The face which 
was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and 
brambles growing in its niches.  From over a distant rise 
there floated a grey plume of smoke.

"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit 
House," said he.  "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may 
have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister."

My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side.  
But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with 
which his study table was littered.  It was certain that I 
could not help him with those.  And Holmes had expressly 
said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor.  I 
accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down 
the path.

"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round 
over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests 
of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges.  "You 
never tire of the moor.  You cannot think the wonderful 
secrets which it contains.  It is so vast, and so barren, 
and so mysterious."

"You know it well, then?"

"I have only been here two years.  The residents would call 
me a new-comer.  We came shortly after Sir Charles settled.  
But my tastes led me to explore every part of the country 
round, and I should think that there are few men who know it 
better than I do."

"Is it so hard to know?"

"Very hard.  You see, for example, this great plain to the 
north here, with the queer hills breaking out of it.  Do you 
observe anything remarkable about that?"

"It would be a rare place for a gallop."

"You would naturally think so, and the thought has cost folk 
their lives before now.  You notice those bright green spots 
scattered thickly over it?"

"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

Stapleton laughed.

"That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he.  "A false step 
yonder means death to man or beast.  Only yesterday I saw 
one of the moor ponies wander into it.  He never came out.  
I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the 
bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.  Even in dry 
seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn 
rains it is an awful place.  And yet I can find my way to 
the very heart of it and return alive.  By George, there is 
another of those miserable ponies!"

Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green 
sedges.  Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upwards 
and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor.  It turned me cold 
with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger 
than mine.

"It's gone!" said he.  "The Mire has him.  Two in two days, 
and many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going 
there in the dry weather, and never know the difference 
until the Mire has them in its clutch.  It's a bad place, 
the great Grimpen Mire."

"And you say you can penetrate it?"

"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can 
take.  I have found them out."

"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

"Well, you see the hills beyond?  They are really islands 
cut off on all sides by the impassable Mire, which has 
crawled round them in the course of years.  That is where 
the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit 
to reach them."

"I shall try my luck some day."

He looked at me with a surprised face.

"For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he.  
"Your blood would be upon my head.  I assure you that there 
would not be the least chance of your coming back alive.  It 
is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am 
able to do it."

"Halloa!" I cried.  "What is that?"

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor.  
It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say 
whence it came.  From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep 
roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur 
once again.  Stapleton looked at me with a curious 
expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.

"But what is it?"

"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles 
calling for its prey.  I've heard it once or twice before, 
but never quite so loud."

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the 
huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of 
rushes.  Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair 
of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.

"You are an educated man.  You don't believe such nonsense 
as that?" said I.  "What do you think is the cause of so 
strange a sound?"

"Bogs make queer noises sometimes.  It's the mud settling, 
or the water rising, or something."

"No, no, that was a living voice."

"Well, perhaps it was.  Did you ever hear a bittern 
booming?"

"No, I never did."

"It's a very rare bird -- practically extinct -- in England 
now, but all things are possible upon the moor.  Yes, I 
should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is 
the cry of the last of the bitterns."

"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my 
life."

"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether.  Look at the 
hill-side yonder.  What do you make of those?"

The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings 
of stone, a score of them at least.

"What are they?  Sheep-pens?"

"No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors.  
Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in 
particular has lived there since, we find all his little 
arrangements exactly as he left them.  These are his wigwams 
with the roofs off.  You can even see his hearth and his 
couch if you have the curiosity to go inside."

"But it is quite a town.  When was it inhabited?"

"Neolithic man -- no date."

"What did he do?"

"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig 
for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone 
axe.  Look at the great trench in the opposite hill.  That 
is his mark.  Yes, you will find some very singular points 
about the moor, Dr. Watson.  Oh, excuse me an instant!  It 
is surely Cyclopides."

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an 
instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and 
speed in pursuit of it.  To my dismay the creature flew 
straight for the great Mire, but my acquaintance never 
paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, 
his green net waving in the air.  His grey clothes and 
jerky, zig-zag, irregular progress made him not unlike some 
huge moth himself.  I was standing watching his pursuit with 
a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and 
fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous 
Mire, when I heard the sound of steps, and turning round 
found a woman near me upon the path.  She had come from the 
direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position 
of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until 
she was quite close.

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I 
had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the 
moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her 
as being a beauty.  The woman who approached me was 
certainly that, and of a most uncommon type.  There could 
not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, 
for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and grey 
eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have 
seen in England -- slim, elegant, and tall.  She had a 
proud, finely-cut face, so regular that it might have seemed 
impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the 
beautiful dark, eager eyes.  With her perfect figure and 
elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a 
lonely moorland path.  Her eyes were on her brother as I 
turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me.  I had 
raised my hat, and was about to make some explanatory 
remark, when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new 
channel.

"Go back!" she said.  "Go straight back to London, 
instantly."

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise.  Her eyes 
blazed at me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her 
foot.

"Why should I go back?" I asked.

"I cannot explain."  She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a 
curious lisp in her utterance.  "But for God's sake do what 
I ask you.  Go back and never set foot upon the moor again."

"But I have only just come."

"Man, man!" she cried.  "Can you not tell when a warning is 
for your own good?  Go back to London!  Start to-night!  Get 
away from this place at all costs!  Hush, my brother is 
coming!  Not a word of what I have said.  Would you mind 
getting that orchid for me among the mare's-tails yonder?  
We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, 
you are rather late to see the beauties of the place."

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us 
breathing hard and flushed with his exertions.

"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone 
of his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

"Well, Jack, you are very hot."

"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides.  He is very rare, and 
seldom found in the late autumn.  What a pity that I should 
have missed him!"  He spoke unconcernedly, but his small 
light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me.

"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

"Yes.  I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for 
him to see the true beauties of the moor."

"Why, who do you think this is?"

"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

"No, no," said I.  "Only a humble commoner, but his friend.  
My name is Dr. Watson."

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face.  "We 
have been talking at cross purposes," said she.

"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother 
remarked, with the same questioning eyes.

"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being 
merely a visitor," said she.  "It cannot much matter to him 
whether it is early or late for the orchids.  But you will 
come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?"

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once 
the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now 
put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling.  An 
orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the 
moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole 
place was mean and melancholy.  We were admitted by a 
strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in 
keeping with the house.  Inside, however, there were large 
rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to 
recognise the taste of the lady.  As I looked from their 
windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling 
unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at 
what could have brought this highly educated man and this 
beautiful woman to live in such a place.

"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he, as if in answer 
to my thought.  "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly 
happy, do we not, Beryl?"

"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction 
in her words.

"I had a school," said Stapleton.  "It was in the north 
country.  The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical 
and uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, 
of helping to mould those young minds and of impressing them 
with one's own character and ideals, was very dear to me.  
However, the fates were against us.  A serious epidemic 
broke out in the school and three of the boys died.  It 
never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was 
irretrievably swallowed up.  And yet, if it were not for the 
loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I could 
rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes 
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work 
here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am.  All 
this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your 
expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window."

"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little 
dull -- less for you, perhaps, than for your sister."

"No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly.

"We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting 
neighbours.  Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own 
line.  Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion.  We 
knew him well, and miss him more than I can tell.  Do you 
think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon 
and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?"

"I am sure that he would be delighted."

"Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so.  We 
may in our humble way do something to make things more easy 
for him until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings.  
Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my 
collection of lepidoptera?  I think it is the most complete 
one in the south-west of England.  By the time that you have 
looked through them lunch will be almost ready."

But I was eager to get back to my charge.  The melancholy of 
the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound 
which had been associated with the grim legend of the 
Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with 
sadness.  Then on the top of these more or less vague 
impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning 
of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness 
that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay 
behind it.  I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch,
and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the 
grass-grown path by which we had come.

It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut 
for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I 
was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by 
the side of the track.  Her face was beautifully flushed 
with her exertions, and she held her hand to her side.

"I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,"
said she.  "I had not even time to put on my hat.  
I must not stop, or my brother may miss me.  I wanted to say 
to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in 
thinking that you were Sir Henry.  Please forget the words
I said, which have no application whatever to you."

"But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I.  "I am 
Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern 
of mine.  Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir 
Henry should return to London."

"A woman's whim, Dr. Watson.  When you know me better you 
will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I 
say or do."

"No, no.  I remember the thrill in your voice.  I remember 
the look in your eyes.  Please, please, be frank with me, 
Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been 
conscious of shadows all round me.  Life has become like 
that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches 
everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to 
point the track.  Tell me then what it was that you meant, 
and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."

An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her 
face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. 
"My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir 
Charles.  We knew him very intimately, for his favourite 
walk was over the moor to our house.  He was deeply 
impressed with the curse which hung over his family, and 
when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be 
some grounds for the fears which he had expressed.  I was 
distressed therefore when another member of the family came 
down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of 
the danger which he will run.  That was all which I intended 
to convey."

"But what is the danger?"

"You know the story of the hound?"

"I do not believe in such nonsense."

"But I do.  If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take 
him away from a place which has always been fatal to his 
family.  The world is wide.  Why should he wish to live at 
the place of danger?"

"Because it _is_ the place of danger.  That is Sir Henry's 
nature.  I fear that unless you can give me some more 
definite information than this it would be impossible to
get him to move."

"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything 
definite."

"I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton.  If you 
meant no more than this when you first spoke to me, why 
should you not wish your brother to overhear what you said?  
There is nothing to which he, or anyone else, could object."

"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for 
he thinks that it is for the good of the poor folk upon the 
moor.  He would be very angry if he knew that I had said 
anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away.  But I 
have done my duty now and I will say no more.  I must get 
back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you.  
Good-bye!"  She turned, and had disappeared in a few minutes 
among the scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of 
vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall.



                       CHAPTER VIII.
                FIRST REPORT OF DR. WATSON.

FROM this point onwards I will follow the course of events 
by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which 
lie before me on the table.  One page is missing, but 
otherwise they are exactly as written, and show my feelings 
and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, 
clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do.

   BASKERVILLE HALL,
           October 13th.
MY DEAR HOLMES, -- My previous letters and telegrams have 
kept you pretty well up-to-date as to all that has occurred 
in this most God-forsaken corner of the world.  The longer 
one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink 
into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm.  
When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all 
traces of modern England behind you, but on the other hand 
you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of 
the prehistoric people.  On all sides of you as you walk are 
the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and 
the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their 
temples.  As you look at their grey stone huts against the 
scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if 
you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the 
low door, fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of 
his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more 
natural than your own.  The strange thing is that they 
should have lived so thickly on what must always have been 
most unfruitful soil.  I am no antiquarian, but I could 
imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who 
were forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you 
sent me, and will probably be very uninteresting to your 
severely practical mind.  I can still remember your complete 
indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or 
the earth round the sun.  Let me, therefore, return to the 
facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

If you have not had any report within the last few days it 
is because up till to-day there was nothing of importance to 
relate.  Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which 
I shall tell you in due course.  But, first of all, I must 
keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the 
situation.

One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the 
escaped convict upon the moor.  There is strong reason
now to believe that he has got right away, which is a 
considerable relief to the lonely householders of this 
district.  A fortnight has passed since his flight, during 
which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. 
It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out 
upon the moor during all that time.  Of course, so far as 
his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. 
Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. 
But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and 
slaughter one of the moor sheep.  We think, therefore,
that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better
in consequence.

We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we 
could take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have 
had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons.  
They live miles from any help.  There are one maid, an old 
manservant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a 
very strong man.  They would be helpless in the hands of a 
desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal, if he 
could once effect an entrance.  Both Sir Henry and I were 
concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that 
Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but 
Stapleton would not hear of it.

The fact is that our friend the baronet begins to display a 
considerable interest in our fair neighbour.  It is not to 
be wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot 
to an active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and 
beautiful woman.  There is something tropical and exotic 
about her which forms a singular contrast to her cool and 
unemotional brother.  Yet he also gives the idea of hidden 
fires.  He has certainly a very marked influence over her, 
for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked 
as if seeking approbation for what she said.  I trust that 
he is kind to her.  There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and 
a firm set of his thin lips, which go with a positive and 
possibly a harsh nature.  You would find him an interesting 
study.

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and 
the very next morning he took us both to show us the spot 
where the legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had 
its origin.  It was an excursion of some miles across the 
moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have 
suggested the story.  We found a short valley between rugged 
tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with 
the white cotton grass.  In the middle of it rose two great 
stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end, until they 
looked like the huge, corroding fangs of some monstrous 
beast.  In every way it corresponded with the scene of the 
old tragedy.  Sir Henry was much interested, and asked 
Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in 
the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in 
the affairs of men.  He spoke lightly, but it was evident 
that he was very much in earnest.  Stapleton was guarded in 
his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than 
he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion 
out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet.  He 
told us of similar cases, where families had suffered from 
some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that 
he shared the popular view upon the matter.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House,
and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of
Miss Stapleton.  From the first moment that he saw her he 
appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much 
mistaken if the feeling was not mutual.  He referred to her 
again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly
a day has passed that we have not seen something of the 
brother and sister.  They dine here to-night, and there is 
some talk of our going to them next week.  One would imagine 
that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and 
yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest 
disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying 
some attention to his sister.  He is much attached to her, 
no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it 
would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in 
the way of her making so brilliant a marriage.  Yet I am 
certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into 
love, and I have several times observed that he has taken 
pains to prevent them from being tete-a-tete. {4}  By the 
way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go 
out alone will become very much more onerous if a love 
affair were to be added to our other difficulties. 
My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out
your orders to the letter.

The other day -- Thursday, to be more exact -- Dr. Mortimer 
lunched with us.  He has been excavating a barrow at Long 
Down, and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with 
great joy.  Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast 
as he!  The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good 
doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at Sir Henry's request, 
to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal 
night.  It is a long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between 
two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass 
upon either side.  At the far end is an old, tumble-down 
summer-house.  Half-way down is the moor-gate, where the old 
gentleman left his cigar-ash.  It is a white wooden gate 
with a latch.  Beyond it lies the wide moor.  I remembered 
your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had 
occurred.  As the old man stood there he saw something 
coming across the moor, something which terrified him so 
that he lost his wits, and ran and ran until he died of 
sheer horror and exhaustion.  There was the long, gloomy 
tunnel down which he fled.  And from what?  A sheep-dog
of the moor?  Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and 
monstrous?  Was there a human agency in the matter? 
Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? 
It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow 
of crime behind it.

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last.  This is 
Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to 
the south of us.  He is an elderly man, red faced, white 
haired, and choleric.  His passion is for the British law, 
and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.  He fights 
for the mere pleasure of fighting, and is equally ready to 
take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder 
that he has found it a costly amusement.  Sometimes he will 
shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open 
it.  At others he will with his own hands tear down some 
other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there 
from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him
for trespass.  He is learned in old manorial and communal 
rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of 
the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so 
that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the 
village street or else burned in effigy, according to his 
latest exploit.  He is said to have about seven lawsuits 
upon his hands at present, which will probably swallow up 
the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and leave 
him harmless for the future.  Apart from the law he seems a 
kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because 
you were particular that I should send some description of 
the people who surround us.  He is curiously employed at 
present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an 
excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of
his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of 
catching a glimpse of the escaped convict.  If he would 
confine his energies to this all would be well, but there 
are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for 
opening a grave without the consent of the next-of-kin, 
because he dug up the neolithic skull in the barrow on Long 
Down.  He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and 
gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed.

And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict,
the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall,
let me end on that which is most important and tell you more
about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising
development of last night.

First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from 
London in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here.  
I have already explained that the testimony of the 
postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we 
have no proof one way or the other.  I told Sir Henry how 
the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, 
had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the 
telegram himself.  Barrymore said that he had.

"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my 
wife brought it up to me."

"Did you answer it yourself?"

"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to 
write it."

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

"I could not quite understand the object of your questions 
this morning, Sir Henry," said he.  "I trust that they do 
not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your 
confidence?"

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify 
him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, 
the London outfit having now all arrived.

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me.  She is a heavy, solid 
person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to 
be puritanical.  You could hardly conceive a less emotional 
subject.  Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, 
I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more 
than once observed traces of tears upon her face.  Some deep 
sorrow gnaws ever at her heart.  Sometimes I wonder if she 
has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I 
suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant.  I have always 
felt that there was something singular and questionable in 
this man's character, but the adventure of last night brings 
all my suspicions to a head.

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself.  You are aware 
that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on 
guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever.  
Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a 
stealthy step passing my room.  I rose, opened my door,
and peeped out.  A long black shadow was trailing down the 
corridor.  It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the 
passage with a candle held in his hand.  He was in shirt and 
trousers, with no covering to his feet.  I could merely see 
the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore.  
He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was 
something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole 
appearance.

I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony 
which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the 
farther side.  I waited until he had passed out of sight and 
then I followed him.  When I came round the balcony he had 
reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see 
from the glimmer of light through an open door that he
had entered one of the rooms.  Now, all these rooms are
unfurnished and unoccupied, so that his expedition became 
more mysterious than ever.  The light shone steadily as if 
he were standing motionless.  I crept down the passage as 
noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the 
door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held 
against the glass.  His profile was half turned towards me, 
and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he 
stared out into the blackness of the moor.  For some minutes 
he stood watching intently.  Then he gave a deep groan and 
with an impatient gesture he put out the light.  Instantly I 
made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the 
stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey.  
Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard 
a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence 
the sound came.  What it all means I cannot guess, but there 
is some secret business going on in this house of gloom 
which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of.  I do 
not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to 
furnish you only with facts.  I have had a long talk with 
Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign 
founded upon my observations of last night.  I will not 
speak about it just now, but it should make my next report 
interesting reading.



                       CHAPTER IX.
              [SECOND REPORT OF DR. WATSON.]
                 THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR.

   Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.
MY DEAR HOLMES, -- If I was compelled to leave you without 
much news during the early days of my mission you must 
acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that 
events are now crowding thick and fast upon us.  In my last 
report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the 
window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, 
unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you.  
Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated.  
In some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours 
become much clearer and in some ways they have become more 
complicated.  But I will tell you all and you shall judge 
for yourself.

Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I 
went down the corridor and examined the room in which 
Barrymore had been on the night before.  The western window 
through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one 
peculiarity above all other windows in the house -- it 
commands the nearest outlook on to the moor.  There is an 
opening between two trees which enables one from this point 
of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other 
windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained.  
It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this 
window would serve his purpose, must have been looking out 
for something or somebody upon the moor.  The night was very 
dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped 
to see anyone.  It had struck me that it was possible that 
some love intrigue was on foot.  That would have accounted 
for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of 
his wife.  The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well 
equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this 
theory seemed to have something to support it.  That opening 
of the door which I had heard after I had returned to my 
room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine
appointment.  So I reasoned with myself in the morning,
and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much
the result may have shown that they were unfounded.

But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements 
might be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to 
myself until I could explain them was more than I could bear. 
I had an interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast,
and I told him all that I had seen.  He was less surprised
than I had expected.

"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind 
to speak to him about it," said he.  "Two or three times I 
have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going, just 
about the hour you name."

"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular 
window," I suggested.

"Perhaps he does.  If so, we should be able to shadow him, 
and see what it is that he is after.  I wonder what your 
friend Holmes would do if he were here?"

"I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," 
said I.  "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

"Then we shall do it together."

"But surely he would hear us."

"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our 
chance of that.  We'll sit up in my room to-night, and wait 
until he passes."  Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, 
and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief 
to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor.

The baronet has been in communication with the architect who 
prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor 
from London, so that we may expect great changes to begin 
here soon.  There have been decorators and furnishers up 
from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large 
ideas, and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the 
grandeur of his family.  When the house is renovated and 
refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it 
complete.  Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs 
that this will not be wanting if the lady is willing,
for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a 
woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss 
Stapleton.  And yet the course of true love does not run 
quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances 
expect.  To-day, for example, its surface was broken by
a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend 
considerable perplexity and annoyance.

After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore 
Sir Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out.  As a 
matter of course I did the same.

"What, are _you_ coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in 
a curious way.

"That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.

"Yes, I am."

"Well, you know what my instructions are.  I am sorry to intrude,
but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not
leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon
the moor."

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder, with a pleasant smile.

"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom,
did not foresee some things which have happened since I have 
been on the moor.  You understand me?  I am sure that you 
are the last man in the world who would wish to be a 
spoil-sport.  I must go out alone."

It put me in a most awkward position.  I was at a loss what 
to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he 
picked up his cane and was gone.

But when I came to think the matter over my conscience 
reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him 
to go out of my sight.  I imagined what my feelings would
be if I had to return to you and to confess that some 
misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your 
instructions.  I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very 
thought.  It might not even now be too late to overtake him, 
so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House.

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without 
seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point 
where the moor path branches off.  There, fearing that 
perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I 
mounted a hill from which I could command a view -- the same 
hill which is cut into the dark quarry.  Thence I saw him at 
once.  He was on the moor path, about a quarter of a mile 
off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss 
Stapleton.  It was clear that there was already an 
understanding between them and that they had met by 
appointment.  They were walking slowly along in deep 
conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements
of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was 
saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook 
his head in strong dissent.  I stood among the rocks 
watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should
do next.  To follow them and break into their intimate 
conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty 
was never for an instant to let him out of my sight.  To act 
the spy upon a friend was a hateful task.  Still, I could 
see no better course than to observe him from the hill,
and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards
what I had done.  It is true that if any sudden danger had 
threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am 
sure that you will agree with me that the position was very 
difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path 
and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, 
when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of 
their interview.  A wisp of green floating in the air caught 
my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on 
a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. 
It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net.  He was very much 
closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving 
in their direction.  At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew 
Miss Stapleton to his side.  His arm was round her, but it 
seemed to me that she was straining away from him with her 
face averted.  He stooped his head to hers, and she raised 
one hand as if in protest.  Next moment I saw them spring 
apart and turn hurriedly round.  Stapleton was the cause of 
the interruption.  He was running wildly towards them, his 
absurd net dangling behind him.  He gesticulated and almost 
danced with excitement in front of the lovers.  What the 
scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that 
Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, 
which became more angry as the other refused to accept them.  
The lady stood by in haughty silence.  Finally Stapleton 
turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his 
sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked 
off by the side of her brother.  The naturalist's angry 
gestures showed that the lady was included in his 
displeasure.  The baronet stood for a minute looking after 
them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had 
come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection.

What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply 
ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my 
friend's knowledge.  I ran down the hill therefore and met 
the baronet at the bottom.  His face was flushed with anger 
and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wits' 
ends what to do.

"Halloa, Watson!  Where have you dropped from?" said he.  
"You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?"

I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible 
to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had 
witnessed all that had occurred.  For an instant his eyes 
blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he 
broke at last into a rather rueful laugh.

"You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly 
safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by 
thunder, the whole country-side seems to have been out to 
see me do my wooing -- and a mighty poor wooing at that!  
Where had you engaged a seat?"

"I was on that hill."

"Quite in the back row, eh?  But her brother was well up to 
the front.  Did you see him come out on us?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did he ever strike you as being crazy -- this brother of 
hers?"

"I can't say that he ever did."

"I daresay not.  I always thought him sane enough until 
to-day, but you can take it from me that either he or I 
ought to be in a strait-jacket.  What's the matter with me, 
anyhow?  You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson.  Tell 
me straight, now!  Is there anything that would prevent me 
from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?"

"I should say not."

"He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be 
myself that he has this down on.  What has he against me? 
I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. 
And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of
her fingers."

"Did he say so?"

"That, and a deal more.  I tell you, Watson, I've only known 
her these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she 
was made for me, and she, too -- she was happy when she was 
with me, and that I'll swear.  There's a light in a woman's 
eyes that speaks louder than words.  But he has never let us 
get together, and it was only to-day for the first time that 
I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone.  She 
was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that 
she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk 
about it either if she could have stopped it.  She kept 
coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that 
she would never be happy until I had left it.  I told her 
that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and 
that if she really wanted me to go the only way to work it 
was for her to arrange to go with me.  With that I offered 
in as many words to marry her, but before she could answer 
down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on 
him like a madman.  He was just white with rage, and those 
light eyes of his were blazing with fury.  What was I doing 
with the lady?  How dared I offer her attentions which were 
distasteful to her?  Did I think that because I was a 
baronet I could do what I liked?  If he had not been her 
brother I should have known better how to answer him.  As it 
was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such 
as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might 
honour me by becoming my wife.  That seemed to make the 
matter no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I 
answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, 
considering that she was standing by.  So it ended by his 
going off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly 
puzzled a man as any in this county.  Just tell me what it 
all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can 
hope to pay."

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was 
completely puzzled myself.  Our friend's title, his fortune, 
his age, his character, and his appearance are all in his 
favour, and I know nothing against him, unless it be this 
dark fate which runs in his family.  That his advances 
should be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the 
lady's own wishes, and that the lady should accept the 
situation without protest, is very amazing.  However, our 
conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton 
himself that very afternoon.  He had come to offer apologies 
for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private 
interview with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their 
conversation was that the breach is quite healed, and that 
we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it.

"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; 
"I can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this 
morning, but I must allow that no man could make a more 
handsome apology than he has done."

"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

"His sister is everything in his life, he says.  That is 
natural enough, and I am glad that he should understand her 
value.  They have always been together, and according to his 
account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a 
companion, so that the thought of losing her was really 
terrible to him.  He had not understood, he said, that I was 
becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes 
that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from 
him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not 
responsible for what he said or did.  He was very sorry for 
all that had passed, and he recognised how foolish and how 
selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a 
beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole 
life.  If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a 
neighbour like myself than to anyone else.  But in any case 
it was a blow to him, and it would take him some time before 
he could prepare himself to meet it.  He would withdraw all 
opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months 
to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating 
the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her 
love.  This I promised, and so the matter rests."

So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up.  It is 
something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in 
which we are floundering.  We know now why Stapleton looked 
with disfavour upon his sister's suitor -- even when that 
suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry.  And now I pass 
on to another thread which I have extricated out of the 
tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the 
tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey 
of the butler to the western lattice window.  Congratulate 
me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed 
you as an agent -- that you do not regret the confidence 
which you showed in me when you sent me down.  All these 
things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared.

I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by 
two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank.  
I sat up with Sir Henry in his room until nearly three 
o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear 
except the chiming clock upon the stairs.  It was a most 
melancholy vigil, and ended by each of us falling asleep in 
our chairs.  Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we 
determined to try again.  The next night we lowered the lamp 
and sat smoking cigarettes, without making the least sound.  
It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet 
we were helped through it by the same sort of patient 
interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap 
into which he hopes the game may wander.  One struck, and 
two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in 
despair, when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our 
chairs, with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once 
more.  We had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in 
the distance.  Then the baronet gently opened his door and 
we set out in pursuit.  Already our man had gone round the 
gallery, and the corridor was all in darkness.  Softly we 
stole along until we had come into the other wing.  We were 
just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded 
figure, his shoulders rounded, as he tip-toed down the 
passage.  Then he passed through the same door as before, 
and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and 
shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the 
corridor.  We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every 
plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. 
We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, 
but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our 
tread.  Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail 
to hear our approach.  However, the man is fortunately 
rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which 
he was doing.  When at last we reached the door and peeped 
through we found him crouching at the window, candle in 
hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, 
exactly as I had seen him two nights before.

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a 
man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural.  
He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang 
up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath, and 
stood, livid and trembling, before us.  His dark eyes, 
glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of 
horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

"Nothing, sir."  His agitation was so great that he could 
hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the 
shaking of his candle.  "It was the window, sir.  I go round 
at night to see that they are fastened."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes, sir, all the windows."

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, sternly; "we have 
made up our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will 
save you trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. 
Come, now!  No lies!  What were you doing at that window?"

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his 
hands together like one who is in the last extremity of 
doubt and misery.

"I was doing no harm, sir.  I was holding a candle to the 
window."

"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

"Don't ask me, Sir Henry -- don't ask me!  I give you my word,
sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. 
If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it
from you."

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the 
window-sill, where the butler had placed it.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I.  "Let us 
see if there is any answer."  I held it as he had done, and 
stared out into the darkness of the night.  Vaguely I could 
discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse 
of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds.  And then
I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pin-point of yellow 
light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily
in the centre of the black square framed by the window.

"There it is!" I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing -- nothing at all!" the butler 
broke in; "I assure you, sir ----"

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. 
"See, the other moves also!  Now, you rascal, do you deny that
it is a signal?  Come, speak up!  Who is your confederate out
yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?"

The man's face became openly defiant.

"It is my business, and not yours.  I will not tell."

"Then you leave my employment right away."

"Very good, sir.  If I must I must."

"And you go in disgrace.  By thunder, you may well be 
ashamed of yourself.  Your family has lived with mine for 
over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you 
deep in some dark plot against me."

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!"  It was a woman's voice, 
and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her 
husband, was standing at the door.  Her bulky figure in a 
shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the 
intensity of feeling upon her face.

"We have to go, Eliza.  This is the end of it.  You can pack 
our things," said the butler.

"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this?  It is my doing,
Sir Henry -- all mine.  He has done nothing except for my sake,
and because I asked him."

"Speak out, then!  What does it mean?"

"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor.  We cannot let 
him perish at our very gates.  The light is a signal to him 
that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to 
show the spot to which to bring it."

"Then your brother is ----"

"The escaped convict, sir -- Selden, the criminal."

"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore.  "I said that it 
was not my secret and that I could not tell it to you.  But 
now you have heard it, and you will see that if there was a 
plot it was not against you."

This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions 
at night and the light at the window.  Sir Henry and I both 
stared at the woman in amazement.  Was it possible that this 
stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as one of 
the most notorious criminals in the country?

"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother.  
We humoured him too much when he was a lad, and gave him his 
own way in everything until he came to think that the world 
was made for his pleasure, and that he could do what he 
liked in it.  Then, as he grew older, he met wicked 
companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my 
mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt.  From crime 
to crime he sank lower and lower, until it is only the mercy 
of God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, 
sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had 
nursed and played with, as an elder sister would.  That was 
why he broke prison, sir.  He knew that I was here and that 
we could not refuse to help him.  When he dragged himself 
here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard
at his heels, what could we do?  We took him in and fed him
and cared for him.  Then you returned, sir, and my brother 
thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else 
until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there.  
But every second night we made sure if he was still there by 
putting a light in the window, and if there was an answer my 
husband took out some bread and meat to him.  Every day we 
hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we could 
not desert him.  That is the whole truth, as I am an honest 
Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in 
the matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me,
for whose sake he has done all that he has."

The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which 
carried conviction with them.

"Is this true, Barrymore?"

"Yes, Sir Henry.  Every word of it."

"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife.  
Forget what I have said.  Go to your room, you two, and we 
shall talk further about this matter in the morning."

When they were gone we looked out of the window again. 
Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in 
upon our faces.  Far away in the black distance there still 
glowed that one tiny point of yellow light.

"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

"It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."

"Very likely.  How far do you think it is?"

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

"Not more than a mile or two off."

"Hardly that."

"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food
to it.  And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. 
By thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!"

The same thought had crossed my own mind.  It was not as if 
the Barrymores had taken us into their confidence.  Their 
secret had been forced from them.  The man was a danger to 
the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was 
neither pity nor excuse.  We were only doing our duty in 
taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no 
harm.  With his brutal and violent nature, others would have 
to pay the price if we held our hands.  Any night, for 
example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by 
him, and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir 
Henry so keen upon the adventure.

"I will come," said I.

"Then get your revolver and put on your boots.  The sooner 
we start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and 
be off."

In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our 
expedition.  We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid
the dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the 
falling leaves.  The night air was heavy with the smell of 
damp and decay.  Now and again the moon peeped out for an 
instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky, 
and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to 
fall.  The light still burned steadily in front.

"Are you armed?" I asked.

"I have a hunting-crop."

"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a 
desperate fellow.  We shall take him by surprise and have 
him at our mercy before he can resist."

"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to 
this?  How about that hour of darkness in which the power of 
evil is exalted?"

As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the 
vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already 
heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire.  It came 
with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep 
mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which 
it died away.  Again and again it sounded, the whole air 
throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing.  The 
baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white 
through the darkness.

"Good heavens, what's that, Watson?"

"I don't know.  It's a sound they have on the moor.  I heard 
it once before."

It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. 
We stood straining our ears, but nothing came.

"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."

My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his 
voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

"What do they call this sound?" he asked.

"Who?"

"The folk on the country-side."

"Oh, they are ignorant people.  Why should you mind what 
they call it?"

"Tell me, Watson.  What do they say of it?"

I hesitated, but could not escape the question.

"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

He groaned, and was silent for a few moments.

"A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it seemed to come 
from miles away, over yonder, I think."

"It was hard to say whence it came."

"It rose and fell with the wind.  Isn't that the direction 
of the great Grimpen Mire?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, it was up there.  Come now, Watson, didn't you think 
yourself that it was the cry of a hound?  I am not a child.  
You need not fear to speak the truth."

"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last.  He said that 
it might be the calling of a strange bird."

"No, no, it was a hound.  My God, can there be some truth in 
all these stories?  Is it possible that I am really in danger
from so dark a cause?  You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"

"No, no."

"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and 
it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor 
and to hear such a cry as that.  And my uncle!  There was 
the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay.  It all 
fits together.  I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, 
but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood.  Feel my hand!"

It was as cold as a block of marble.

"You'll be all right to-morrow."

"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. 
What do you advise that we do now?"

"Shall we turn back?"

"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man,
and we will do it.  We after the convict, and a hell-hound,
as likely as not, after us.  Come on!  We'll see it through
if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor."

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black 
loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck
of light burning steadily in front.  There is nothing so 
deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark 
night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon 
the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few 
yards of us.  But at last we could see whence it came, and 
then we knew that we were indeed very close.  A guttering 
candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it 
on each side so as to keep the wind from it, and also to 
prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of 
Baskerville Hall.  A boulder of granite concealed our 
approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the 
signal light.  It was strange to see this single candle 
burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of 
life near it -- just the one straight yellow flame and the 
gleam of the rock on each side of it.

"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.

"Wait here.  He must be near his light.  Let us see if we 
can get a glimpse of him."

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him.  
Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, 
there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal 
face, all seamed and scored with vile passions.  Foul with 
mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair,
it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who 
dwelt in the burrows on the hill-sides.  The light beneath 
him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes, which peered 
fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a 
crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the 
hunters.

Something had evidently aroused his suspicions.  It may have 
been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had 
neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other 
reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read 
his fears upon his wicked face.  Any instant he might dash 
out the light and vanish in the darkness.  I sprang forward 
therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.  At the same moment 
the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock 
which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered 
us.  I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, 
strongly-built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to 
run.  At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke 
through the clouds.  We rushed over the brow of the hill, 
and there was our man running with great speed down the 
other side, springing over the stones in his way with the 
activity of a mountain goat.  A lucky long shot of my 
revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only 
to defend myself if attacked, and not to shoot an unarmed 
man who was running away.

We were both fair runners and in good condition, but we soon 
found that we had no chance of overtaking him.  We saw him 
for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small 
speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of
a distant hill.  We ran and ran until we were completely 
blown, but the space between us grew ever wider.  Finally we 
stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him 
disappearing in the distance.

And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange 
and unexpected thing.  We had risen from our rocks and were 
turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase.  
The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of 
a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver 
disc.  There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that 
shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor.  
Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes.  I assure you 
that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. 
As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall,
thin man.  He stood with his legs a little separated, his
arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that 
enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. 
He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. 
It was not the convict.  This man was far from the 
place where the latter had disappeared.  Besides, he was a 
much taller man.  With a cry of surprise I pointed him out 
to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned 
to grasp his arm the man was gone.  There was the sharp 
pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the 
moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and 
motionless figure.

I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but 
it was some distance away.  The baronet's nerves were still 
quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of 
his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures.  
He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not 
feel the thrill which his strange presence and his 
commanding attitude had given to me.  "A warder, no doubt," 
said he.  "The moor has been thick with them since this 
fellow escaped."  Well, perhaps his explanation may be the 
right one, but I should like to have some further proof of 
it.  To-day we mean to communicate to the Princetown people 
where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard 
lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing 
him back as our own prisoner.  Such are the adventures of 
last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I 
have done you very well in the matter of a report.  Much of 
what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I 
feel that it is best that I should let you have all the 
facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will 
be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. 
We are certainly making some progress.  So far as the Barrymores
go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has
cleared up the situation very much.  But the moor with its
mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable
as ever.  Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light
upon this also.  Best of all would it be if you could come down
to us. {5}



                          CHAPTER X.
             EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF DR. WATSON.

SO far I have been able to quote from the reports which I 
have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes.  
Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative 
where I am compelled to abandon this method and to trust 
once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I 
kept at the time.  A few extracts from the latter will carry 
me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every 
detail upon my memory.  I proceed, then, from the morning 
which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our 
other strange experiences upon the moor.

October 16th. -- A dull and foggy day, with a drizzle of 
rain.  The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which 
rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, 
with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the 
distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their 
wet faces.  It is melancholy outside and in.  The baronet
is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. 
I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling
of impending danger -- ever-present danger, which is the more 
terrible because I am unable to define it.

And have I not cause for such a feeling?  Consider the
long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some 
sinister influence which is at work around us.  There is
the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so 
exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there is 
the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a 
strange creature upon the moor.  Twice I have with my own 
ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a 
hound.  It is incredible, impossible, that it should really 
be outside the ordinary laws of Nature.  A spectral hound 
which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its 
howling is surely not to be thought of.  Stapleton may fall 
in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also; but if I 
have one quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing 
will persuade me to believe in such a thing.  To do so would 
be to descend to the level of these poor peasants who are 
not content with a mere fiend dog, but must needs describe 
him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. 
Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. 
But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the 
moor.  Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose 
upon it; that would go far to explain everything.  But where 
could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, 
where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by 
day?  It must be confessed that the natural explanation 
offers almost as many difficulties as the other.  And 
always, apart from the hound, there was the fact of the 
human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter 
which warned Sir Henry against the moor.  This at least was 
real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend 
as easily as an enemy.  Where was that friend or enemy now?  
Had he remained in London, or had he followed us down here?  
Could he -- could he be the stranger whom I had seen upon 
the Tor?

It is true that I have had only the one glance at him,
and yet there are some things to which I am ready to swear. 
He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met
all the neighbours.  The figure was far taller than that of 
Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland.  Barrymore it 
might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us, and 
I am certain that he could not have followed us.  A stranger 
then is still dogging us, just as a stranger had dogged us 
in London.  We have never shaken him off.  If I could lay my 
hands upon that man, then at last we might find ourselves at 
the end of all our difficulties.  To this one purpose I must 
now devote all my energies.

My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. 
My second and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as 
little as possible to anyone.  He is silent and distrait.  
His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon
the moor.  I will say nothing to add to his anxieties,
but I will take my own steps to attain my own end.

We had a small scene this morning after breakfast.  
Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were 
closeted in his study some little time.  Sitting in the 
billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of voices 
raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was 
which was under discussion.  After a time the baronet opened 
his door and called for me.

"Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. 
"He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his 
brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will,
had told us the secret."

The butler was standing, very pale but very collected, before us.

"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have 
I am sure that I beg your pardon.  At the same time, I was 
very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back 
this morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden.  
The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting
more upon his track."

"If you had told us of your own free will it would have been 
a different thing," said the baronet.  "You only told us, or 
rather your wife only told us, when it was forced from you 
and you could not help yourself."

"I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry
-- indeed I didn't."

"The man is a public danger.  There are lonely houses 
scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick 
at nothing.  You only want to get a glimpse of his face to 
see that.  Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with 
no one but himself to defend it.  There's no safety for 
anyone until he is under lock and key."

"He'll break into no house, sir.  I give you my solemn word 
upon that.  But he will never trouble anyone in this country 
again.  I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the 
necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on 
his way to South America.  For God's sake, sir, I beg of you 
not to let the police know that he is still on the moor.  
They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet 
until the ship is ready for him.  You can't tell on him 
without getting my wife and me into trouble.  I beg you, 
sir, to say nothing to the police."

"What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "If he were safely out of the 
country it would relieve the taxpayer of a burden."

"But how about the chance of his holding someone up before 
he goes?"

"He would not do anything so mad, sir.  We have provided him 
with all that he can want.  To commit a crime would be to 
show where he was hiding."

"That is true," said Sir Henry.  "Well, Barrymore ----"

"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! 
It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again."

"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson?  But, 
after what we have heard, I don't feel as if I could give 
the man up, so there is an end of it.  All right, Barrymore, 
you can go."

With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he 
hesitated and then came back.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do 
the best I can for you in return.  I know something, Sir 
Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was 
long after the inquest that I found it out.  I've never 
breathed a word about it yet to mortal man.  It's about poor 
Sir Charles's death."

The baronet and I were both upon our feet. 
"Do you know how he died?"

"No, sir, I don't know that."

"What, then?"

"I know why he was at the gate at that hour.  It was to meet 
a woman."

"To meet a woman!  He?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the woman's name?"

"I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the 
initials.  Her initials were L. L."

"How do you know this, Barrymore?"

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. 
He had usually a great many letters, for he was a public man 
and well known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was 
in trouble was glad to turn to him.  But that morning, as it 
chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more 
notice of it.  It was from Coombe Tracey, and it was 
addressed in a woman's hand."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would 
have done had it not been for my wife.  Only a few weeks ago 
she was cleaning out Sir Charles's study -- it had never 
been touched since his death -- and she found the ashes of a 
burned letter in the back of the grate.  The greater part of 
it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a 
page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, 
though it was grey on a black ground.  It seemed to us to be 
a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: 'Please, 
please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at 
the gate by ten o'clock.'  Beneath it were signed the 
initials L. L."

"Have you got that slip?"

"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

"Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same 
writing?"

"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. 
I should not have noticed this one only it happened to come 
alone."

"And you have no idea who L. L. is?"

"No, sir.  No more than you have.  But I expect if we could 
lay our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir 
Charles's death."

"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal 
this important information."

"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble 
came to us.  And then again, sir, we were both of us very 
fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all 
that he has done for us.  To rake this up couldn't help our 
poor master, and it's well to go carefully when there's a 
lady in the case.  Even the best of us ----"

"You thought it might injure his reputation?"

"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it.  But now you 
have been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating 
you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter."

"Very good, Barrymore; you can go."  When the butler had 
left us Sir Henry turned to me.  "Well, Watson, what do you 
think of this new light?"

"It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."

"So I think.  But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear 
up the whole business.  We have gained that much.  We know 
that there is someone who has the facts if we can only find 
her.  What do you think we should do?"

"Let Holmes know all about it at once.  It will give him the 
clue for which he has been seeking.  I am much mistaken if 
it does not bring him down."

I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the 
morning's conversation for Holmes.  It was evident to me 
that he had been very busy of late, for the notes which I 
had from Baker Street were few and short, with no comments 
upon the information which I had supplied, and hardly any 
reference to my mission.  No doubt his blackmailing case is 
absorbing all his faculties.  And yet this new factor must 
surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. 
I wish that he were here.

October 17th. -- All day to-day the rain poured down, 
rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves.  I thought 
of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor.  
Poor fellow!  Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something 
to atone for them.  And then I thought of that other one -- 
the face in the cab, the figure against the moon.  Was he 
also out in that deluge -- the unseen watcher, the man of 
darkness?  In the evening I put on my waterproof and I 
walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, 
the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about 
my ears.  God help those who wander into the Great Mire now, 
for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.  I found 
the black Tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, 
and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the 
melancholy downs.  Rain squalls drifted across their russet 
face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the 
landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down the sides of the 
fantastic hills.  In the distant hollow on the left, half 
hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall 
rose above the trees.  They were the only signs of human 
life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts 
which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills.  Nowhere was 
there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the 
same spot two nights before.

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in 
his dog-cart over a rough moorland track, which led from the 
outlying farmhouse of Foulmire.  He has been very attentive 
to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at 
the Hall to see how we were getting on.  He insisted upon my 
climbing into his dog-cart and he gave me a lift homewards.  
I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his 
little spaniel.  It had wandered on to the moor and had 
never come back.  I gave him such consolation as I might, 
but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not 
fancy that he will see his little dog again. 

"By the way, Mortimer," said I, as we jolted along the rough 
road, "I suppose there are few people living within driving 
distance of this whom you do not know?"

"Hardly any, I think."

"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials 
are L. L.?"

He thought for a few minutes.

"No," said he.  "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk 
for whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry 
there is no one whose initials are those.  Wait a bit, 
though," he added, after a pause.  "There is Laura Lyons -- 
her initials are L. L. -- but she lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She is Frankland's daughter."

"What?  Old Frankland the crank?"

"Exactly.  She married an artist named Lyons, who came 
sketching on the moor.  He proved to be a blackguard and 
deserted her.  The fault from what I hear may not have been 
entirely on one side.  Her father refused to have anything 
to do with her, because she had married without his consent, 
and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. 
So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has 
had a pretty bad time."

"How does she live?"

"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot 
be more, for his own affairs are considerably involved.  
Whatever she may have deserved one could not allow her to go 
hopelessly to the bad.  Her story got about, and several of 
the people here did something to enable her to earn an 
honest living.  Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for 
another.  I gave a trifle myself.  It was to set her up in a 
typewriting business."

He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed 
to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much,
for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our 
confidence.  To-morrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe 
Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal 
reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing 
one incident in this chain of mysteries.  I am certainly 
developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer 
pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him 
casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so 
heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. 
I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
and melancholy day.  This was my conversation with Barrymore
just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play
in due time.

Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played 
ecarte {6} afterwards.  The butler brought me my coffee into 
the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

"Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed,
or is he still lurking out yonder?"

"I don't know, sir.  I hope to Heaven that he has gone, for 
he has brought nothing but trouble here!  I've not heard of 
him since I left out food for him last, and that was three 
days ago."

"Did you see him then?"

"No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."

"Then he was certainly there?"

"So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who 
took it."

I sat with my coffee-cup half-way to my lips and stared at 
Barrymore.

"You know that there is another man, then?"

"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, sir."

"How do you know of him, then?"

"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more.  He's in 
hiding, too, but he's not a convict so far as I can make out. 
I don't like it, Dr. Watson -- I tell you straight, sir, 
that I don't like it."  He spoke with a sudden passion 
of earnestness.

"Now, listen to me, Barrymore!  I have no interest in this 
matter but that of your master.  I have come here with no 
object except to help him.  Tell me, frankly, what it is 
that you don't like."

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his 
outburst, or found it difficult to express his own feelings 
in words.

"It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried, at last, waving 
his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. 
"There's foul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing,
to that I'll swear!  Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry
on his way back to London again!"

"But what is it that alarms you?"

"Look at Sir Charles's death!  That was bad enough, for all 
that the coroner said.  Look at the noises on the moor at 
night.  There's not a man would cross it after sundown if he 
was paid for it.  Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, 
and watching and waiting!  What's he waiting for? 
What does it mean?  It means no good to anyone of the name of 
Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all 
on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take 
over the Hall."

"But about this stranger," said I.  "Can you tell me 
anything about him?  What did Selden say?  Did he find out 
where he hid, or what he was doing?"

"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one, and gives 
nothing away.  At first he thought that he was the police, 
but soon he found that he had some lay of his own.  A kind 
of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was 
doing he could not make out."

"And where did he say that he lived?"

"Among the old houses on the hillside -- the stone huts 
where the old folk used to live."

"But how about his food?"

"Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him 
and brings him all he needs.  I daresay he goes to Coombe 
Tracey for what he wants."

"Very good, Barrymore.  We may talk further of this some 
other time."  When the butler had gone I walked over to the 
black window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the 
driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept 
trees.  It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a 
stone hut upon the moor?  What passion of hatred can it be 
which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time!  
And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls 
for such a trial?  There, in that hut upon the moor, seems 
to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so 
sorely.  I swear that another day shall not have passed 
before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
of the mystery.



                         CHAPTER XI.
                     THE MAN ON THE TOR.

THE extract from my private diary which forms the last 
chapter has brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, 
a time when these strange events began to move swiftly 
towards their terrible conclusion.  The incidents of the 
next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and 
I can tell them without reference to the notes made at the 
time.  I start, then, from the day which succeeded that upon 
which I had established two facts of great importance, the 
one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to 
Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at 
the very place and hour that he met his death, the other 
that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the 
stone huts upon the hillside.  With these two facts in my 
possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage 
must be deficient if I could not throw some further light 
upon these dark places.

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned 
about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer 
remained with him at cards until it was very late. 
At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery,
and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe 
Tracey.  At first he was very eager to come, but on second 
thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the 
results might be better.  The more formal we made the visit 
the less information we might obtain.  I left Sir Henry 
behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, 
and drove off upon my new quest.

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the 
horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to 
interrogate.  I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, 
which were central and well appointed.  A maid showed me in 
without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, 
who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up 
with a pleasant smile of welcome.  Her face fell, however, 
when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again 
and asked me the object of my visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme 
beauty.  Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour,
and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with
the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks
at the heart of the sulphur rose.  Admiration was, I repeat,
the first impression.  But the second was criticism. 
There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness
of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness
of lip which marred its perfect beauty.  But these, of course,
are after-thoughts.  At the moment I was simply conscious that
I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was
asking me the reasons for my visit.  I had not quite understood 
until that instant how delicate my mission was.

"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father."

It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.

"There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. 
"I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine.  If it were not
for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts
I might have starved for all that my father cared."

"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have 
come here to see you."

The freckles started out on the lady's face.

"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers 
played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

"You knew him, did you not?"

"I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. 
If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the
interest which he took in my unhappy situation."

"Did you correspond with him?"

The lady looked quickly up, with an angry gleam in her hazel 
eyes.

"What is the object of these questions?" she asked, sharply.

"The object is to avoid a public scandal.  It is better that 
I should ask them here than that the matter should pass 
outside our control."

She was silent and her face was very pale.  At last she 
looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

"Well, I'll answer," she said.  "What are your questions?"

"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his 
delicacy and his generosity."

"Have you the dates of those letters?"

"No."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. 
He was a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good
by stealth."

"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did 
he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you,
as you say that he has done?"

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and 
united to help me.  One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and 
intimate friend of Sir Charles.  He was exceedingly kind, 
and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my 
affairs."

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made 
Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's 
statement bore the impress of truth upon it.

"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" 
I continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.

"Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

"Then I answer -- certainly not."

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was 
before me.  Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I 
saw rather than heard.

"Surely your memory deceives you," said I.  "I could even 
quote a passage of your letter.  It ran, 'Please, please,
as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate
by ten o'clock.'"

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by 
a supreme effort.

"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

"You do Sir Charles an injustice.  He _did_ burn the letter.  
But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. 
You acknowledge now that you wrote it?"

"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a 
torrent of words.  "I did write it.  Why should I deny it?  
I have no reason to be ashamed of it.  I wished him to help me. 
I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help,
so I asked him to meet me."

"But why at such an hour?"

"Because I had only just learned that he was going to London 
next day and might be away for months.  There were reasons 
why I could not get there earlier."

"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to 
the house?"

"Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a 
bachelor's house?"

"Well, what happened when you did get there?"

"I never went."

"Mrs. Lyons!"

"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred.  I never went.  
Something intervened to prevent my going."

"What was that?"

"That is a private matter.  I cannot tell it."

"You acknowledge, then, that you made an appointment with 
Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his 
death, but you deny that you kept the appointment?"

"That is the truth."

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never 
get past that point.

"Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long and 
inconclusive interview, "you are taking a very great 
responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position 
by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you 
know.  If I have to call in the aid of the police you will 
find how seriously you are compromised.  If your position is 
innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having 
written to Sir Charles upon that date?"

"Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn 
from it, and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

"And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should 
destroy your letter?"

"If you have read the letter you will know."

"I did not say that I had read all the letter."

"You quoted some of it."

"I quoted the postscript.  The letter had, as I said, been 
burned, and it was not all legible.  I ask you once again 
why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should 
destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death."

"The matter is a very private one."

"The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

"I will tell you, then.  If you have heard anything of my 
unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage 
and had reason to regret it."

"I have heard so much."

"My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband 
whom I abhor.  The law is upon his side, and every day I am 
faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with 
him.  At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles
I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining
my freedom if certain expenses could be met.  It meant 
everything to me -- peace of mind, happiness, self-respect --
everything.  I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought
that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me."

"Then how is it that you did not go?"

"Because I received help in the interval from another source."

"Why, then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"

"So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper 
next morning."

The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my 
questions were unable to shake it.  I could only check it by 
finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings 
against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy.

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not 
been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap 
would be necessary to take her there, and could not have 
returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the 
morning.  Such an excursion could not be kept secret.  The 
probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, 
or, at least, a part of the truth.  I came away baffled and 
disheartened.  Once again I had reached that dead wall which 
seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get 
at the object of my mission.  And yet the more I thought of 
the lady's face and of her manner the more I felt that 
something was being held back from me.  Why should she turn 
so pale?  Why should she fight against every admission until 
it was forced from her?  Why should she have been so 
reticent at the time of the tragedy?  Surely the explanation 
of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me 
believe.  For the moment I could proceed no farther in that 
direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was 
to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor.

And that was a most vague direction.  I realized it as I 
drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of 
the ancient people.  Barrymore's only indication had been 
that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and 
many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length 
and breadth of the moor.  But I had my own experience for a 
guide, since it had shown me the man himself standing upon 
the summit of the Black Tor.  That, then, should be the 
centre of my search.  From there I should explore every hut 
upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one.  If this 
man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at 
the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he 
had dogged us so long.  He might slip away from us in the 
crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so 
upon the lonely moor.  On the other hand, if I should find 
the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain 
there, however long the vigil, until he returned.  Holmes 
had missed him in London.  It would indeed be a triumph for 
me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, 
but now at last it came to my aid.  And the messenger of 
good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was 
standing, grey-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of 
his garden, which opened on to the high road along which
I travelled.

"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he, with unwonted good humour, 
"you must really give your horses a rest, and come in to 
have a glass of wine and to congratulate me."

My feelings towards him were far from being friendly after 
what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was 
anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the 
opportunity was a good one.  I alighted and sent a message 
to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner.  
Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

"It is a great day for me, sir -- one of the red-letter days 
of my life," he cried, with many chuckles.  "I have brought 
off a double event.  I mean to teach them in these parts 
that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not 
fear to invoke it.  I have established a right of way 
through the centre of old Middleton's park, slap across it, 
sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door.  What do 
you think of that?  We'll teach these magnates that they 
cannot ride rough-shod over the rights of the commoners, 
confound them!  And I've closed the wood where the 
Fernworthy folk used to picnic.  These infernal people seem 
to think that there are no rights of property, and that they 
can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. 
Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. 
I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for
trespass, because he shot in his own warren."

"How on earth did you do that?"

"Look it up in the books, sir.  It will repay reading -- 
Frankland _v_. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench.  It cost me 
_L_200, {7} but I got my verdict."

"Did it do you any good?"

"None, sir, none.  I am proud to say that I had no interest 
in the matter.  I act entirely from a sense of public duty.  
I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people 
will burn me in effigy to-night.  I told the police last 
time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful 
exhibitions.  The county constabulary is in a scandalous 
state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to 
which I am entitled.  The case of Frankland _v_. Regina will 
bring the matter before the attention of the public.  I told 
them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment 
of me, and already my words have come true."

"How so?" I asked.

The old man put on a very knowing expression.

"Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but 
nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could 
get away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear 
more of it.  I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the 
old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest 
would be the surest way to stop his confidences.

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferent 
manner.

"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! 
What about the convict on the moor?"

I started.  "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure 
that I could help the police to lay their hands on him.  Has 
it never struck you that the way to catch that man was to 
find out where he got his food, and so trace it to him?"

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. 
"No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere
upon the moor?"

"I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the 
messenger who takes him his food."

My heart sank for Barrymore.  It was a serious thing to be 
in the power of this spiteful old busybody.  But his next 
remark took a weight from my mind.

"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him 
by a child.  I see him every day through my telescope upon 
the roof.  He passes along the same path at the same hour, 
and to whom should he be going except to the convict?"

Here was luck indeed!  And yet I suppressed all appearance 
of interest.  A child!  Barrymore had said that our unknown 
was supplied by a boy.  It was on his track, and not upon 
the convict's, that Frankland had stumbled.  If I could get 
his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt.  But 
incredulity and indifference were evidently my strongest 
cards.

"I should say that it was much more likely that it was the 
son of one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's 
dinner."

The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the 
old autocrat.  His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his 
grey whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.

"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching
moor.  "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder?  Well, do you see
the low hill beyond with the thorn-bush upon it?  It is the
stoniest part of the whole moor.  Is that a place where a
shepherd would be likely to take his station?  Your suggestion,
sir, is a most absurd one."

I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. 
My submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before 
I come to an opinion.  I have seen the boy again and again 
with his bundle.  Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I 
have been able -- but wait a moment, Dr. Watson.  Do my eyes 
deceive me, or is there at the present moment something 
moving upon that hillside?"

It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small 
dark dot against the dull green and grey.

"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. 
"You will see with your own eyes and judge for yourself."

The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,
stood upon the flat leads of the house.  Frankland clapped
his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.

"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"

There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little 
bundle upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. 
When he reached the crest I saw the ragged, uncouth figure 
outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. 
He looked round him, with a furtive and stealthy air, as one 
who dreads pursuit.  Then he vanished over the hill.

"Well!  Am I right?"

"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."

"And what the errand is even a county constable could guess.  
But not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to 
secrecy also, Dr. Watson.  Not a word!  You understand?"

"Just as you wish."

"They have treated me shamefully -- shamefully.  When the 
facts come out in Frankland _v_. Regina I venture to think 
that a thrill of indignation will run through the country.  
Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way.  For 
all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy, 
which these rascals burned at the stake.  Surely you are not 
going!  You will help me to empty the decanter in honour of 
this great occasion!"

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in 
dissuading him from his announced intention of walking home 
with me.  I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and 
then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony 
hill over which the boy had disappeared.  Everything was 
working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be 
through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss 
the chance which Fortune had thrown in my way.

The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the 
hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green 
on one side and grey shadow on the other.  A haze lay low 
upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the 
fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor.  Over the wide 
expanse there was no sound and no movement.  One great grey 
bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. 
He and I seemed to be the only living things between the
huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it.  The barren 
scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency 
of my task all struck a chill into my heart.  The boy was 
nowhere to be seen.  But down beneath me in a cleft of the 
hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the 
middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof 
to act as a screen against the weather.  My heart leaped 
within me as I saw it.  This must be the burrow where the 
stranger lurked.  At last my foot was on the threshold of 
his hiding-place -- his secret was within my grasp.

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton 
would do when with poised net he drew near the settled 
butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been 
used as a habitation.  A vague pathway among the boulders 
led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. 
All was silent within.  The unknown might be lurking there,
or he might be prowling on the moor.  My nerves tingled
with the sense of adventure.  Throwing aside my cigarette I 
closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking 
swiftly up to the door, I looked in.  The place was empty.

But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false 
scent.  This was certainly where the man lived.  Some 
blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone 
slab upon which neolithic man had once slumbered.  The ashes 
of a fire were heaped in a rude grate.  Beside it lay some 
cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water.  A litter 
of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for 
some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the 
chequered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of 
spirits standing in the corner.  In the middle of the hut
a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this 
stood a small cloth bundle -- the same, no doubt, which I 
had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy.  
It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins 
of preserved peaches.  As I set it down again, after having 
examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there 
lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it.  I raised it,
and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil:--

"Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey."

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking
out the meaning of this curt message.  It was I, then, and not
Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man.  He had not
followed me himself, but he had set an agent -- the boy, perhaps
-- upon my track, and this was his report.  Possibly I had taken
no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed
and repeated.  Always there was this feeling of an unseen force,
a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy,
holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment
that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report there might be others, so I looked 
round the hut in search of them.  There was no trace, 
however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any 
sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the 
man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be 
of Spartan habits, and cared little for the comforts of life. 
When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the 
gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be 
the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode.  
Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our guardian 
angel?  I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew.

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing 
with scarlet and gold.  Its reflection was shot back in 
ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the Great 
Grimpen Mire.  There were the two towers of Baskerville 
Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the 
village of Grimpen.  Between the two, behind the hill, was 
the house of the Stapletons.  All was sweet and mellow and 
peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked
at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature, but 
quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview 
which every instant was bringing nearer.  With tingling nerves,
but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and
waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

And then at last I heard him.  Far away came the sharp clink 
of a boot striking upon a stone.  Then another and yet 
another, coming nearer and nearer.  I shrank back into the 
darkest corner, and cocked the pistol in my pocket, 
determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity 
of seeing something of the stranger.  There was a long pause 
which showed that he had stopped.  Then once more the footsteps
approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known 
voice.  "I really think that you will be more comfortable 
outside than in."



                         CHAPTER XII.
                      DEATH ON THE MOOR.

FOR a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe 
my ears.  Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while 
a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to 
be lifted from my soul.  That cold, incisive, ironical voice 
could belong to but one man in all the world.

"Holmes!" I cried -- "Holmes!"

"Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a 
stone outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they 
fell upon my astonished features.  He was thin and worn,
but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and 
roughened by the wind.  In his tweed suit and cloth cap he 
looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had 
contrived, with that cat-like love of personal cleanliness 
which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should 
be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker 
Street.

"I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I,
as I wrung him by the hand.

"Or more astonished, eh?"

"Well, I must confess to it."

"The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you.  I had 
no idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less 
that you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of 
the door."

"My footprint, I presume?"

"No, Watson; I fear that I could not undertake to recognise 
your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. 
If you seriously desire to deceive me you must change your 
tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked 
Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in 
the neighbourhood.  You will see it there beside the path.  
You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you 
charged into the empty hut."

"Exactly."

"I thought as much -- and knowing your admirable tenacity I 
was convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon 
within reach, waiting for the tenant to return.  So you 
actually thought that I was the criminal?"

"I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."

"Excellent, Watson!  And how did you localize me?  You saw me,
perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent
as to allow the moon to rise behind me?"

"Yes, I saw you then."

"And have, no doubt, searched all the huts until you came to 
this one?"

"No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide 
where to look."

"The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt.  I could 
not make it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the 
lens."  He rose and peeped into the hut.  "Ha, I see that 
Cartwright has brought up some supplies.  What's this paper?  
So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?"

"Yes."

"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"

"Exactly."

"Well done!  Our researches have evidently been running on 
parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we 
shall have a fairly full knowledge of the case."

"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed 
the responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too 
much for my nerves.  But how in the name of wonder did you 
come here, and what have you been doing?  I thought that you 
were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing."

"That was what I wished you to think."

"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried, with 
some bitterness.  "I think that I have deserved better at 
your hands, Holmes."

"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as 
in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if
I have seemed to play a trick upon you.  In truth, it was 
partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my 
appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to 
come down and examine the matter for myself.  Had I been 
with Sir Henry and you it is evident that my point of view 
would have been the same as yours, and my presence would 
have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their 
guard.  As it is, I have been able to get about as I could 
not possibly have done had I been living at the Hall, and I 
remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in 
all my weight at a critical moment."

"But why keep me in the dark?"

"For you to know could not have helped us, and might 
possibly have led to my discovery.  You would have wished to 
tell me something, or in your kindness you would have 
brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary 
risk would be run.  I brought Cartwright down with me -- you 
remember the little chap at the Express office -- and he has 
seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean 
collar.  What does man want more?  He has given me an extra 
pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both have 
been invaluable."

"Then my reports have all been wasted!"  My voice trembled 
as I recalled the pains and the pride with which I had 
composed them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed,
I assure you.  I made excellent arrangements, and they are only
delayed one day upon their way.  I must compliment you exceedingly
upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
extraordinarily difficult case."

I was still rather raw over the deception which had been 
practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove 
my anger from my mind.  I felt also in my heart that he was 
right in what he said, and that it was really best for our 
purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor.

"That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. 
"And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons --
it was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that
you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person
in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. 
In fact, if you had not gone to-day it is exceedingly probable
that I should have gone to-morrow."

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. 
The air had turned chill, and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. 
There, sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my
conversation with the lady.  So interested was he that I had to
repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.

"This is most important," said he, when I had concluded.  
"It fills up a gap which I had been unable to bridge, in 
this most complex affair.  You are aware, perhaps, that a 
close intimacy exists between this lady and the man 
Stapleton?"

"I did not know of a close intimacy."

"There can be no doubt about the matter.  They meet, they 
write, there is a complete understanding between them. 
Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. 
If I could only use it to detach his wife ----"

"His wife?"

"I am giving you some information now, in return for all 
that you have given me.  The lady who has passed here as 
Miss Stapleton is in reality his wife."

"Good heavens, Holmes!  Are you sure of what you say?  How 
could he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"

"Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone 
except Sir Henry.  He took particular care that Sir Henry 
did not _make_ love to her, as you have yourself observed.  
I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister."

"But why this elaborate deception?"

"Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful 
to him in the character of a free woman."

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly 
took shape and centred upon the naturalist.  In that 
impassive, colourless man, with his straw hat and his 
butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible -- a 
creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling
face and a murderous heart.

"It is he, then, who is our enemy -- it is he who dogged us 
in London?"

"So I read the riddle."

"And the warning -- it must have come from her!"

"Exactly."

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,
loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.

"But are you sure of this, Holmes?  How do you know that the 
woman is his wife?"

"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true 
piece of autobiography upon the occasion when he first met 
you, and I daresay he has many a time regretted it since.  
He _was_ once a schoolmaster in the North of England.  Now, 
there is no one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster.  
There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify any 
man who has been in the profession.  A little investigation 
showed me that a school had come to grief under atrocious 
circumstances, and that the man who had owned it -- the name 
was different -- had disappeared with his wife.  The 
descriptions agreed.  When I learned that the missing man 
was devoted to entomology the identification was complete."

The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the 
shadows.

"If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura 
Lyons come in?" I asked.

"That is one of the points upon which your own researches 
have shed a light.  Your interview with the lady has cleared 
the situation very much.  I did not know about a projected 
divorce between herself and her husband.  In that case, 
regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no 
doubt upon becoming his wife."

"And when she is undeceived?"

"Why, then we may find the lady of service.  It must be our 
first duty to see her -- both of us -- to-morrow.  Don't you 
think, Watson, that you are away from your charge rather 
long?  Your place should be at Baskerville Hall."

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night 
had settled upon the moor.  A few faint stars were gleaming 
in a violet sky.

"One last question, Holmes," I said, as I rose. 
"Surely there is no need of secrecy between you and me. 
What is the meaning of it all?  What is he after?"

Holmes's voice sank as he answered:--

"It is murder, Watson -- refined, cold-blooded, deliberate 
murder.  Do not ask me for particulars.  My nets are closing 
upon him, even as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help 
he is already almost at my mercy.  There is but one danger 
which can threaten us.  It is that he should strike before 
we are ready to do so.  Another day -- two at the most -- 
and I have my case complete, but until then guard your 
charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing 
child.  Your mission to-day has justified itself, and yet I 
could almost wish that you had not left his side -- Hark!"

A terrible scream -- a prolonged yell of horror and anguish 
burst out of the silence of the moor.  That frightful cry 
turned the blood to ice in my veins.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped.  "What is it?  What does it mean?"

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic 
outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his 
head thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.

"Hush!" he whispered.  "Hush!"

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it 
had pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain.  
Now it burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than 
before.

"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill 
of his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. 
"Where is it, Watson?"

"There, I think."  I pointed into the darkness.

"No, there!"

Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, 
louder and much nearer than ever.  And a new sound mingled 
with it, a deep, muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, 
rising and falling like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

"The hound!" cried Holmes.  "Come, Watson, come! 
Great heavens, if we are too late!"

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had 
followed at his heels.  But now from somewhere among the 
broken ground immediately in front of us there came one last 
despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud.  We halted and 
listened.  Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the 
windless night.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. 
He stamped his feet upon the ground.

"He has beaten us, Watson.  We are too late."

"No, no, surely not!"

"Fool that I was to hold my hand.  And you, Watson, see what 
comes of abandoning your charge!  But, by Heaven, if the 
worst has happened, we'll avenge him!"

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and
rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those
dreadful sounds had come.  At every rise Holmes looked eagerly
round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor and nothing
moved upon its dreary face.

"Can you see anything?"

"Nothing."

"But, hark, what is that?"

A low moan had fallen upon our ears.  There it was again 
upon our left!  On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a 
sheer cliff which overlooked a stone-strewn slope.  On its 
jagged face was spread-eagled some dark, irregular object.  
As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into a 
definite shape.  It was a prostrate man face downwards upon 
the ground, the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, 
the shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in 
the act of throwing a somersault.  So grotesque was the 
attitude that I could not for the instant realize that that 
moan had been the passing of his soul.  Not a whisper, not a 
rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped.  
Holmes laid his hand upon him, and held it up again, with an 
exclamation of horror.  The gleam of the match which he 
struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly 
pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. 
And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick
and faint within us -- the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar 
ruddy tweed suit -- the very one which he had worn on the
first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. 
We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match 
flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our 
souls.  Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through 
the darkness.

"The brute! the brute!" I cried, with clenched hands. 
"Oh, Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him
to his fate."

"I am more to blame than you, Watson.  In order to have my 
case well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life 
of my client.  It is the greatest blow which has befallen me 
in my career.  But how could I know -- how _could_ I know -- 
that he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the face 
of all my warnings?"

"That we should have heard his screams -- my God, those screams!
-- and yet have been unable to save him!  Where is this brute of
a hound which drove him to his death?  It may be lurking among
these rocks at this instant.  And Stapleton, where is he? 
He shall answer for this deed."

"He shall.  I will see to that.  Uncle and nephew have been 
murdered -- the one frightened to death by the very sight
of a beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other 
driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it.  But 
now we have to prove the connection between the man and the 
beast.  Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the 
existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died 
from the fall.  But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the 
fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!"

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled 
body, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster 
which had brought all our long and weary labours to so 
piteous an end.  Then, as the moon rose, we climbed to the 
top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen,
and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor,
half silver and half gloom.  Far away, miles off, in the 
direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. 
It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. 
With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

"Why should we not seize him at once?"

"Our case is not complete.  The fellow is wary and cunning to
the last degree.  It is not what we know, but what we can prove. 
If we make one false move the villain may escape us yet."

"What can we do?"

"There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow.  To-night we 
can only perform the last offices to our poor friend."

Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and 
approached the body, black and clear against the silvered 
stones.  The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with
a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears.

"We must send for help, Holmes!  We cannot carry him all the 
way to the Hall.  Good heavens, are you mad?"

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body.  Now he was 
dancing and laughing and wringing my hand.  Could this be my 
stern, self-contained friend?  These were hidden fires, indeed!

"A beard!  A beard!  The man has a beard!"

"A beard?"

"It is not the Baronet -- it is -- why, it is my neighbour, 
the convict!"

With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that 
dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon.  
There could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the 
sunken animal eyes.  It was, indeed, the same face which had 
glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock 
-- the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in an instant it was all clear to me.  I remembered how 
the Baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe 
to Barrymore.  Barrymore had passed it on in order to help 
Selden in his escape.  Boots, shirt, cap -- it was all Sir 
Henry's.  The tragedy was still black enough, but this man 
had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. 
I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over 
with thankfulness and joy.

"Then the clothes have been the poor fellow's death," said he. 
"It is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some
article of Sir Henry's -- the boot which was abstracted in the
hotel, in all probability -- and so ran this man down. 
There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden,
in the darkness, to know that the hound was on his trail?"

"He heard him."

"To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man 
like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he 
would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help.  By his 
cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal 
was on his track.  How did he know?"

"A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that 
all our conjectures are correct ----"

"I presume nothing."

"Well, then, why this hound should be loose to-night. 
I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor.  
Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think 
that Sir Henry would be there."

"My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I 
think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours,
while mine may remain for ever a mystery.  The question now is,
what shall we do with this poor wretch's body?  We cannot leave
it here to the foxes and the ravens."

"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can 
communicate with the police."

"Exactly.  I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. 
Halloa, Watson, what's this?  It's the man himself, by all that's
wonderful and audacious!  Not a word to show your suspicions --
not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground."

A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull
red glow of a cigar.  The moon shone upon him, and I could
distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. 
He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again.

"Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it?  You are the last 
man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at 
this time of night.  But, dear me, what's this?  Somebody hurt? 
Not -- don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" 
He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man.  I heard a
sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers.

"Who -- who's this?" he stammered.

"It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme 
effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment.  
He looked sharply from Holmes to me.

"Dear me!  What a very shocking affair!  How did he die?"

"He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. 
My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

"I heard a cry also.  That was what brought me out. 
I was uneasy about Sir Henry."

"Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.

"Because I had suggested that he should come over.  When he 
did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed 
for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor.  By the way"
-- his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's -- "did you
hear anything else besides a cry?"

"No," said Holmes; "did you?"

"No."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a 
phantom hound, and so on.  It is said to be heard at night 
upon the moor.  I was wondering if there were any evidence 
of such a sound to-night."

"We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

"And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him 
off his head.  He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state 
and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck."

"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton,
and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. 
"What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My friend bowed his compliments.

"You are quick at identification," said he.

"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson 
came down.  You are in time to see a tragedy."

"Yes, indeed.  I have no doubt that my friend's explanation 
will cover the facts.  I will take an unpleasant remembrance 
back to London with me to-morrow."

"Oh, you return to-morrow?"

"That is my intention."

"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences
which have puzzled us?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. 
An investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. 
It has not been a satisfactory case."

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.  
Stapleton still looked hard at him.  Then he turned to me.

"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but 
it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel 
justified in doing it.  I think that if we put something 
over his face he will be safe until morning."

And so it was arranged.  Resisting Stapleton's offer of 
hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, 
leaving the naturalist to return alone.  Looking back we saw 
the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind
him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed
where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end.

"We're at close grips at last," said Holmes, as we walked 
together across the moor.  "What a nerve the fellow has!  
How he pulled himself together in the face of what must have 
been a paralyzing shock when he found that the wrong man had 
fallen a victim to his plot.  I told you in London, Watson, 
and I tell you now again, that we have never had a foeman 
more worthy of our steel."

"I am sorry that he has seen you."

"And so was I at first.  But there was no getting out of it."

"What effect do you think it will have upon his plans,
now that he knows you are here?"

"It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him 
to desperate measures at once.  Like most clever criminals, 
he may be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine 
that he has completely deceived us."

"Why should we not arrest him at once?"

"My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. 
Your instinct is always to do something energetic.  But 
supposing, for argument's sake, that we had him arrested 
to-night, what on earth the better off should we be for that? 
We could prove nothing against him.  There's the devilish
cunning of it!  If he were acting through a human agent we
could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great
dog to the light of day it would not help us in putting
a rope round the neck of its master."

"Surely we have a case."

"Not a shadow of one -- only surmise and conjecture. 
We should be laughed out of court if we came with such a
story and such evidence."

"There is Sir Charles's death."

"Found dead without a mark upon him.  You and I know that he 
died of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him; 
but how are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it?  
What signs are there of a hound?  Where are the marks of its 
fangs?  Of course, we know that a hound does not bite a dead 
body, and that Sir Charles was dead before ever the brute 
overtook him.  But we have to _prove_ all this, and we are 
not in a position to do it."

"Well, then, to-night?"

"We are not much better off to-night.  Again, there was no 
direct connection between the hound and the man's death. 
We never saw the hound.  We heard it; but we could not prove 
that it was running upon this man's trail. There is a complete
absence of motive.  No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile
ourselves to the fact that we have no case at present,
and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order
to establish one."

"And how do you propose to do so?"

"I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us 
when the position of affairs is made clear to her.  And I 
have my own plan as well.  Sufficient for to-morrow is the 
evil thereof; but I hope before the day is past to have the 
upper hand at last."

I could draw nothing farther from him, and he walked,
lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

"Are you coming up?"

"Yes; I see no reason for further concealment.  But one last 
word, Watson.  Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry.  Let 
him think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us 
believe.  He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which 
he will have to undergo to-morrow, when he is engaged, if I 
remember your report aright, to dine with these people."

"And so am I."

"Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. 
That will be easily arranged.  And now, if we are too late
for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers."



                       CHAPTER XIII.
                     FIXING THE NETS.

SIR HENRY was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock 
Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent 
events would bring him down from London.  He did raise his 
eyebrows, however, when he found that my friend had neither 
any luggage nor any explanations for its absence.  Between 
us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated 
supper we explained to the Baronet as much of our experience 
as it seemed desirable that he should know.  But first I had 
the unpleasant duty of breaking the news of Selden's death 
to Barrymore and his wife.  To him it may have been an 
unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. 
To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and 
half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful 
boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. 
Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.

"I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off 
in the morning," said the Baronet.  "I guess I should have 
some credit, for I have kept my promise.  If I hadn't sworn 
not to go about alone I might have had a more lively evening,
for I had a message from Stapleton asking me over there."

"I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,"
said Holmes, drily.  "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate
that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?"

Sir Henry opened his eyes.  "How was that?"

"This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes.  I fear your 
servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the 
police."

"That is unlikely.  There was no mark on any of them,
so far as I know."

"That's lucky for him -- in fact, it's lucky for all of you, 
since you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. 
I am not sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty
is not to arrest the whole household.  Watson's reports are
most incriminating documents."

"But how about the case?" asked the Baronet.  "Have you made 
anything out of the tangle?  I don't know that Watson and I 
are much the wiser since we came down."

"I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation 
rather more clear to you before long.  It has been an 
exceedingly difficult and most complicated business.  There 
are several points upon which we still want light -- but it 
is coming, all the same."

"We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you.  
We heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is 
not all empty superstition.  I had something to do with dogs 
when I was out West, and I know one when I hear one.  If you 
can muzzle that one and put him on a chain I'll be ready to 
swear you are the greatest detective of all time."

"I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you 
will give me your help."

"Whatever you tell me to do I will do."

"Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, 
without always asking the reason."

"Just as you like."

"If you will do this I think the chances are that our little 
problem will soon be solved.  I have no doubt ----"

He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into 
the air.  The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and
so still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical
statue, a personification of alertness and expectation.

"What is it?" we both cried.

I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some 
internal emotion.  His features were still composed, but his 
eyes shone with amused exultation.

"Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he, as he 
waved his hand towards the line of portraits which covered 
the opposite wall.  "Watson won't allow that I know anything 
of art, but that is mere jealousy, because our views upon 
the subject differ.  Now, these are a really very fine 
series of portraits."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, 
glancing with some surprise at my friend.  "I don't pretend 
to know much about these things, and I'd be a better judge 
of a horse or a steer than of a picture.  I didn't know that 
you found time for such things."

"I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now.  
That's a Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk 
over yonder, and the stout gentleman with the wig ought to 
be a Reynolds.  They are all family portraits, I presume?"

"Every one."

"Do you know the names?"

"Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can 
say my lessons fairly well."

"Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"

"That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney 
in the West Indies.  The man with the blue coat and the roll 
of paper is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of 
Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt."

"And this Cavalier opposite to me -- the one with the black 
velvet and the lace?"

"Ah, you have a right to know about him.  That is the cause 
of all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound 
of the Baskervilles.  We're not likely to forget him."

I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

"Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man 
enough, but I daresay that there was a lurking devil in his 
eyes.  I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly 
person."

"There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and 
the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas."

Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old 
roysterer seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes 
were continually fixed upon it during supper.  It was not 
until later, when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was 
able to follow the trend of his thoughts.  He led me back into
the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he
held it up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.

"Do you see anything there?"

I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, 
the white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which 
was framed between them.  It was not a brutal countenance, 
but it was prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, 
thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye.

"Is it like anyone you know?"

"There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw."

"Just a suggestion, perhaps.  But wait an instant!" 
He stood upon a chair, and holding up the light in his left 
hand he curved his right arm over the broad hat and round 
the long ringlets.

"Good heavens!" I cried, in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

"Ha, you see it now.  My eyes have been trained to examine 
faces and not their trimmings.  It is the first quality of a
criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise."

"But this is marvellous.  It might be his portrait."

"Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throw-back, which 
appears to be both physical and spiritual.  A study of 
family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine 
of reincarnation.  The fellow is a Baskerville -- that is 
evident."

"With designs upon the succession."

"Exactly.  This chance of the picture has supplied us with 
one of our most obvious missing links.  We have him, Watson, 
we have him, and I dare swear that before to-morrow night he 
will be fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his own 
butterflies.  A pin, a cork, and a card, and we add him to 
the Baker Street collection!"  He burst into one of his rare 
fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture.  I have 
not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to 
somebody.

I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier
still, for I saw him as I dressed coming up the drive.

"Yes, we should have a full day to-day," he remarked, and he 
rubbed his hands with the joy of action.  "The nets are all 
in place, and the drag is about to begin.  We'll know before 
the day is out whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed 
pike, or whether he has got through the meshes."

"Have you been on the moor already?"

"I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the 
death of Selden.  I think I can promise that none of you 
will be troubled in the matter.  And I have also communicated
with my faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away
at the door of my hut as a dog does at his master's grave if I
had not set his mind at rest about my safety."

"What is the next move?"

"To see Sir Henry.  Ah, here he is!"

"Good morning, Holmes," said the Baronet.  "You look like a 
general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."

"That is the exact situation.  Watson was asking for orders."

"And so do I."

"Very good.  You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with 
our friends the Stapletons to-night."

"I hope that you will come also.  They are very hospitable people,
and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you."

"I fear that Watson and I must go to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the 
present juncture."

The Baronet's face perceptibly lengthened.

"I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. 
The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one
is alone."

"My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly 
what I tell you.  You can tell your friends that we should 
have been happy to have come with you, but that urgent business
required us to be in town.  We hope very soon to return to
Devonshire.  Will you remember to give them that message?"

"If you insist upon it."

"There is no alternative, I assure you."

I saw by the Baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt 
by what he regarded as our desertion.

"When do you desire to go?" he asked, coldly.

"Immediately after breakfast.  We will drive in to Coombe 
Tracey, but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he 
will come back to you.  Watson, you will send a note to 
Stapleton to tell him that you regret that you cannot come."

"I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the Baronet. 
"Why should I stay here alone?"

"Because it is your post of duty.  Because you gave me your word
that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay."

"All right, then, I'll stay."

"One more direction!  I wish you to drive to Merripit House.  
Send back your trap, however, and let them know that you 
intend to walk home."

"To walk across the moor?"

"Yes."

"But that is the very thing which you have so often 
cautioned me not to do."

"This time you may do it with safety.  If I had not every 
confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, 
but it is essential that you should do it."

"Then I will do it."

"And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any 
direction save along the straight path which leads from 
Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way 
home."

"I will do just what you say."

"Very good.  I should be glad to get away as soon after 
breakfast as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon."

I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered 
that Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that 
his visit would terminate next day.  It had not crossed my 
mind, however, that he would wish me to go with him, nor 
could I understand how we could both be absent at a moment 
which he himself declared to be critical.  There was nothing 
for it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye 
to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we 
were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the 
trap upon its return journey.  A small boy was waiting upon 
the platform.

"Any orders, sir?"

"You will take this train to town, Cartwright.  The moment 
you arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville,
in my name, to say that if he finds the pocket-book which I 
have dropped he is to send it by registered post to Baker 
Street."

"Yes, sir."

"And ask at the station office if there is a message for me."

The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me.  
It ran: "Wire received.  Coming down with unsigned warrant.  
Arrive five-forty. -- LESTRADE."

"That is in answer to mine of this morning.  He is the best 
of the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. 
Now, Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better
than by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident.  He would 
use the Baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we 
were really gone, while we should actually return at the 
instant when we were likely to be needed.  That telegram 
from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, 
must remove the last suspicions from their minds.  Already I 
seemed to see our nets drawing closer round that lean-jawed 
pike.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes 
opened his interview with a frankness and directness which 
considerably amazed her.

"I am investigating the circumstances which attended the 
death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. 
"My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you
have communicated, and also of what you have withheld in 
connection with that matter."

"What have I withheld?" she asked, defiantly.

"You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the 
gate at ten o'clock.  We know that that was the place and 
hour of his death.  You have withheld what the connection
is between these events."

"There is no connection."

"In that case the coincidence must indeed be an 
extraordinary one.  But I think that we shall succeed in 
establishing a connection after all.  I wish to be perfectly 
frank with you, Mrs. Lyons.  We regard this case as one of 
murder, and the evidence may implicate not only your friend 
Mr. Stapleton, but his wife as well."

The lady sprang from her chair.

"His wife!" she cried.

"The fact is no longer a secret.  The person who has passed 
for his sister is really his wife."

Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat.  Her hands were grasping 
the arms of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had 
turned white with the pressure of her grip.

"His wife!" she said, again.  "His wife!  He was not a 
married man."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Prove it to me!  Prove it to me!  And if you can do so ----!" 
The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

"I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing 
several papers from his pocket.  "Here is a photograph of 
the couple taken in York four years ago.  It is indorsed 
'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will have no difficulty in 
recognising him, and her also, if you know her by sight.  
Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy witnesses 
of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St. Oliver's
private school.  Read them, and see if you can doubt the
identity of these people."

She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, 
rigid face of a desperate woman.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage
on condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. 
He has lied to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. 
Not one word of truth has he ever told me.  And why -- why? 
I imagined that all was for my own sake.  But now I see that
I was never anything but a tool in his hands.  Why should
I preserve faith with him who never kept any with me? 
Why should I try to shield him from the consequences of his
own wicked acts?  Ask me what you like, and there is nothing 
which I shall hold back.  One thing I swear to you, and that 
is, that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of any harm 
to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend."

"I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes. 
"The recital of these events must be very painful to you,
and perhaps it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, 
and you can check me if I make any material mistake. 
The sending of this letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?"

"He dictated it."

"I presume that the reason he gave was that you would 
receive help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses 
connected with your divorce?"

"Exactly."

"And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you 
from keeping the appointment?"

"He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any 
other man should find the money for such an object, and that 
though he was a poor man himself he would devote his last 
penny to removing the obstacles which divided us."

"He appears to be a very consistent character.  And then you 
heard nothing until you read the reports of the death in the 
paper?"

"No."

"And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment 
with Sir Charles?"

"He did.  He said that the death was a very mysterious one, 
and that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came 
out.  He frightened me into remaining silent."

"Quite so.  But you had your suspicions?"

She hesitated and looked down.

"I knew him," she said.  "But if he had kept faith with me I 
should always have done so with him."

"I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," 
said Sherlock Holmes.  "You have had him in your power and 
he knew it, and yet you are alive.  You have been walking 
for some months very near to the edge of a precipice. 
We must wish you good morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is 
probable that you will very shortly hear from us again."

"Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after 
difficulty thins away in front of us," said Holmes, as we 
stood waiting for the arrival of the express from town. 
"I shall soon be in the position of being able to put into
a single connected narrative one of the most singular and 
sensational crimes of modern times.  Students of criminology 
will remember the analogous incidents in Grodno, in Little 
Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the 
Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses 
some features which are entirely its own.  Even now we have 
no clear case against this very wily man.  But I shall be 
very much surprised if it is not clear enough before we go 
to bed this night."

The London express came roaring into the station, and a 
small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class 
carriage.  We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from 
the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion 
that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had 
first worked together.  I could well remember the scorn 
which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in 
the practical man.

"Anything good?" he asked.

"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes.  "We have two 
hours before we need think of starting.  I think we might 
employ it in getting some dinner, and then, Lestrade, we 
will take the London fog out of your throat by giving you a 
breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor.  Never been there?  
Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your first visit."



                        CHAPTER XIV.
               THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES.

ONE of Sherlock Holmes's defects -- if, indeed, one may
call it a defect -- was that he was exceedingly loth to 
communicate his full plans to any other person until the 
instant of their fulfilment.  Partly it came no doubt from 
his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and 
surprise those who were around him.  Partly also from his 
professional caution, which urged him never to take any
chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who 
were acting as his agents and assistants.  I had often 
suffered under it, but never more so than during that long 
drive in the darkness.  The great ordeal was in front of us; 
at last we were about to make our final effort, and yet 
Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his 
course of action would be.  My nerves thrilled with 
anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and 
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told 
me that we were back upon the moor once again.  Every stride 
of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us 
nearer to our supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver 
of the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of 
trivial matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and 
anticipation.  It was a relief to me, after that unnatural 
restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's house and knew 
that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene of 
action.  We did not drive up to the door, but got down near 
the gate of the avenue.  The wagonette was paid off and 
ordered to return to Temple Coombe forthwith, while we 
started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled.

"As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as 
long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

"Good!  My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. 
What's the game now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the 
detective, with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy 
slopes of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over
the Grimpen Mire.  "I see the lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey.  I must 
request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for 
the house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two 
hundred yards from it.

"This will do," said he.  "These rocks upon the right make 
an admirable screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here.  Get into this 
hollow, Lestrade.  You have been inside the house, have you 
not, Watson?  Can you tell the position of the rooms?  What 
are those latticed windows at this end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up.  You know the lie of the land best.  
Creep forward quietly and see what they are doing -- but for 
Heaven's sake don't let them know that they are watched!"

I tip-toed down the path and stooped behind the low wall 
which surrounded the stunted orchard.  Creeping in its 
shadow I reached a point whence I could look straight 
through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and 
Stapleton.  They sat with their profiles towards me on 
either side of the round table.  Both of them were smoking 
cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.  
Stapleton was talking with animation, but the Baronet looked 
pale and distrait.  Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk 
across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while 
Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his 
chair, puffing at his cigar.  I heard the creak of a door 
and the crisp sound of boots upon gravel.  The steps passed 
along the path on the other side of the wall under which I 
crouched.  Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the 
door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard.  A key 
turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious 
scuffling noise from within.  He was only a minute or so 
inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he 
passed me and re-entered the house.  I saw him rejoin his 
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were 
waiting to tell them what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked, 
when I had finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any 
other room except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a 
dense, white fog.  It was drifting slowly in our direction 
and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low, 
but thick and well defined.  The moon shone on it, and it 
looked like a great shimmering icefield, with the heads of 
the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface.  Holmes's 
face was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as 
he watched its sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed -- the one thing upon earth which 
could have disarranged my plans.  He can't be very long, now. 
It is already ten o'clock.  Our success and even his life may
depend upon his coming out before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us.  The stars shone cold 
and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a 
soft, uncertain light.  Before us lay the dark bulk of the 
house, its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard 
outlined against the silver-spangled sky.  Broad bars of 
golden light from the lower windows stretched across the 
orchard and the moor.  One of them was suddenly shut off.  
The servants had left the kitchen.  There only remained the 
lamp in the dining-room where the two men, the murderous host
and the unconscious guest, still chatted over their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one half 
of the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house.  
Already the first thin wisps of it were curling across the 
golden square of the lighted window.  The farther wall of 
the orchard was already invisible, and the trees were 
standing out of a swirl of white vapour.  As we watched it 
the fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the 
house and rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which the 
upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship upon a 
shadowy sea.  Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the 
rock in front of us, and stamped his feet in his impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be 
covered.  In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands 
in front of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onwards we fell back before it 
until we were half a mile from the house, and still that 
dense white sea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, 
swept slowly and inexorably on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes.  "We dare not take
the chance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. 
At all costs we must hold our ground where we are." 
He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the ground. 
"Thank Heaven, I think that I hear him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor.  
Crouching among the stones we stared intently at the 
silver-tipped bank in front of us.  The steps grew louder, 
and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the 
man whom we were awaiting.  He looked round him in surprise 
as he emerged into the clear, star-lit night.  Then he came 
swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and 
went on up the long slope behind us.  As he walked he glanced
continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a 
cocking pistol.  "Look out!  It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in 
the heart of that crawling bank.  The cloud was within fifty 
yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, 
uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of 
it.  I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant 
at his face.  It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining 
brightly in the moonlight.  But suddenly they started 
forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in 
amazement.  At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of 
terror and threw himself face downwards upon the ground. 
I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind 
paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us 
from the shadows of the fog.  A hound it was, an enormous 
coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have 
ever seen.  Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed 
with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap 
were outlined in flickering flame.  Never in the delirious 
dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more 
appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and 
savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. 



                CHAPTER XIV. (_continued_).

WITH long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down 
the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend.  
So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him 
to pass before we had recovered our nerve.  Then Holmes and 
I both fired together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, 
which showed that one at least had hit him.  He did not 
pause, however, but bounded onwards.  Far away on the path 
we saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight,
his hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful
thing which was hunting him down.

But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears 
to the winds.  If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we 
could wound him we could kill him.  Never have I seen a man 
run as Holmes ran that night.  I am reckoned fleet of foot, 
but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little 
professional.  In front of us as we flew up the track we 
heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar 
of the hound.  I was in time to see the beast spring upon 
its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat.  
But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his 
revolver into the creature's flank.  With a last howl of 
agony and a vicious snap in the air it rolled upon its back, 
four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. 
I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful,
shimmering head, but it was useless to pull the trigger. 
The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen.  We tore away 
his collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when 
we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue 
had been in time.  Already our friend's eyelids shivered and 
he made a feeble effort to move.  Lestrade thrust his 
brandy-flask between the Baronet's teeth, and two frightened 
eyes were looking up at us.

"My God!" he whispered.  "What was it?  What, in Heaven's 
name, was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes.  "We've laid the 
family ghost once and for ever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which 
was lying stretched before us.  It was not a pure bloodhound 
and it was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a 
combination of the two -- gaunt, savage, and as large as a 
small lioness.  Even now, in the stillness of death, the 
huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the 
small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire.  I placed 
my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my 
own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the 
dead animal.  "There is no smell which might have interfered 
with his power of scent.  We owe you a deep apology,
Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this fright.  I was 
prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this.  
And the fog gave us little time to receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it.  Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready
for anything.  So!  Now, if you will help me up.  What do you
propose to do?"

"To leave you here.  You are not fit for further adventures 
to-night.  If you will wait, one or other of us will go back 
with you to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly 
pale and trembling in every limb.  We helped him to a rock, 
where he sat shivering with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes.  "The rest of our work 
must be done, and every moment is of importance.  We have 
our case, and now we only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house,"
he continued, as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. 
"Those shots must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened 
them."

"He followed the hound to call him off -- of that you may be 
certain.  No, no, he's gone by this time!  But we'll search 
the house and make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from 
room to room, to the amazement of a doddering old 
manservant, who met us in the passage.  There was no light 
save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and 
left no corner of the house unexplored.  No sign could we 
see of the man whom we were chasing.  On the upper floor, 
however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. 
"I can hear a movement.  Open this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within.  Holmes struck
the door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it
flew open.  Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and 
defiant villain whom we expected to see.  Instead we were 
faced by an object so strange and so unexpected that we 
stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the 
walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of 
that collection of butterflies and moths the formation of 
which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous 
man.  In the centre of this room there was an upright beam, 
which had been placed at some period as a support for the 
old, worm-eaten balk of timber which spanned the roof. 
To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the 
sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not 
for the moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman.  
One towel passed round the throat and was secured at the 
back of the pillar.  Another covered the lower part of the 
face, and over it two dark eyes -- eyes full of grief and 
shame and a dreadful questioning -- stared back at us. 
In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds,
and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. 
As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear
red weal of a whiplash across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes.  "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! 
Put her in the chair!  She has fainted from ill-usage and
exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked.  "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband.  Sir Henry?  Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God!  Thank God!  Oh, this villain!  See how he has 
treated me!"  She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we 
saw with horror that they were all mottled with bruises.  
"But this is nothing -- nothing!  It is my mind and soul 
that he has tortured and defiled.  I could endure it all, 
ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as 
long as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, 
but now I know that in this also I have been his dupe and 
his tool."  She broke into passionate sobbing as she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes.  "Tell us 
then where we shall find him.  If you have ever aided him in 
evil, help us now and so atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. 
"There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the Mire. 
It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made
preparations so that he might have a refuge. 
That is where he would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. 
Holmes held the lamp towards it.

"See," said he.  "No one could find his way into the Grimpen 
Mire to-night."

She laughed and clapped her hands.  Her eyes and teeth 
gleamed with fierce merriment.

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. 
"How can he see the guiding wands to-night?  We planted them 
together, he and I, to mark the pathway through the Mire.  
Oh, if I could only have plucked them out to-day. Then 
indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the 
fog had lifted.  Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of 
the house while Holmes and I went back with the Baronet to 
Baskerville Hall.  The story of the Stapletons could no 
longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely 
when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved.  
But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his 
nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever, 
under the care of Dr. Mortimer.  The two of them were 
destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry 
had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been 
before he became master of that ill-omened estate.


And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular 
narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share 
those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives 
so long, and ended in so tragic a manner.  On the morning 
after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were 
guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a 
pathway through the bog.  It helped us to realize the horror 
of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with 
which she laid us on her husband's track.  We left her 
standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which 
tapered out into the widespread bog.  From the end of it a 
small wand planted here and there showed where the path 
zig-zagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those 
green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way 
to the stranger.  Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants 
sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour into
our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once 
thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for 
yards in soft undulations around our feet.  Its tenacious 
grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank 
into it it was as if some malignant hand were tugging us 
down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was 
the clutch in which it held us.  Once only we saw a trace 
that someone had passed that perilous way before us.  From 
amid a tuft of cotton-grass which bore it up out of the 
slime some dark thing was projecting.  Holmes sank to his 
waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we 
not been there to drag him out he could never have set his 
foot upon firm land again.  He held an old black boot in the 
air.  "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he.  "It is our friend Sir 
Henry's missing boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly.  He retained it in his hand after using it to set 
the hound upon his track.  He fled when he knew the game was up,
still clutching it.  And he hurled it away at this point of his
flight.  We know at least that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, though 
there was much which we might surmise.  There was no chance 
of finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed 
swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer 
ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them.  
But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes.  If the 
earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that 
island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog 
upon that last night.  Somewhere in the heart of the great 
Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass 
which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is 
for ever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he 
had hid his savage ally.  A huge driving-wheel and a shaft 
half-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned 
mine.  Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages 
of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the 
surrounding swamp.  In one of these a staple and chain with 
a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been 
confined.  A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering 
to it lay among the _debris_. {8}

"A dog!" said Holmes.  "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel.  
Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again.  Well, I do not 
know that this place contains any secret which we have not 
already fathomed.  He could hide his hound, but he could not 
hush its voice, and hence came those cries which even in 
daylight were not pleasant to hear.  On an emergency he 
could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it 
was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which 
he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared to 
do it.  This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous 
mixture with which the creature was daubed.  It was 
suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, 
and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. 
No wonder the poor wretch of a convict ran and screamed,
even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done,
when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness of
the moor upon his track.  It was a cunning device, for,
apart from the chance of driving your victim to his death,
what peasant would venture to inquire too closely into such
a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done,
upon the moor?  I said it in London, Watson, and I say it
again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more 
dangerous man than he who is lying yonder" -- he swept his 
long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched 
bog which stretched away until it merged into the russet 
slopes of the moor.



                        CHAPTER XV.
                     A RETROSPECTION.

IT was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw 
and foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our 
sitting-room in Baker Street.  Since the tragic upshot of 
our visit to Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs 
of the utmost importance, in the first of which he had 
exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in 
connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil 
Club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate 
Mme. Montpensier from the charge of murder, which hung over 
her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle. 
Carere, {9} the young lady who, as it will be remembered, 
was found six months later alive and married in New York. 
{10}  My friend was in excellent spirits over the success 
which had attended a succession of difficult and important 
cases, so that I was able to induce him to discuss the 
details of the Baskerville mystery.  I had waited patiently 
for the opportunity, for I was aware that he would never 
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind 
would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon 
memories of the past.  Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, 
however, in London, on their way to that long voyage which 
had been recommended for the restoration of his shattered 
nerves.  They had called upon us that very afternoon, so 
that it was natural that the subject should come up for 
discussion.

"The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point 
of view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple 
and direct, although to us, who had no means in the 
beginning of knowing the motives of his actions and could 
only learn part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly 
complex.  I have had the advantage of two conversations
with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely 
cleared up that I am not aware that there is anything which 
has remained a secret to us.  You will find a few notes upon 
the matter under the heading B in my indexed list of cases."

"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of 
events from memory."

"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the 
facts in my mind.  Intense mental concentration has a 
curious way of blotting out what has passed.  The barrister
who has his case at his fingers' end, and is able to argue with
an expert upon his own subject, finds that a week or two of the
courts will drive it all out of his head once more.  So each of my
cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my
recollection of Baskerville Hall.  To-morrow some other little
problem may be submitted to my notice, which will in turn dispossess
the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. {11}  So far as the case
of the Hound goes, however, I will give you the course of events
as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may
have forgotten.

"My inquiries show beyond all question that the family 
portrait did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a 
Baskerville.  He was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the 
younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister 
reputation to South America, where he was said to have died 
unmarried.  He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one 
child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his 
father.  He married Beryl Garcia, {12} one of the beauties 
of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum of 
public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled
to England, where he established a school in the east of 
Yorkshire.  His reason for attempting this special line of 
business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a 
consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used 
this man's ability to make the undertaking a success.  
Fraser, the tutor, died, however, and the school which had 
begun well sank from disrepute into infamy.  The Vandeleurs 
found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and 
he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes for the 
future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England. 
I learn at the British Museum that he was a recognised authority
upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been
permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

"We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to 
be of such intense interest to us.  The fellow had evidently 
made inquiry, and found that only two lives intervened 
between him and a valuable estate.  When he went to 
Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but 
that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the 
way in which he took his wife with him in the character of 
his sister.  The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly 
already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how 
the details of his plot were to be arranged.  He meant in 
the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any
tool or run any risk for that end.  His first act was to 
establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, 
and his second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir 
Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

"The Baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so 
prepared the way for his own death.  Stapleton, as I will 
continue to call him, knew that the old man's heart was weak 
and that a shock would kill him.  So much he had learned 
from Dr. Mortimer.  He had heard also that Sir Charles was 
superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously.  
His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the 
Baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly 
possible to bring home the guilt to the real murderer.

"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with 
considerable finesse.  An ordinary schemer would have been 
content to work with a savage hound.  The use of artificial 
means to make the creature diabolical was a flash of genius 
upon his part.  The dog he bought in London from Ross and 
Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road.  It was the strongest 
and most savage in their possession.  He brought it down by 
the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the 
moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. 
He had already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the 
Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding-place for the 
creature.  Here he kennelled it and waited his chance.

"But it was some time coming.  The old gentleman could not 
be decoyed outside of his grounds at night.  Several times 
Stapleton lurked about with his hound, but without avail.  
It was during these fruitless quests that he, or rather his 
ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend of the demon 
dog received a new confirmation.  He had hoped that his wife 
might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved 
unexpectedly independent.  She would not endeavour to entangle
the old gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might
deliver him over to his enemy.  Threats and even, I am sorry
to say, blows refused to move her.  She would have nothing
to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a deadlock.

"He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance 
that Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, 
made him the minister of his charity in the case of this 
unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons.  By representing 
himself as a single man he acquired complete influence over 
her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her 
obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her.  
His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge 
that Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice 
of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to 
coincide.  He must act at once, or his victim might get 
beyond his power.  He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons 
to write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an 
interview on the evening before his departure for London.  
He then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, 
and so had the chance for which he had waited.

"Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in 
time to get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, 
and to bring the beast round to the gate at which he had 
reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman 
waiting.  The dog, incited by its master, sprang over the 
wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate Baronet, who fled 
screaming down the Yew Alley.  In that gloomy tunnel it must 
indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black 
creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding 
after its victim.  He fell dead at the end of the alley from 
heart disease and terror.  The hound had kept upon the 
grassy border while the Baronet had run down the path, so 
that no track but the man's was visible.  On seeing him 
lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at 
him, but finding him dead had turned away again.  It was 
then that it left the print which was actually observed by 
Dr. Mortimer.  The hound was called off and hurried away to 
its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which 
puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and 
finally brought the case within the scope of our observation.

"So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.  You 
perceive the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be 
almost impossible to make a case against the real murderer.  
His only accomplice was one who could never give him away, 
and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only 
served to make it more effective.  Both of the women 
concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, 
were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. 
Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old man,
and also of the existence of the hound.  Mrs. Lyons knew
neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death 
occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which 
was only known to him.  However, both of them were under his 
influence, and he had nothing to fear from them.  The first 
half of his task was successfully accomplished, but the more 
difficult still remained.

"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence 
of an heir in Canada.  In any case he would very soon learn 
it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the 
latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville.  
Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger from 
Canada might possibly be done to death in London without 
coming down to Devonshire at all.  He distrusted his wife 
ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for 
the old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his 
sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. 
It was for this reason that he took her to London with him.  
They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in 
Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon 
by my agent in search of evidence.  Here he kept his wife 
imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, 
followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the 
station and to the Northumberland Hotel.  His wife had some 
inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband 
-- a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment -- that she dare 
not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. 
If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her own life 
would not be safe.  Eventually, as we know, she adopted the 
expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message,
and addressing the letter in a disguised hand.  It reached the
Baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger.

"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of 
Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the 
dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his 
track.  With characteristic promptness and audacity he set 
about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or 
chambermaid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his 
design.  By chance, however, the first boot which was 
procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for 
his purpose.  He then had it returned and obtained another --
a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively 
to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no 
other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an 
old boot and this indifference to a new one.  The more 
_outre_ {13} and grotesque an incident is the more carefully 
it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears 
to complicate a case is, when duly considered and 
scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to 
elucidate it.

"Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, 
shadowed always by Stapleton in the cab.  From his knowledge 
of our rooms and of my appearance, as well as from his 
general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton's 
career of crime has been by no means limited to this single 
Baskerville affair.  It is suggestive that during the last 
three years there have been four considerable burglaries in 
the West Country, for none of which was any criminal ever 
arrested.  The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, 
was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of the page, 
who surprised the masked and solitary burglar.  I cannot 
doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this 
fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and 
dangerous man.

"We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning 
when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his 
audacity in sending back my own name to me through the 
cabman.  From that moment he understood that I had taken 
over the case in London, and that therefore there was no 
chance for him there.  He returned to Dartmoor and awaited 
the arrival of the Baronet."

"One moment!" said I.  "You have, no doubt, described the 
sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which 
you have left unexplained.  What became of the hound when 
its master was in London?"

"I have given some attention to this matter and it is 
undoubtedly of importance.  There can be no question that 
Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he 
ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans 
with him.  There was an old manservant at Merripit House, 
whose name was Anthony.  His connection with the Stapletons 
can be traced for several years, as far back as the 
schoolmastering days, so that he must have been aware that 
his master and mistress were really husband and wife. 
This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. 
It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, 
while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American 
countries.  The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good 
English, but with a curious lisping accent.  I have myself 
seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which 
Stapleton had marked out.  It is very probable, therefore, 
that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for 
the hound, though he may never have known the purpose for 
which the beast was used.

"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they 
were soon followed by Sir Henry and you.  One word now as to 
how I stood myself at that time.  It may possibly recur to 
your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the 
printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for 
the water-mark.  In doing so I held it within a few inches 
of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent 
known as white jessamine.  There are seventy-five perfumes, 
which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be 
able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than
once within my own experience depended upon their prompt
recognition.  The scent suggested the presence of a lady,
and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. 
Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the
criminal before ever we went to the West Country.

"It was my game to watch Stapleton.  It was evident,
however, that I could not do this if I were with you, since 
he would be keenly on his guard.  I deceived everybody, 
therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when 
I was supposed to be in London.  My hardships were not so 
great as you imagined, though such trifling details must 
never interfere with the investigation of a case.  I stayed 
for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut 
upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene
of action.  Cartwright had come down with me, and in his 
disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me.  
I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen.  When I 
was watching Stapleton Cartwright was frequently watching 
you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

"I have already told you that your reports reached me 
rapidly, being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to 
Coombe Tracey.  They were of great service to me, and 
especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography 
of Stapleton's.  I was able to establish the identity of the 
man and the woman, and knew at last exactly how I stood.  
The case had been considerably complicated through the 
incident of the escaped convict and the relations between 
him and the Barrymores.  This also you cleared up in a very 
effective way, though I had already come to the same 
conclusions from my own observations.

"By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a 
complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a 
case which could go to a jury.  Even Stapleton's attempt 
upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the 
unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving murder 
against our man.  There seemed to be no alternative but to 
catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, 
alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait.  We did so,
and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded
in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his 
destruction.  That Sir Henry should have been exposed to 
this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the 
case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and 
paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we 
predict the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such 
short notice.  We succeeded in our object at a cost which 
both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a 
temporary one.  A long journey may enable our friend to 
recover not only from his shattered nerves, but also from 
his wounded feelings.  His love for the lady was deep and 
sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black 
business was that he should have been deceived by her.

"It only remains to indicate the part which she had played 
throughout.  There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised 
an influence over her which may have been love or may have 
been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means 
incompatible emotions.  It was, at least, absolutely 
effective.  At his command she consented to pass as his 
sister, though he found the limits of his power over her 
when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to 
murder.  She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could 
without implicating her husband, and again and again she 
tried to do so.  Stapleton himself seems to have been 
capable of jealousy, and when he saw the Baronet paying 
court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, 
still he could not help interrupting with a passionate 
outburst that revealed the fiery soul which his 
self-contained manner so cleverly concealed.  By encouraging 
the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would 
frequently come to Merripit House and that he would sooner 
or later get the opportunity which he desired.  On the day 
of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. 
She had learned something of the death of the convict, 
and she knew that the hound was being kept in the out-house 
on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner.  She 
taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious 
scene followed, in which he showed her for the first time 
that she had a rival in his love.  Her fidelity turned in an 
instant to bitter hatred and he saw that she would betray 
him.  He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no 
chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that 
when the whole countryside put down the Baronet's death to 
the curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he 
could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and 
to keep silent upon what she knew.  In this I fancy that in 
any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not 
been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed.  
A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so 
lightly.  And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my 
notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this 
curious case.  I do not know that anything essential has 
been left unexplained."

"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had 
done the old uncle with his bogie hound."

"The beast was savage and half-starved.  If its appearance 
did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would 
paralyze the resistance which might be offered."

"No doubt.  There only remains one difficulty.  If Stapleton 
came into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he,
the heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close
to the property?  How could he claim it without causing suspicion
and inquiry?"

"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too 
much when you expect me to solve it.  The past and the 
present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man 
may do in the future is a hard question to answer.  Mrs. 
Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on 
several occasions.  There were three possible courses.  He 
might claim the property from South America, establish his 
identity before the British authorities there, and so obtain 
the fortune without ever coming to England at all; or he 
might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that 
he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an 
accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as 
heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his 
income.  We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he 
would have found some way out of the difficulty.  And now, 
my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and 
for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more 
pleasant channels.  I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.'  Have 
you heard the De Reszkes?  Might I trouble you then to be 
ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a 
little dinner on the way?"


                           THE END

-------------------------
* This story owes its inception to my friend, Mr. Fletcher 
Robinson, who has helped me both in the general plot and in 
the local details. -- A. C. D.


{------------------------------------------------------}
{---------------------- End of Text -------------------}
{------------------------------------------------------}


{--------------------- Textual Notes ------------------}
{HOUN appeared in these Strand issues:}
{(Vol. 22)}
{Aug.  1901 Chapters I-II}
{Sept. 1901 Chapters III-IV}
{Oct.  1901 Chapters V-VI}
{Nov.  1901 Chapters VII-VIII}
{Dec.  1901 Chapter  IX}
{(Vol. 23)}
{Jan.  1902 Chapters X-XI}
{Feb.  1902 Chapter  XII}
{Mar.  1902 Chapters XIII-XIV}
{Apr.  1902 Chapters XIV (contd)-XV}

{---------------------- End-notes ---------------------}
{1}   {"antennae": the a&e are concatenated}
{2}   {"dyspnoea": the o&e are concatenated}
{3}   {"dais": the i has double dots over it}
{4}   {"tete-a-tete": the first "e" in each "tete" has a}
      {hat over it; the "a" has a backward accent (\)}
{5}   {Some editions end this chapter with the sentence:}
      {"In any case you will hear from me again in the}
      {course of the next few days."}
{6}   {"ecarte": both "e"s have forward accents (/)}
{7}   {"_L_200": the "L" is the english pound symbol, italicised}
{8}   {"debris": the "e" has a forward accent (/)}
{9}   {"Carere": the first "e" has a backward accent (\)}
{10}  {"Since the tragic...married in New York": these sentences are}
      {not in the Strand edition; they were added with the first book}
      {editions, and are just too important to relegate to a note.}
{11}  {"The barrister who...the infamous Upwood": ibid.}
{12}  {"Garcia": the "c" is the french descending c}
{13}  {"outre": the "e" has a forward accent (/)}
{--------------------- End Textual Notes -----------------}
{---------------------------------------------------------}