The Hound of the Baskervilles

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 a 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
door-step, 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,
gray 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 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 recognized that I
am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted
with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, 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.”

“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, cracking 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 onward. 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 daredevil 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 forever 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 country-side 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 onward 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 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 the 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!”

I confess 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, twelve feet high and
impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.”

“Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?”

“Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet 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 four feet 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 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
shirtcuff 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
armchair 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 farm-houses, 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.”

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 account. 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 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, grayish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry
Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel,” was printed in rough characters;
the postmark “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 Esquimau?”

“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 half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and
your Esquimau. 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 guesswork,” 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
speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am
almost certain that this address has been written in a 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 around 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 water-mark 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.”

“Whichever 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 proceeding slowly onward 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? No. 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 recognize 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.”

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, gray-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. What 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 Westmoreland.”

“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 2704,” 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 dare say 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 he 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 his 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.”

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 forever.”

“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
recognized 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 gray, 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
upward 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 upward
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 gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up
through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn
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 first fruit 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, crenelated, 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 where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their
dependents. At one end a minstrel’s 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.

The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
from our minds the grim and gray 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 gray 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 forever?
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 gray
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 gray, 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 gray 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 gray 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 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
newcomer. 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 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 several 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 upward 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
clutches. 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 gray 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,
and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft
to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes
and jerky, zigzag, 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 gray 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 mares-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 recognize 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 the 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
it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very
angry if he knew that I have 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.

From this point onward 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 gray 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 to 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 goes 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 tête-à-tête. 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.

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 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 the 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 wit’s 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 dare say 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 recognized 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 rooms 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
trembling hand of the butler.

“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.

“My God, 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 hillsides. 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 swift runners and in fairly good training, 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 back-ground, 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. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the
next few days.

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 are 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 is
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 of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he
remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he–could
he be the stranger whom I saw 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 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 tax-payer 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 gray 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 devil! 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 deluged–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 gray
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 homeward. 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 écarté
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 halfway 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 as 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 dare say 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.

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 hill-side. 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 still 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’s. 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, gray-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 very 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 roughshod 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 200 pounds, 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 gray 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 thornbush 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 hill-side?”

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

“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
gray 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
gray 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 checkered
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 reported. 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.”

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 gray 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 recognize 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 confident 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 in 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 dare say
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 downward
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 l 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 devil’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
forever 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 further 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.”

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 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, as 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 dare say 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 throwback, 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 around 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 is 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 recognizing 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 Godno, 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.”

One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects–if, indeed, one may call it a
defect–was that he was exceedingly loath 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 Coombe Tracey 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 tiptoed 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
ice-field, 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 onward 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 God, 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, starlit 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 downward 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.

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 onward. 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 press 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 forever.”

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 baulk 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 zigzagged 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 onto 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 was 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 the 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 forever 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.

“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 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 devil 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.

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, the young lady who, as it will be
remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
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’
ends, 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. 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’s.
He married Beryl Garcia, 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 learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized 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
country-side, 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 chamber-maid 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 outré 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 pistoling 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 which 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
country-side 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?”