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{HOUN, Rev 4, 3/17/96 rms, 4th proofing}
{The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine (1901-1902)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires [e-mail]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}



             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 -----------------}
{---------------------------------------------------------}