T H

A C D

P : 1902

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 C 1M .S H

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 " ." 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 a
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., , Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
House-surgeon, from to , 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 ). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March,
). 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."
 C 2T C
B

"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
."
"The exact date is ." 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: " ."
 "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
by-word 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 dare-devil roysterers, but it was that,
standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul
thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any
hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they
looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as
it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three
shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the
moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and
the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.
"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is
said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it
down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than
that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that
many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have
been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves
in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not 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 th of this year. It is a
short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles
Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent.
Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name
has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-
Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county.
Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a
comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme
generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been
brought into contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is
refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family
which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and
to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir
Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South
African speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel
turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at
Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those
schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been
interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly
expressed desire that the whole countryside should, within his own
lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal
reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to
local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these
columns.
"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but
at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which
local superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to
suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but
natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be
said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In
spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes,
and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married
couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife
as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several
friends, tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time
been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart,
manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute
attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and
medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same
effect.
"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in
the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous
yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows
that this had been his custom. On the fourth 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.
Halfway 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!"
 C 3T P

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 now not as a medical man but as a trustee and
executor of Sir Charles's will."
"There is no other claimant, I presume?"
"None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace
was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom
poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young,
is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black
sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain
and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old
Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America,
and died there in 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 countryside
depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done
by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the
Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious
interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and
ask for your advice."
Holmes considered for a little time.
"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion
there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode
for a Baskerville—that is your opinion?"
"At least I might go the length of saying that there is some
evidence that this may be so."
"Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could
work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A
devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too
inconceivable a thing."
"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would
probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these
things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man
will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty
minutes. What would you recommend?"
"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is
scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir
Henry Baskerville."
"And then?"
"And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up
my mind about the matter."
"How long will it take you to make up your mind?"
"Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be
much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of
help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry
Baskerville with you."
"I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his
shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.
 "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir
Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon
the moor?"
"Three people did."
"Did any see it after?"
"I have not heard of any."
"Thank you. Good-morning."
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward
satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.
"Going out, Watson?"
"Unless I can help you."
"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for
aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view.
When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of
the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you
could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should
be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting
problem which has been submitted to us this morning."
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my
friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he
weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories,
balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which
points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day
at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was
nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once
more.
My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had
broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the
lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my
fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse
tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through
the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled
up in an 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 armchair and has, I regret
to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an
incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's
for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has
hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way
about."
"A large-scale map, I presume?"
"Very large."
He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have
the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in
the middle."
"With a wood round it?"
"Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that
name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive,
upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet
of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters.
Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few
scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the
narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the
residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I remember right, was his
name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire.
Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown.
Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate,
lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been
played, and upon which we may help to play it again."
"It must be a wild place."
"Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a
hand in the affairs of men—"
"Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."
"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is
whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is
the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's
surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside
the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But
we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back
upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind.
It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps
a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of
getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my
convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?"
"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."
"What do you make of it?"
"It is very bewildering."
"It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of
distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What
do you make of that?"
"Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that
portion of the alley."
"He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why
should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?"
"What then?"
"He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his
life, running until he burst his heart—and fell dead upon his face."
"Running from what?"
 "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was
crazed with fear before ever he began to run."
"How can you say that?"
"I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across
the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable only a man
who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of
towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with
cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then,
again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting
for him in the yew alley rather than in his own house?"
"You think that he was waiting for someone?"
"The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an
evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it
natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer,
with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for,
deduced from the cigar ash?"
"But he went out every evening."
"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening.
On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night
he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for
London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might
I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further
thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of
meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning."
 C 4S H B

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 post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the
preceding evening.
 "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?"
asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.
"No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr.
Mortimer."
"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"
"No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor.
"There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this
hotel."
"Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your
movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of fools-cap
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. 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. , 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."
 C 5T B T

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 today
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 goodwill 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 ten-thirty 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. CARTWRlGHT.
"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 had 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 No. ," 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, 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 halfway 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."
 C 6B H

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."
"l 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
countryside 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 countryside,
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 cuplike depression,
patched with stunted oaks and furs 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, crenellated, and
pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were
more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through
heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose
from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column
of smoke.
 "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!"
A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the
door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted
against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man
to hand down our bags.
"You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr.
Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me."
"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"
"No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I
would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a
better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to
send for me if I can be of service."
The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned
into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine
apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily
raftered with huge baulks 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.
 C 7T S
M H

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 telltale 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 leanjawed, 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
countryside. 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 hillside
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 mare's-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor,
though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties of the
place."
 Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us
breathing hard and flushed with his exertions.
"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his
greeting was not altogether a cordial one.
"Well, Jack, you are very hot."
"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom
found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!"
He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
incessantly from the girl to me.
"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."
"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see
the true beauties of the moor."
"Why, who do you think this is?"
"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."
"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My
name is Dr. Watson."
A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have
been talking at cross purposes," said she.
"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked
with the same questioning eyes.
"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a
visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or
late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see
Merripit House?"
A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the
farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into
repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it,
but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped,
and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We
were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant,
who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were
large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to
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 go 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.
 C 8F R D .
W

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 th.
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 hillsides 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 today 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 tonight, and
there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would
imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and
yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest
disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some
attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and
would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of
selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a
marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to
ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken
pains to prevent them from being tete- a-tete. 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.
Halfway 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.
C 9T L M

[Second Report of Dr. Watson]

Baskerville Hall, Oct. th.
MY DEAR HOLMES:
If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the
early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up
for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon
us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the
window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I
am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a
turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have
within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some
ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and
you shall judge for yourself.
Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went
down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had
been on the night before. The western window through which he had
stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other
windows in the house—it commands the nearest outlook on to the
moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one
from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the
other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It
follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would
serve 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 tonight 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. Today, 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
countryside 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 today, but
you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a
straitjacket. 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 today 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.
"l 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 tiptoed 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 pinpoint 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 horrorstruck 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 countryside."
"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 tomorrow."
"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 background, I saw the figure of a
man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I
assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly.
As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He
stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head
bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of
peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very
spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far
from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a
much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the
baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm
the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still
cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that
silent and motionless figure.
I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was
some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from
that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in
the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man
upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence
and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt,"
said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow
escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I
should like to have some further proof of it. Today 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.
C 10 E D
D .W

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 th. 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 th. All day today 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. Tomorrow
morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this
Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been
made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am
certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer
pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually
to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but
craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with
Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just
now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due
time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played
ecarte 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 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.
 C 11 T M T

The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has
brought my narrative up to the eighteenth 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 them from the day which succeeded
that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the
one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir
Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very
place and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man
upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the
hillside. With these two facts in my possession I felt that either my
intelligence or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw
some further light upon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with
him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed
him about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to
accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to
come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went
alone the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit
the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind,
therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off
upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the
horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to
interrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were
central and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony,
and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a
Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.
Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she
sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty.
Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her
cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the
exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the
heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first
impression. But the second was criticism. There was something
subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some
hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its
perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. 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 highroad 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 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 tonight. 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 stared. "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 hillside?"
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."
 C 12 D M

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 catlike 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
today it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone tomorrow."
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—tomorrow. 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 today 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 tomorrow. Tonight 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 tonight. 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 tonight."
"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 tomorrow."
"Oh, you return tomorrow?"
"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.
 C 13 F N

"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 tonight, 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, tonight?"
"We are not much better off tonight. 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 tomorrow 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
tomorrow, 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, , 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 tomorrow 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 today," 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, leanjawed 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 tonight."
 "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 pocketbook 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
leanjawed 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 ' , 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."
 C 14 T H
B

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 reentered 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 tonight. 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
tonight."
 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 tonight? We planted them together, he and I,
to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have
plucked them out today. 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.
 C 15 A R

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. Tomorrow 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
countryside, and finally brought the case within the scope of our
observation.
"So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive
the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to
make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one
who could never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable
nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of
the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura
Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs.
Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of
the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things,
but had been impressed by the death occurring at the time of an
uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However,
both of them were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear
from them. The first half of his task was successfully accomplished
but the more difficult still remained.
"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an
heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his
friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the
arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young
stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in London
without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever
since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man,
and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he should
lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he took her to
London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private
Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon
by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned
in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to
Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the
Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but
she had such a fear of her husband—a fear founded upon brutal ill-
treatment—that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew
to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her
own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the
expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message,
and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet,
and gave him the first warning of his danger.
"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir
Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might
always have the means of setting him upon his track. With
characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once,
and we cannot doubt that the boots or 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 outre and grotesque an incident
is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point
which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and
scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.
"Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed
always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms
and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am
inclined to think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no
means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that
during the last three years there have been four considerable
burglaries in the west country, for none of which was any criminal
ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was
remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of the page, who surprised
the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton
recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he
has been a desperate and dangerous man.
"We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning
when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity
in sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that
moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London,
and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to
Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet."
"One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the
sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have
left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in
London?"
"I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a
confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his
power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old
manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His
connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as
far back as the schoolmastering days, so that he must have been
aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife.
This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is
suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while
Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The
man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a
curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the
Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very
probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who
cared for the hound, though he may never have known the purpose
for which the beast was used.
"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were
soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I
stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that
when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were
fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I
held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint
smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five
perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be
able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once
within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition.
The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my
thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made
certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before ever we
went to the west country.
"It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that
I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I
came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My
hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling
details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed
for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the
moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action.
Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as a country
boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for
food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright
was frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand
upon all the strings.
"I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly,
being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They
were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally
truthful piece of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the
identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I
stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the
incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and
the Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way,
though I had already come to the same conclusions from my own
observations.
"By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a
complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case
which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry
that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not
help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to
be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had
to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We
did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded
in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his destruction. That
Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a
reproach to my management of the case, but we had no means of
foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast
presented, nor could we predict the fog which enabled him to burst
upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost
which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a
temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not
only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings.
His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest
part of all this black business was that he should have been
deceived by her.
"It only remains to indicate the part which she had played
throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an
influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear,
or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible
emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she
consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his
power over her when he endeavoured to make her the direct
accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she
could without implicating her husband, and again and again she tried
to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy,
and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it
was part of his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a
passionate outburst 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
outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She
taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene
followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a rival
in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he
saw that she would betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she
might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt,
that when the whole countryside put down the baronet's death to the
curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife
back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what
she knew. In this I fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation,
and that, if we had not been there, his doom would none the less
have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone
such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring
to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this
curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left
unexplained."
 "He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done
the old uncle with his bogie hound."
"The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance
which might be offered."
"No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into
the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had
been living unannounced under another name so close to the
property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and
inquiry?"
"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the
field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard
question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss
the problem on several occasions. There were three possible
courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish
his identity before the British authorities there and so obtain the
fortune without ever coming to England at all, or he might adopt an
elaborate disguise during the short time that he need be in London;
or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers,
putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of
his income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he
would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear
Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and for one
evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant
channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the De
Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and
we can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?"

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