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The Hound of the Baskervilles

by Arthur Conan Doyle · English · Gutenberg #2852 · 373,485 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Hound of the Baskervilles

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle


        
Release date: October 1, 2001 [eBook #2852]
                Most recently updated: October 22, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2852

Credits: Shreevatsa R, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES ***




THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

Another Adventure of Sherlock Holmes


by A. Conan Doyle




My dear Robinson,


    It was to your account of a West-Country legend that this tale owes its
inception. For this and for your help in the details all thanks.



Yours most truly,        

A. Conan Doyle.    



Hindhead,

    Haslemere.



Contents


 Chapter 1  Mr. Sherlock Holmes
 Chapter 2  The Curse of the Baskervilles
 Chapter 3  The Problem
 Chapter 4  Sir Henry Baskerville
 Chapter 5  Three Broken Threads
 Chapter 6  Baskerville Hall
 Chapter 7  The Stapletons of Merripit House
 Chapter 8  First Report of Dr. Watson
 Chapter 9  The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]
 Chapter 10 Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
 Chapter 11 The Man on the Tor
 Chapter 12 Death on the Moor
 Chapter 13 Fixing the Nets
 Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles
 Chapter 15 A Retrospection




Chapter 1.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes


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

      “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

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

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

      “I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
      front of me,” said he. “But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of
      our visitor’s stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss
      him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
      becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
      examination of it.”

      “I think,” said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
      companion, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
      man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of
      their appreciation.”

      “Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”

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

      “Why so?”

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

      “Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Then I was right.”

      “To that extent.”

      “But that was all.”

      “No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would
      suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more
      likely to come from 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., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with
        essay entitled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’  Corresponding member
        of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of ‘Some Freaks of
        Atavism’ (_Lancet_ 1882).  ‘Do We Progress?’ (_Journal of
        Psychology_, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of
        Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.”

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

      “And the dog?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “From Charing Cross Hospital?”

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

      “Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.

      Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
      “Why was it bad?”

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

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

      “Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes.
      “And now, Dr. James Mortimer—”

      “Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”

      “And a man of precise mind, evidently.”

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

      “No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

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

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

      The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
      other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers
      as agile and restless as the antennæ 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 today?”

      “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.”




Chapter 2.
The Curse of the Baskervilles


      “I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.

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

      “It is an old manuscript.”

      “Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”

      “How can you say that, sir?”

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

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

      Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
      upon his knee. “You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of
      the long _s_ and the short. It is one of several indications
      which enabled me to fix the date.”

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

      “It appears to be a statement of some sort.”

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

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

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

      Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together,
      and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer
      turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, 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 sound of
            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 14th of this
      year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of
      Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that
      date.”

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

        “The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name
        has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for
        Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the
        county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for
        a comparatively short period his amiability of character and
        extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who
        had been brought into contact with him.  In these days of
        _nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the
        scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days
        is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him
        to restore the fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is
        well known, made large sums of money in South African
        speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel
        turns against them, he realised 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 dyspnœa 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!”




Chapter 3.
The Problem


      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 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is
      the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet
      him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at
      Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise
      me to do with him?”

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

      “It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every
      Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure
      that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he
      would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old
      race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet
      it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak
      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 tomorrow, 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.”




Chapter 4.
Sir Henry Baskerville


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

      “This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

      “Why, yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to
      you this morning I should have come on my own 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, greyish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry
      Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel,” was printed in rough
      characters; the post-mark “Charing Cross,” and the date of
      posting the preceding evening.

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

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

      “But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?”

      “No, I had been staying with a friend,” said the doctor.

      “There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this
      hotel.”

      “Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your
      movements.” Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap
      paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the
      table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed
      by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran:

        As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

      The word “moor” only was printed in ink.

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

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

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

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

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

      “It is here in the corner.”

      “Might I trouble you for it—the inside page, please, with the
      leading articles?” He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes
      up and down the columns. “Capital article this on free trade.
      Permit me to give you an extract from it.

     ‘You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or
     your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but
     it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run
     keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our
     imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.’

      “What do you think of that, Watson?” cried Holmes in high glee,
      rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “Don’t you think
      that is an admirable sentiment?”

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

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

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

      “No, I confess that I see no connection.”

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

      “By thunder, you’re right! Well, if that isn’t smart!” cried Sir
      Henry.

      “If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that
      ‘keep away’ and ‘from the’ are cut out in one piece.”

      “Well, now—so it is!”

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

      “I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from
      that of an Esquimau?”

      “Most certainly.”

      “But how?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Gum,” said Holmes.

      “With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’
      should have been written?”

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

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

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

      “We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork,” said Dr.
      Mortimer.

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

      “How in the world can you say that?”

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

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

      “Well?”

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

      “Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”

      “You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?”

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

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

      “Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting.”

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

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

      “You have lost one of your boots?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Precisely.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Why should I not go?”

      “There seems to be danger.”

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

      “Well, that is what we have to find out.”

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

      “Is that convenient to you, Watson?”

      “Perfectly.”

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

      “I’d prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather.”

      “I’ll join you in a walk, with pleasure,” said his companion.

      “Then we meet again at two o’clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!”

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

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

      “Shall I run on and stop them?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Who was the man?”

      “I have not an idea.”

      “A spy?”

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

      “Yes, I remember.”

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

      “It puts him in the power of the cabman.”

      “Exactly.”

      “What a pity we did not get the number!”

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

      “I fail to see how you could have done more.”

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

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

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

      “I could swear only to the beard.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, sir, he is still with us.”

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

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

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

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You will visit each of these in turn.”

      “Yes, sir.”

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

      “Yes, sir.”

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

      “Yes, sir.”

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

      “Yes, sir.”

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




Chapter 5.
Three Broken Threads


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

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

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

      “Not in the least.”

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

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

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

      “Surely you are mistaken about his trade?”

      “No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very
      well known to us.”

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

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

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

      “What does it suggest?”

      “It suggests—halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the
      matter?”

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

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

      “Still looking for your boot?”

      “Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”

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

      “So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

      “What! you don’t mean to say—?”

      “That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the
      world—the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers,
      which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones,
      and 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_. CARTWRIGHT.

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

      “We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

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

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

      “I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address
      had been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab
      this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here
      straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had
      against me.”

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

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

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

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

      Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

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

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

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

      “Yes, he did.”

      “When did he say this?”

      “When he left me.”

      “Did he say anything more?”

      “He mentioned his name.”

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

      “His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

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

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

      “Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

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

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

      “This very door,” said Holmes.

      “Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew
      all about it. We pulled up 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.”




Chapter 6.
Baskerville Hall


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

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

      “What sort of facts?” I asked.

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

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

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

      “I will do my best.”

      “You have arms, I suppose?”

      “Yes, I thought it as well to take them.”

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

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

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

      “You have always kept together, I presume?”

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

      “And I went to look at the folk in the park,” said Baskerville.

      “But we had no trouble of any kind.”

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

      “No, sir, it is gone forever.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all
      descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with
      a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great
      event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry
      out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was
      surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly
      men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and
      glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced,
      gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a
      few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.
      Rolling pasture lands curved 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 grey 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 firs which
      had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two
      high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with
      his whip.

      “Baskerville Hall,” said he.

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

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

      “Was it here?” he asked in a low voice.

      “No, no, the yew alley is on the other side.”

      The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

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

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

      “Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

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

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

      “Surely you will stay and have some dinner?”

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

      The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned
      into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a
      fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and
      heavily raftered with huge 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 daïs 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 tonight, and perhaps things
      may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

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

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




Chapter 7.
The Stapletons of Merripit House


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after
      breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun
      full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured
      woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her 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 grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to
      be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the
      rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a
      clear recollection of the telegram.

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

      “Who delivered it?”

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

      “Yes, father, I delivered it.”

      “Into his own hands?” I asked.

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

      “Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

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

      “If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “He is very well, thank you.”

      “We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir
      Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking
      much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of
      this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great
      deal to the 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 grey
      plume of smoke.

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

      My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry’s side. But
      then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his
      study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help
      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, agonised, 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 grey circular rings of
      stone, a score of them at least.

      “What are they? Sheep-pens?”

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

      “But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”

      “Neolithic man—no date.”

      “What did he do?”

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

      A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an
      instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed
      in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the
      great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,
      bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the
      air. His grey clothes and jerky, 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 grey eyes, while she was darker than any
      brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. She
      had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have
      seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
      beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant
      dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely
      moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then
      she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was
      about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned
      all my thoughts into a new channel.

      “Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, instantly.”

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

      “Why should I go back?” I asked.

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

      “But I have only just come.”

      “Man, man!” she cried. “Can you not tell when a warning is for
      your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! 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.




Chapter 8.
First Report of Dr. Watson


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

      Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

      MY DEAR HOLMES,

      My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to
      date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner
      of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit
      of the moor sink into one’s soul, its vastness, and also its grim
      charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all
      traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you
      are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the
      prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the
      houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge
      monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you
      look at their grey 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
      _tête-à-tête_. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
      Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
      love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My
      popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders
      to the letter.

      The other day—Thursday, to be more exact—Dr. Mortimer lunched
      with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got
      a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was
      there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came
      in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley
      at Sir Henry’s request to show us exactly how everything occurred
      upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley,
      between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of
      grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down
      summer-house. 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.




Chapter 9.
The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]


      Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.

      MY DEAR HOLMES,

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

      Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went
      down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had
      been on the night before. The western window through which he had
      stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all
      other windows in the house—it commands the nearest outlook on to
      the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one
      from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from
      all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be
      obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this
      window would serve 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.

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

      “Did he give any explanation of his conduct?”

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

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

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

      Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
      distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out
      in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the
      corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had
      come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse
      of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he
      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 horror-struck than her husband,
      was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt
      might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling
      upon her face.

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

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

      “Speak out, then! What does it mean?”

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

      “Then your brother is—”

      “The escaped convict, sir—Selden, the criminal.”

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

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

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

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

      “Is this true, Barrymore?”

      “Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it.”

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

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

      “I wonder he dares,” said Sir Henry.

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

      “Very likely. How far do you think it is?”

      “Out by the Cleft Tor, I think.”

      “Not more than a mile or two off.”

      “Hardly that.”

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

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

      “I will come,” said I.

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

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

      “Are you armed?” I asked.

      “I have a hunting-crop.”

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

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

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

      “My God, what’s that, Watson?”

      “I don’t know. It’s a sound they have on the moor. I heard it
      once before.”

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

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

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

      “What do they call this sound?” he asked.

      “Who?”

      “The folk on 

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