# The Hound of the Baskervilles (B1 edition)

*Arthur Conan Doyle*

## Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes usually got up very late in the morning. The only exceptions were the mornings after he had stayed up all night, and that happened quite often. Now he was sitting at the breakfast table. I stood on the hearth-rug and picked up the stick that our visitor had left behind the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood with a heavy, round head. It was the kind of stick that people call a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head there was a broad silver band, nearly an inch across. On it were the words “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” with the date “1884.” It was just the kind of stick that the old-fashioned family doctor used to carry. It looked dignified, solid and reassuring.

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

Holmes was sitting with his back to me. I had given him no sign of what I was doing.

“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,” he said. “But tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor’s stick? We were unlucky enough to miss him, and we have no idea why he came. So this souvenir, which he left by accident, becomes important. Let me hear you reconstruct the man from it.”

“I think,” I said, following the methods of my companion as far as I could, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly doctor. He is well respected, because the people who know him gave him this sign of their appreciation.”

“Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”

“I also think that he is probably a country doctor. He most likely visits a great many of his patients on foot.”

“Why so?”

“Because this stick was once very handsome, but it has been knocked about so much. I can hardly imagine a town doctor carrying it. The thick iron ferrule is worn down. So clearly he has done a great amount of walking with it.”

“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.

“And then there is the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I would guess that it means the Something Hunt. That would be the local hunt. Perhaps he has given its members some medical help, and they have given him a small present in return.”

“Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes. He pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette. “I must say this. You have written accounts of my own small successes. In all of them you have usually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you do not give light yourself, but you are a conductor of light. Some people have no genius of their own. But they have a remarkable power to stimulate it in others. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.”

He had never said so much before. I must admit that his words gave me great pleasure. I had often been hurt because he did not seem to care about my admiration. He also did not seem to care about my attempts to make his methods known to the public. I was proud, too, that I had learned his system well enough to use it in a way he approved of. Now he took the stick from my hands. He examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then, with an interested look, he put down his cigarette. He carried the stick to the window and looked over it again with a convex lens.

“Interesting, though elementary,” he said, as he went back to his favourite corner of the settee. “There are certainly one or two signs on the stick. They give us the basis for several deductions.”

“Have I missed anything?” I asked, feeling rather important. “I hope that I have not overlooked anything of importance?”

“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were wrong. When I said that you stimulated me, I meant something else, to be honest. When I noticed your mistakes, I was sometimes guided towards the truth. But you are not completely wrong in this case. The man is certainly a country doctor. 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. For example, I would suggest that a present to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt. And when the letters ‘C.C.’ come before that hospital, the words ‘Charing Cross’ come very naturally to mind.”

“You may be right.”

“That is the most probable answer. And if we take it as a working idea, we have a fresh basis. From there we can start to build up a picture of this unknown visitor.”

“Well, then, suppose that ‘C.C.H.’ does mean ‘Charing Cross Hospital.’ What more can we learn from it?”

“Do you not see anything? You know my methods. Apply them!”

“I can only think of the obvious answer. The man worked as a doctor in town before he went to the country.”

“I think that we can go a little further than this. Look at it this way. On what occasion would people most probably give such a present? When would his friends join together to give him a sign of their good will? Clearly, at the moment when Dr. Mortimer left the hospital to start a practice of his own. We know that there was a present. We believe that he moved from a town hospital to a country practice. So is it going too far to say that the present was given at the time of the change?”

“It certainly seems probable.”

“Now, you will notice that he could not have been on the *staff* of the hospital. Only a man with a well-established London practice could hold such a position. And such a man would not drift away into the country. So what was he? He worked in the hospital, but he was not on the staff. So he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician. That is little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago. The date is on the stick. So your serious, middle-aged family doctor disappears into thin air, my dear Watson. In his place we find a young man under thirty. He is friendly, unambitious and absent-minded. And he owns a favourite dog. I would describe it roughly as larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.”

I laughed, because I did not believe him. Sherlock Holmes leaned back on his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

“I have no way to check the last part,” I said. “But at least it is not difficult to find out a few facts about the man’s age and career.” I took the Medical Directory down from my small medical shelf and looked up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one of them 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 he is a country doctor, as you very cleverly noticed. I think that my conclusions were fairly correct. Now, about the adjectives. If I remember rightly, I said friendly, unambitious and absent-minded. In my experience, only a friendly man in this world receives presents of thanks like this. Only an unambitious man leaves a London career for the country. And only an absent-minded man waits an hour in your room and then leaves his stick and not his visiting-card.”

“And the dog?”

“It has often carried this stick behind its master. The stick is heavy, so the dog has held it tightly by the middle. The marks of its teeth are very easy to see. Look at the space between these marks. In my opinion it shows that the dog’s jaw is too broad for a terrier. But it is not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been… yes, by Jove, it *is* a curly-haired spaniel.”

He had got up and walked up and down the room as he spoke. Now he stopped in the corner by the window. There was such certainty in his voice that I looked up in surprise.

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

“For the very simple reason that I can see the dog himself on our very doorstep. And there is its owner ringing the bell. Don’t move, I beg you, Watson. He is a doctor, like you, and you may be able to help me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson. You hear a step on the stair, and it is walking into your life. And you do not know whether it will bring good or bad. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, want from Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”

Our visitor’s appearance surprised me, because I had expected a typical country doctor. He was a very tall, thin man. He had a long nose like a beak, which stuck out between two sharp grey eyes. His eyes were set close together, and they sparkled brightly behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed like a professional man, but rather carelessly. His frock-coat was dirty-looking and his trousers were worn at the edges. He was young, but his long back was already bent. He walked with his head pushed forward, and he looked closely at everything in a kind way. As he came in, he saw the stick in Holmes’s hand. He ran towards it with a cry of joy. “I am so very glad,” he said. “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 present, I see,” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Charing Cross Hospital?”

“From one or two friends there, when I got married.”

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

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

“Only because you have upset our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I married, and so I left the hospital. With it I lost all hopes of a consulting practice. I needed 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. Just a humble M.R.C.S.”

“And clearly a man of precise mind.”

“Only a dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes. I am a picker-up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I suppose that I am speaking to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not—”

“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned together with your friend’s. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected such a dolichocephalic skull, or such strong bones above the eyes. Would you mind if I ran my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the real one is available, would be an ornament to any museum of anthropology. I do not want to flatter you too much. But I confess that I covet your skull.”

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “I see that you are an enthusiast in your own line of thought, sir, as I am in mine,” he said. “I notice from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Please feel free to light one.”

The man took out paper and tobacco. He rolled the tobacco up in the paper with surprising skill. He had long, trembling fingers. They were as quick and restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his quick little looks showed me how interested he was in our curious companion. “I suppose, sir,” he said at last, “that you did not come here last night and again today only to examine my skull?”

“No, sir, no. But I am happy to have had the chance to do that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I know that I am not a practical man. And suddenly I am faced with a most serious and extraordinary problem. I know, of course, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—”

“Indeed, sir! May I ask who has the honour to be the first?” asked Holmes, rather sharply.

“To the man with a precisely scientific mind, the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always be very attractive.”

“Then had you not better consult him?”

“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs, everyone agrees that you stand alone. I hope, sir, that I have not accidentally—”

“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, that you would be wise to tell me plainly, without more delay, the exact problem. What is it that you need my help with?”

### Glossary

- **hearth-rug**: a small carpet in front of the fireplace.
- **Penang lawyer**: a kind of thick walking stick with a heavy, round head.
- **M.R.C.S.**: Member of the Royal College of Surgeons; a basic qualification for a doctor.
- **ferrule**: a metal cap on the bottom end of a walking stick.
- **convex lens**: a curved piece of glass that makes things look bigger.
- **settee**: a long, soft seat for two or more people; a sofa.
- **house-surgeon**: a young doctor who lives and works in a hospital.
- **mastiff**: a very large, strong dog; a terrier is a much smaller dog.
- **dolichocephalic**: having a long, narrow head.
- **parietal fissure**: a line on the top of the skull, where two bones meet.
- **covet**: to want something very much that belongs to someone else.

## Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles

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

“I noticed it as you came into the room,” said Holmes.

“It is an old manuscript.”

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

“How can you say that, sir?”

“All the time you have been talking, an inch or two of it has been in front of my eyes. An expert would be a poor one if he could not date a document to within ten years or so. Perhaps you have read my little monograph on the subject. I would put it at 1730.”

“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer took it out of his breast-pocket. “Sir Charles Baskerville gave this family paper into my care. His sudden and tragic death some three months ago caused great excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his doctor. He was a strong-minded man, sir. He was shrewd and practical, and he had as little imagination as I have myself. Yet he took this document very seriously. His mind was prepared for exactly the kind of end that finally came to him.”

Holmes reached out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it on his knee. “You will notice, Watson, that the long *s* and the short *s* are used in turn. It is one of several signs that helped me to fix the date.”

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded writing. At the top was written “Baskerville Hall,” and below it, in large, untidy figures, “1742.”

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

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

“But I understand that you want to consult me about something more modern and practical?”

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

Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his finger-tips together. He closed his eyes, like a man who accepts something that he cannot avoid. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light. In a high, cracking voice he read the following curious story from the old days:

“There have been many statements about the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles. But I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville. I had the story from my father, and he had it from his father. So I have written it down, and I fully believe that it happened just as I tell it here. And I would like you to believe this, my sons. The same Justice that punishes sin can also kindly forgive it. No curse is so heavy that prayer and repentance cannot remove it. So learn from this story not to fear the results of the past. Instead, be careful in the future. Then the evil passions that have made our family suffer so badly may not be set free again to destroy us.

“Know, then, that in the time of the Great Rebellion, this Manor of Baskerville belonged to Hugo Baskerville. (I strongly advise you to read the history of that time by the learned Lord Clarendon.) No one can deny that this Hugo was a most wild and godless man, with no respect for holy things. In truth, his neighbours might have forgiven him for this, because saints have never done well in those parts. But he also had a certain cruel and wicked humour, and this made his name known for evil all through the West.

“It happened that this Hugo came to love the daughter of a yeoman who had land near the Baskerville estate. (But perhaps such a dark passion should not be known by such a bright name as love.) The young girl was modest and had a good name. She always avoided him, because she was afraid of his evil name. So it happened that one Michaelmas, this Hugo went secretly down to the farm with five or six of his lazy and wicked friends. They carried off the girl. Her father and brothers were away from home, and Hugo knew it well. They brought her to the Hall and put her in a room upstairs. Then Hugo and his friends sat down to a long night of drinking, as they did every night. The poor girl upstairs almost lost her mind. She could hear the singing and shouting and the terrible oaths that came up to her from below. People say that Hugo Baskerville’s words, when he was drunk, could destroy the man who said them. At last, in her great fear, she did something that might have frightened the bravest or most active man. Ivy grew on the south wall of the house, and it still covers that wall today. With its help she climbed down from under the roof. Then she ran home across the moor. It was three leagues from the Hall to her father’s farm.

“A little later, Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink up to his prisoner, and perhaps other, worse things too. He found the cage empty and the bird gone. Then he became like a man with a devil inside him. He rushed down the stairs into the dining-hall and jumped up onto the great table. Jugs and plates flew in all directions. In front of everyone he cried out loudly that he would give his body and soul to the Powers of Evil that very night, if only he could catch the girl. The drinkers stood there, shocked at the man’s fury. Then one of them, more wicked or perhaps more drunk than the others, shouted that they should put the hounds on her. At this, Hugo ran out of the house. He shouted to his grooms to saddle his mare and let out the pack of hounds. He gave the hounds a kerchief that belonged to the girl, and he turned them onto her track. Then, with the hounds crying loudly, he rode off over the moor in the moonlight.

“For some time the drinkers stood with their mouths open. They could not understand all that had happened in such a hurry. But soon their confused minds woke up. They understood what terrible thing was likely to happen on the moor. Now everything was in an uproar. Some called for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another bottle of wine. But at last some sense came back to their crazy minds. All of them, thirteen in number, got on their horses and rode after him. The moon shone clear above them. They rode fast, side by side, along the way that the girl must have taken to reach her home.

“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds on the moor. They shouted to him and asked if he had seen the hunt. The story says that the man was so mad with fear that he could hardly speak. But at last he said that he had seen the unhappy girl, with the hounds on her track. ‘But I have seen more than that,’ he said. ‘Hugo Baskerville passed me on his black mare. And behind him, without a sound, ran such a hound of hell as I pray God will never be at my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode on. But soon their skin turned cold. There was a sound of galloping across the moor. The black mare raced past them, covered with white froth. Its bridle was trailing and its saddle was empty. Then the drinkers rode close together, because a great fear was on them. But they still followed over the moor. Any of them, if he had been alone, would have been very glad to turn his horse round. They rode slowly like this, and at last they came to the hounds. These hounds were famous for their courage and their breeding. But now they were whimpering in a group at the top of a deep dip, or goyal, as we call it, on the moor. Some were creeping away. Others, with the hair on their necks standing up and with staring eyes, were looking down the narrow valley in front of them.

“The group had stopped. As you can guess, they were more sober now than when they started. Most of them refused to go any further. But three of them, the boldest, or perhaps the most drunk, rode forward down the goyal. It opened into a broad space. In it stood two of those great stones that you can still see there today. Some forgotten peoples put them there in the old days. The moon was shining brightly on the open space. There in the centre lay the unhappy girl where she had fallen. She was dead from fear and tiredness. But it was not the sight of her body that made the hair stand up on these three wild men’s heads. And it was not the body of Hugo Baskerville, which lay near her. It was this: a foul thing was standing over Hugo and pulling at his throat. It was a great black beast, shaped like a hound. But it was larger than any hound that a human eye has ever seen. And as they watched, the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville. Then it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws on them. The three men screamed with fear. They rode for their lives across the moor, still screaming. It is said that one of them died that very night from what he had seen. The other two were broken men for the rest of their lives.

“That is the story, my sons, of the coming of the hound. People say that it has troubled our family badly ever since. I have written it down for this reason: something that is clearly known is less terrible than something that is only hinted at and guessed. It cannot be denied that many of our family have had unhappy deaths. Their deaths have been sudden, bloody and mysterious. Yet we may shelter in the endless goodness of Providence. Providence would not punish the innocent forever, beyond the third or fourth generation that is threatened in Holy Writ. My sons, I now leave you in the care of that Providence. And I advise you to be careful. Do not cross the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.

“\[This is from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John. They must say nothing about it to their sister Elizabeth.\]”

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this strange story, he pushed his glasses up on his forehead. He stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes yawned and threw the end of his cigarette into the fire.

“Well?” he said.

“Do you not find it interesting?”

“To a collector of fairy tales.”

Dr. Mortimer took 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 that came out about the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. His death happened a few days before that date.”

My friend leaned a little forward, and his face became intent. Our visitor put his glasses straight again and began:

“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville has cast a gloom over the county. His name had been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election. Sir Charles had lived at Baskerville Hall for quite a short time. But his kind character and great generosity had won the love and respect of everyone who had met him. In these days of *nouveaux riches*, it is refreshing to find such a case. Here the son of an old county family which had fallen on bad times made his own fortune. Then he brought it back with him to restore the lost greatness of his family. As is well known, Sir Charles made large sums of money in South African speculation. Some people go on until the wheel turns against them. He was wiser than they are. He took his profits and returned to England with them. He came to live at Baskerville Hall only two years ago. Everyone talks about his large plans for rebuilding and improvement, which his death has interrupted. He had no children himself. He said openly that he wanted the whole countryside to profit from his good fortune during his own lifetime. Many people will have personal reasons to be sad about his early death. His generous gifts to local and county charities have often been reported in these columns.

“The inquest cannot be said to have cleared up the circumstances of Sir Charles’s death completely. But at least it has done enough to end the rumours that local superstition has started. There is no reason at all to suspect foul play. There is no reason to think that death came from anything but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower. In some ways he had rather eccentric habits of mind. He was very rich, but his personal tastes were simple. His indoor servants at Baskerville Hall were a married couple named Barrymore. The husband was the butler and the wife was the housekeeper. Several friends have supported their evidence. It shows that Sir Charles’s health had been poor for some time. It points especially to a problem with his heart. This showed itself in changes of colour, breathlessness and sudden attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and doctor of the dead man, has given evidence of the same kind.

“The facts of the case are simple. Every night before he went to bed, Sir Charles Baskerville used to walk down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this was his habit. On the fourth of May, Sir Charles had said that he intended to leave for London the next day. He had told Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his night-time walk. During this walk he usually smoked a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o’clock Barrymore found the hall door still open. He became alarmed, lit a lantern and went to look for his master. The day had been wet, and it was easy to follow Sir Charles’s footmarks down the alley. Halfway down this walk there is a gate that leads out onto the moor. There were signs that Sir Charles had stood here for some time. He then went on down the alley, and his body was found at the far end of it. One fact has not been explained. Barrymore says that his master’s footprints changed after he passed the moor-gate. From there on, he seemed to be walking on his toes. A gipsy horse-dealer named Murphy was on the moor not far away at the time. But by his own admission he had drunk too much. He says that he heard cries, but he cannot say from which direction they came. There were no signs of violence on Sir Charles’s body. The doctor’s evidence spoke of an almost unbelievable twisting of the face. It was so great that at first Dr. Mortimer refused to believe that it was really his friend and patient in front of him. But it was explained that this is not unusual in cases of breathlessness and death from heart exhaustion. The post-mortem examination supported this explanation. It showed a disease of the heart of long standing. The coroner’s jury gave a verdict that agreed with the medical evidence. It is good that this is so. Clearly it is extremely important that Sir Charles’s heir should settle at the Hall. He must continue the good work that has been so sadly interrupted. Romantic stories have been whispered about the affair. The coroner’s plain finding has finally put an end to them. Without it, 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 is still alive. He is the son of Sir Charles Baskerville’s younger brother. When the young man was last heard of, he was in America. Inquiries are being made so that he can be told of his good fortune.”

Dr. Mortimer folded his paper again and put it back in his pocket. “Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, about the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”

“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for bringing this case to my attention. It certainly has some interesting features. I noticed some comments in the newspapers at the time. But I was extremely busy with that little affair of the Vatican cameos. I was so anxious to help the Pope that 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 and put his finger-tips together. His face took on its calmest expression, like the face of a judge.

“In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of strong emotion, “I am telling you something that I have told nobody. Why did I keep it back from the coroner’s inquiry? A man of science does not like to seem to support a popular superstition in public. I also had a second reason. As the paper says, nobody would ever live at Baskerville Hall if its rather grim reputation grew any worse. For both these reasons I thought it was right to tell rather less than I knew. No practical good could come from it. But with you there is no reason why I should not be completely frank.

“Very few people live on the moor, and neighbours see a lot of each other. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. There are no other educated men for many miles, except Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist. Sir Charles was a man who kept to himself. But his illness brought us together by chance, and a shared interest in science kept us friends. He had brought back a lot of scientific information from South Africa. We spent many charming evenings together. We discussed how the bodies of two different peoples of southern Africa compared.

“In the last few months it became more and more clear to me that Sir Charles’s nerves were close to breaking. He had taken this legend that I have read to you very deeply to heart. He would walk in his own grounds, but nothing would make him go out on the moor at night. It may seem unbelievable to you, Mr. Holmes, but he honestly believed that a dreadful fate hung over his family. And certainly the stories that he could tell of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence was always with him. More than once he asked me two questions. On my night journeys as a doctor, had I ever seen any strange creature or heard a hound baying? He asked me the second question several times, and always in a voice that shook with excitement.

“I remember well how I drove up to his house one evening, some three weeks before the terrible event. He happened to be at his hall door. I had got down from my gig and was standing in front of him. Then I saw his eyes fix on something over my shoulder. He stared past me with a look of the most dreadful horror. I turned round quickly. I just had time to see something passing at the top of the drive. I took it to be a large black calf. He was so excited and frightened that I had to go to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. But it was gone. The incident seemed to have the worst effect on his mind. I stayed with him all evening. It was then that he gave me the story that I read to you when I first came. He wanted to explain why he had been so upset. I mention this small episode because it seems important after the tragedy that followed. But at the time I was sure that the matter was not important at all. I thought that his excitement had no real reason.

“It was on my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. I knew that his heart was affected. He lived in constant anxiety, however imaginary the cause was. Clearly this was having a serious effect on his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of the town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a friend of us both, was very worried about his health. He had the same opinion. At the last moment came this terrible catastrophe.

“Barrymore the butler found the body on the night of Sir Charles’s death. He sent Perkins the groom to me on horseback. I was sitting up late, so I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked all the facts that were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley. I saw the place at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited. I noticed the change in the shape of the prints after that point. I noted that there were no other footsteps on the soft gravel except Barrymore’s. Finally, I carefully examined the body. No one had touched it before I arrived. Sir Charles lay on his face with his arms out. His fingers were dug into the ground. His face was so twisted by some strong emotion that I could hardly have sworn who it was. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But Barrymore made one false statement at the inquest. He said that there were no traces on the ground around the body. He did not see any. But I did. They were some distance away, but they were fresh and clear.”

“Footprints?”

“Footprints.”

“A man’s or a woman’s?”

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for a moment. His voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered.

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

### Glossary

- **forgery**: a copy of an old document or picture that is made to trick people.
- **monograph**: a short book or long article about one special subject.
- **the Great Rebellion**: the English Civil War of the 1640s.
- **yeoman**: a farmer who owned his own land.
- **Michaelmas**: an old church holiday at the end of September.
- **league**: an old measure of distance, about three miles.
- **kerchief**: a handkerchief; a square piece of cloth.
- **goyal**: a local word on Dartmoor for a deep dip or narrow valley.
- **Providence**: God's care for people.
- **Holy Writ**: the Bible.
- **exalted**: raised up high; here, at their strongest.
- **nouveaux riches**: (French) people who have only recently become rich.
- **speculation**: buying and selling things in the hope of making a lot of money quickly.
- **inquest**: an official inquiry to find out how someone died.
- **gig**: a small, light carriage pulled by one horse.

## Chapter 3. The Problem

I confess that I shivered when I heard these words. There was a thrill in the doctor’s voice. It showed that he himself was deeply moved by what he was telling us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement. His eyes had the hard, dry glitter that always came into them when he was very 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 thought about them. I don’t suppose I would have noticed them myself if I had 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 gone up to the body?”

“No.”

“What sort of night was it?”

“Damp and cold.”

“But not actually raining?”

“No.”

“What is the alley like?”

“There are two lines of old yew hedge. They are twelve feet high, and nobody can get through them. 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 each side.”

“I understand that there is a gate in the yew hedge at one point?”

“Yes, the wicket-gate which leads onto the moor.”

“Is there any other opening?”

“None.”

“So to reach the yew alley, a person must either come down it from the house, or else come in by the moor-gate?”

“There is a way out 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 that 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 very much. 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 heavens! Did no one examine the place?”

“Yes, I examined it myself.”

“And you found nothing?”

“It was all very confused. Sir Charles had clearly stood there for five or ten minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the ash had dropped from his cigar twice.”

“Excellent! Here is a colleague after our own heart, Watson. But the marks?”

“He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could not see any others.”

Sherlock Holmes struck his knee with his hand. He looked impatient.

“If only I had been there!” he cried. “It is clearly a case of extraordinary interest. It offered huge opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel was like a page in a book. I could have read so much on it. But long ago the rain has smudged it, and the heavy shoes of curious peasants have spoiled it. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, why did you not call me in? You really have a lot to answer for.”

“I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without telling these facts to the world. I have already given you my reasons for not wanting to do that. Besides, besides—”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“There is an area where even the cleverest and most experienced detective is helpless.”

“You mean that the thing is supernatural?”

“I did not actually say so.”

“No, but you clearly think it.”

“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, I have heard of several incidents. They are hard to fit with the normal order of Nature.”

“For example?”

“Before the terrible event happened, several people had seen a creature on the moor. It was like this Baskerville demon, and it could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature. It shone in the dark, and it was ghastly, like a ghost. I have questioned these men closely. One of them is a hard-headed countryman, one is a farrier, and one is a moorland farmer. They all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition. It is exactly like the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district. Only a very brave man will cross the moor at night.”

“And you, a trained man of science, believe that it is supernatural?”

“I do not know what to believe.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “Until now I have kept my investigations to this world,” he said. “In a small way I have fought against evil. But to fight the Father of Evil himself would perhaps be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is real and material.”

“The first hound was material enough to tear out a man’s throat. And yet it was devilish as well.”

“I see that you have quite gone over to the side of 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 that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death. And in the same breath you tell me that you want me to do it.”

“I did not say that I wanted you to do it.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“By advising me what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville. He arrives at Waterloo Station”—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—“in exactly one hour and a quarter.”

“He is the heir?”

“Yes. After the death of Sir Charles we made inquiries about this young gentleman. We found that he had been farming in Canada. From the reports that have reached us, he is an excellent fellow in every way. I am speaking now not as a doctor, but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles’s will.”

“There is nobody else with a claim, I suppose?”

“None. We have been able to find only one other relative. That was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers. Poor Sir Charles was the eldest. The second brother died young, and he is the father of this young man Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He had the old, masterful Baskerville blood. People tell me that he looked exactly like the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too dangerous for himself. So he ran away to Central America, and he 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 to say 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 think about it. Every Baskerville who goes there meets an evil fate. I feel sure of this: if Sir Charles could have spoken to me before his death, he would have warned me. He would have told me not to bring the last of the old family, the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the whole poor, bleak countryside depends on his presence for its prosperity. All the good work that Sir Charles did will crash to the ground if there is nobody living at the Hall. I am afraid that my own obvious interest in the matter may influence me too much. That is why I bring the case to you and ask for your advice.”

Holmes thought for a little time.

“In plain words, the matter is this,” he said. “In your opinion, some devilish power makes Dartmoor an unsafe place for a Baskerville to live. That is your opinion?”

“At least I might go so far as to say that there is some evidence that this may be so.”

“Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory is correct, it could do the young man harm in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with only local powers, like a parish vestry, would be too unbelievable a thing.”

“You speak about the matter too lightly, Mr. Holmes. You probably would not do so if you came into personal contact with these things. So, as I understand it, your advice 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, which is scratching at my front door. Then go 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. Dr. Mortimer, I would be very grateful if you would call on me here at ten o’clock tomorrow. And it will help me in my plans for the future if you bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”

“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He wrote the appointment quickly on his shirt-cuff. Then he hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded way. Holmes stopped him at the top of the stair.

“Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that several people saw this apparition on the moor before Sir Charles Baskerville’s death?”

“Three people did.”

“Did anyone see it after his death?”

“I have not heard of anyone.”

“Thank you. Good-morning.”

Holmes went back to his seat. He had that quiet look of inner satisfaction which meant that he had an interesting task in front of him.

“Going out, Watson?”

“Unless I can help you.”

“No, my dear fellow. It is when the time for action comes that I turn to you for help. But this is splendid. From some points of view it is really unique. When you pass Bradley’s, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be good if you could arrange not to come back before evening. Then I would be very glad to compare impressions with you about this most interesting problem. It was brought to us only this morning.”

I knew that my friend needed to be quite alone in those hours of intense mental concentration. Then he weighed every small piece of evidence. He built up different theories and balanced one against the other. He decided which points were essential and which did not matter. So I spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o’clock when I was back in the sitting-room.

When I opened the door, my first thought was that a fire had broken out. The room was so full of smoke that it blurred the light of the lamp on the table. But as I went in, my fears disappeared. It was the bitter smoke of strong, coarse tobacco. It caught me by the throat and made me cough. Through the smoke I could just see Holmes in his dressing-gown. He was curled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.

“Caught cold, Watson?” he said.

“No, it’s this poisonous air.”

“I suppose it *is* pretty thick, now that you mention it.”

“Thick! It is unbearable.”

“Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I see.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Am I right?”

“Certainly, but how do you know?”

He laughed at my confused face. “There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson. It makes me enjoy using my small powers at your expense. A gentleman goes out on a showery and muddy day. He comes back in the evening perfectly clean. His hat and his boots are still shining. So he has stayed in one place all day. He is not a man with close 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?”

“In one place too.”

“On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”

“In spirit?”

“Exactly. My body has stayed in this armchair. And I am sorry to say that while I was away, it has drunk two large pots of coffee and smoked an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left, I sent down to Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this part of the moor. My spirit has floated over it all day. I am proud to say that I could find my way about.”

“A large-scale map, I suppose?”

“Very large.”

He unrolled one part and held it over his knee. “Here you have the area that concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle.”

“With a wood round it?”

“Exactly. The yew alley is not marked by that name. But I imagine that it must run along this line, with the moor on the right of it, as you see. This small group of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen. Our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters there. As you see, there are only a very few scattered houses within five miles. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the story. There is a house marked here which may be the home of the naturalist. Stapleton was his name, if I remember rightly. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then, fourteen miles away, there is the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points lies the empty, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage where a tragedy has been played. And we may help to play it again on the same stage.”

“It must be a wild place.”

“Yes, it is a fitting setting. If the devil did want to have a hand in the affairs of men—”

“Then you yourself are beginning to believe 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 start. The first is whether any crime has been committed at all. The second is, what is the crime, and how was it committed? Of course, Dr. Mortimer’s guess may be correct. We may be dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature. If so, our investigation is at an end. But we must try every other explanation before we accept this one. I think we’ll shut that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a strange thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps concentrated thought. I have not gone so far as getting into a box to think. But that is where my beliefs logically lead. Have you thought about the case?”

“Yes, I have thought about it a good deal during the day.”

“What do you make of it?”

“It is very confusing.”

“It certainly has a character of its own. Some things about it are special. That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?”

“Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that part 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. He was running desperately, running for his life, running until his heart burst. And then he fell dead on his face.”

“Running from what?”

“That is our problem. There are signs that the man was mad with fear before he even began to run.”

“How can you say that?”

“I am supposing that the cause of his fear came to him across the moor. If that was so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his mind would run *away from* the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy’s evidence is true, he ran crying for help. And he ran 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 in poor health. We can understand that he took an evening walk. But the ground was damp and the night was cold and wet. Is it natural that he should stand there for five or ten minutes? Dr. Mortimer worked that out from the cigar ash. He showed more practical sense than I would have expected of him.”

“But he went out every evening.”

“I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence says that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he was due to leave for London. The thing is taking shape, Watson. It is beginning to make sense. Could you pass me my violin, please? We will put off all further thought about this business until we have met Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.”

### Glossary

- **impenetrable**: so thick that nobody can get through.
- **wicket-gate**: a small gate in a hedge or wall.
- **farrier**: a person who puts iron shoes on horses' feet.
- **apparition**: a ghost, or something strange that suddenly appears.
- **trustee and executor**: a person who looks after a dead person's money and makes sure their will is carried out.
- **black sheep**: the member of a family who behaves badly and brings shame on it.
- **parish vestry**: a small local council of a church area.
- **shag**: a strong, coarse kind of cut tobacco.
- **Ordnance map**: an official, very detailed map of an area of Britain.
- **hamlet**: a very small village.

## Chapter 4. Sir Henry Baskerville

Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised meeting. Our clients were punctual. The clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, and the young baronet followed him. Sir Henry was a small, alert, dark-eyed man of about thirty. He was very strongly built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong face like a fighter’s. He wore a reddish tweed suit. His skin was brown and rough, like the skin of a man who has spent most of his time in the open air. And yet there was something in his steady eye and in his quiet confidence that showed he was a gentleman.

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

“Why, yes,” said Sir Henry. “And the strange thing is this, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If my friend here had not suggested coming round to you this morning, I would have come on my own. I understand that you work out little puzzles. And I’ve had one this morning that needs more thinking out than I am able to give it.”

“Please take a seat, Sir Henry. Do you mean that you yourself have had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?”

“Nothing very important, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, most likely. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter. It reached me this morning.”

He laid an envelope on the table, and we all bent over it. It was a cheap envelope, greyish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel,” was printed in rough letters. The post-mark was “Charing Cross,” and it had been posted the evening before.

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

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

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

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

“There was no possible sign that we were going to this hotel.”

“Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements.” Out of the envelope Holmes took a half-sheet of foolscap paper, folded into four. He opened it and spread it flat on the table. Across the middle of it, someone had made a single sentence by pasting printed words onto the paper. It said:

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

Only the word “moor” was printed in ink.

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

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

“No, sir. But it might very well come from someone who was sure 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 will share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that,” said Sherlock Holmes. “But for the moment, with your permission, we will keep to this very interesting document. It must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday’s *Times*, Watson?”

“It is here in the corner.”

“Could I trouble you for it? The inside page, please, with the leading articles.” He looked quickly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. “An excellent article, this one on free trade. Let me read you a part of 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 happily, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “Don’t you think that is an admirable opinion?”

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with professional interest. Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes on me.

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

“On the contrary, I think we are very hot on the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do. But I am afraid that even he has not quite understood the importance of this sentence.”

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

“And yet, my dear Watson, the connection is very close. The one has been taken out of the other. ‘You,’ ‘your,’ ‘your,’ ‘life,’ ‘reason,’ ‘value,’ ‘keep away,’ ‘from the.’ Don’t you see now where these words have come from?”

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

“If there was any possible doubt, this settles it. ‘Keep away’ and ‘from the’ are cut out in one piece.”

“Well, now, so they are!”

“Really, Mr. Holmes, this is more than I could ever have imagined,” said Dr. Mortimer, staring at my friend in amazement. “I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper. But you named the newspaper, and you added that the words came from the leading article. That is really one of the most remarkable things I have ever known. How did you do it?”

“I suppose, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of an African from the skull of an Eskimo?”

“Most certainly.”

“But how?”

“Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The bone above the eyes, the angle of the face, the curve of the jaw, the—”

“But this is my special hobby, and the differences are just as obvious. To my eyes, there is a big difference between the leaded bourgeois type of a *Times* article and the careless print of a cheap evening paper. It is as big as the difference between your African and your Eskimo. Recognising types of print is one of the most basic kinds of knowledge for a special expert in crime. But I confess that once, when I was very young, I confused the *Leeds Mercury* with the *Western Morning News*. A leading article in the *Times* is completely different from anything else. These words could not have come from anywhere else. It was done yesterday. So it was very probable that we would find the words in yesterday’s paper.”

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

“Nail-scissors,” said Holmes. “You can see that the scissors had very short blades, because the cutter had to make two cuts for ‘keep away.’”

“That is so. So someone cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed scissors. Then he pasted it with paste—”

“Gum,” said Holmes.

“With gum onto the paper. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’ was written.”

“Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple, and he could find them in any issue of the paper. But ‘moor’ would be less common.”

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

“There are one or two signs, although the writer has taken the greatest care to remove all clues. The address, you see, is printed in rough letters. But the *Times* is a paper that is hardly ever read by anyone but highly educated people. So we can take it that an educated man wrote the letter, but he wanted to seem uneducated. He tried to hide his own handwriting. That suggests that you might know his writing, or might come to know it. Then again, you will see that the words are not stuck on in a straight line. Some are much higher than others. ‘Life,’ for example, is quite out of its proper place. That may show carelessness. Or it may show that the cutter was nervous and in a hurry. On the whole I think it was the second. The matter was clearly important, and the writer of such a letter would probably not be careless. If he was in a hurry, that raises an interesting question. Why was he in a hurry? Any letter posted before early morning would reach Sir Henry before he left his hotel. Was the writer afraid that someone would interrupt him? And who would that be?”

“Now we are coming rather into the area of guesswork,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“I would say, rather, into the area where we weigh up the possibilities and choose the most likely one. It is the scientific use of the imagination. But we always have some real facts to start from. Now, no doubt you would call it a guess. But I am almost certain that this address was 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 gave the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in one word. It has run dry three times in a short address. That shows that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, people seldom let their own pen or ink-bottle get into such a state. And it must be quite rare to find both together. But you know hotel ink and hotel pens. There you rarely get anything else. Yes, I am almost sure of this. Suppose we searched the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross. When we found the remains of the cut-up *Times* article, we would have the person who sent this strange message. Halloa! Halloa! What’s this?”

He was carefully examining the foolscap with the words pasted on it. He held it only an inch or two from his eyes.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” he said, and threw it down. “It is a blank half-sheet of paper. There is not even a water-mark on it. I think we have learned as much as we can from this curious letter. And now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you came to London?”

“Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”

“You have not noticed anyone following you or watching you?”

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

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

“Well, it depends on what you think is worth telling.”

“I think anything outside the ordinary routine of life is well worth telling.”

Sir Henry smiled. “I don’t know much about British life yet. I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that losing 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 has only been put in the wrong place. You will find it when you go back to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with small things like this?”

“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, it has gone missing, anyway. I put them both outside my door last night, and in the morning there was only one. I could get no sense out of the fellow who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand. 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 polished. That was why I put them out.”

“So I understand that when you arrived 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 going to be squire down there, I must dress the part. And perhaps I have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots. I paid six dollars for them. And one was stolen before I ever had them on my feet.”

“It seems a very useless thing to steal,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I confess that I agree with Dr. Mortimer. I believe that the missing boot will soon be found.”

“And now, gentlemen,” said the baronet firmly, “it seems to me that I have said quite enough about the little that I know. It is time for you to keep your promise. Give me a full account of what we are all driving at.”

“Your request is a very reasonable one,” Holmes answered. “Dr. Mortimer, I think the best thing would be for you to tell your story as you told it to us.”

So our scientific friend took his papers out of his pocket. He told the whole case as he had done the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention. Now and then he gave a cry of surprise.

“Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,” he said when the long story was finished. “Of course, I’ve heard of the hound ever since I was a small child. It’s the favourite story of the family, but I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as for my uncle’s death… well, it’s all boiling up in my head, and I can’t get it clear yet. You don’t seem to have quite decided if it’s a case for a policeman or a clergyman.”

“Exactly.”

“And now there’s this business of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose that fits in somewhere.”

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

“And also,” said Holmes, “that this someone wishes you well, because they warn you of danger.”

“Or perhaps they want to scare me away, for their own reasons.”

“Well, of course, that is possible too. I am very grateful to you, Dr. Mortimer, for bringing me a problem with several interesting possible answers. But now, Sir Henry, we have a practical point to decide. Should you go to Baskerville Hall or not?”

“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. You may take that as my final answer.” His dark eyebrows came together, and his face went a deep, dark red as he spoke. Clearly the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was still alive in this last member of the family. “Meanwhile,” he said, “I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me. It’s a big thing for a man to understand and decide all at once. I would like 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 straight back to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and have lunch with us at two. I’ll be able to tell you more clearly then how this thing looks to me.”

“Is that convenient for you, Watson?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then you may expect us. Shall I call a cab for you?”

“I’d rather walk. This affair has upset me rather.”

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

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

We heard our visitors’ steps go down the stairs, and then the bang of the front door. In an instant Holmes changed from a lazy dreamer into a man of action.

“Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! There’s not a moment to lose!” He rushed into his room in his dressing-gown. In a few seconds he was back again in a frock-coat. We hurried down the stairs together and into the street. We could still see Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville about two hundred yards ahead of us. They were walking towards Oxford Street.

“Shall I run on and stop them?”

“Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly happy with your company, if you can put up with mine. Our friends are wise. It is certainly a very fine morning for a walk.”

He walked faster until we had cut the distance between us by about half. Then we stayed a hundred yards behind them. We followed them into Oxford Street and then down Regent Street. Once our friends stopped and looked into a shop window, and Holmes did the same. A moment later he gave a little cry of satisfaction. I followed the direction of his eager eyes. On the other side of the street, a hansom cab with a man inside had stopped. Now it was moving slowly on again.

“There’s our man, Watson! Come along! We’ll have a good look at him, if we can do nothing more.”

At that moment I saw a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes. They were turned towards us through the side window of the cab. At once the trapdoor in the roof flew up, and the man screamed something to the driver. The cab rushed madly off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round for another cab, but there was no empty one in sight. Then he ran after it wildly through the stream of traffic. But the cab had too great a start, and already it was out of sight.

“There now!” said Holmes bitterly. He came out of the river of carriages, out of breath and white with annoyance. “Was there ever such bad luck, and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man, you will write this down too, and set it against my successes!”

“Who was the man?”

“I have no idea.”

“A spy?”

“Well, from what we have heard, it was clear that someone has been following Baskerville very closely since he came to town. How else could they know so quickly that he had chosen the Northumberland Hotel? If they had followed him on the first day, I thought that they would follow him on the second day too. You may have noticed that I walked over to the window twice while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I was looking out for people waiting about in the street, but I saw none. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter goes very deep. I have not yet decided whether this power that is in touch with us is friendly or hostile. But I always feel that there is power and planning behind it. When our friends left, I followed them at once. I hoped to find their invisible companion. But he was so cunning that he did not trust himself to go on foot. Instead he used a cab. Then he could stay behind them or rush past them, and so they would not notice him. His method had another advantage. If they took a cab, he was all ready to follow them. But it has 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, I have been clumsy, but surely you do not seriously think that I forgot to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is no use to us for the moment.”

“I don’t see how you could have done more.”

“When I saw the cab, I should have turned at once and walked the other way. Then, without hurrying, I should have hired a second cab and followed the first one at a safe distance. Or, better still, I should have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. Our unknown man would have followed Baskerville home. Then we would have had the chance to play his own game against him and see where he went. But we were too eager and not careful enough. Our opponent took advantage of it with extraordinary speed and energy. So we have given ourselves away and lost our man.”

During this conversation we had been walking slowly down Regent Street. Dr. Mortimer and his companion had long ago disappeared ahead of us.

“There is no point in following them,” said Holmes. “The shadow has gone and will not come back. We must see what other cards we have in our hands, and play them firmly. Could you swear to that man’s face in the cab?”

“I could swear only to the beard.”

“And so could I. From that I guess that it was most probably a false one. A clever man on such a delicate errand has no use for a beard, except to hide his face. Come in here, Watson!”

He turned into one of the district messenger offices. The manager greeted him warmly.

“Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I was lucky enough to help you?”

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

“My dear fellow, you exaggerate. Wilson, I seem to remember that you had a boy named Cartwright among your messengers. He showed some ability during the investigation.”

“Yes, sir, he is still with us.”

“Could you call him?… Thank you! And I would be glad to have change for this five-pound note.”

A boy of fourteen with a bright, keen face had come when the manager called. He now stood looking at the famous detective with great respect.

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

“Yes, sir.”

“You will visit each of these, one after the other.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At each one you will begin by giving the outside porter one shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will tell him that you want to see yesterday’s waste-paper. You will say that an important telegram has gone to the wrong place, and that you are looking for it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the *Times*, with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the *Times*. It is this page. You could easily recognise it, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At each hotel the outside porter will send for the hall porter. You will give him a shilling too. Here are twenty-three shillings. In perhaps twenty cases out of the twenty-three, you will learn that yesterday’s waste-paper has been burned or taken away. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper. You will look for this page of the *Times* among it. The chances are very much against your finding it. There are ten shillings extra in case of emergencies. Send me a report by wire to Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, we only need to find out by wire who the cabman is, No. 2704. Then we will go into one of the Bond Street picture galleries. We can fill in the time there until we are due at the hotel.”

### Glossary

- **baronet**: a man with the title “Sir” that passes from father to son.
- **foolscap**: a large size of writing paper.
- **cajoled**: persuaded by sweet words or tricks.
- **protective tariff**: a tax on goods from other countries, to protect a country's own trade.
- **leaded bourgeois type**: a small, clear, well-spaced kind of print, used in the *Times*.
- **water-mark**: a faint design in paper that you can see when you hold it up to the light.
- **dime novel**: a cheap, exciting adventure book.
- **squire**: the most important landowner in a country area.
- **with a vengeance**: very much, more than you expected.
- **hansom cab**: a carriage pulled by one horse that you pay to ride in, like a taxi.
- **district messenger office**: an office where boys could be hired to carry messages around the city.

## Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads

Sherlock Holmes had a very unusual power. He could turn his mind away from a problem whenever he wished. For two hours the strange business we were involved in seemed to be forgotten. He was completely interested in the pictures of the modern Belgian painters. From the moment we left the gallery until we arrived at the Northumberland Hotel, he talked of nothing but art. And his ideas about art were very simple and rough.

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

“Do you mind if I look at your register?” said Holmes.

“Not at all.”

The book showed that two names had been written in after Baskerville’s. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle. The other was Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

“Surely that must be the same Johnson that I used to know,” said Holmes to the porter. “He is a lawyer, isn’t he? Grey-haired, and he walks with a limp?”

“No, sir. This is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner. He is a very active gentleman, and he is not older than you.”

“Surely you are wrong about his trade?”

“No, sir! He has used this hotel for many years, and we know him very well.”

“Ah, that settles it. And Mrs. Oldmore, too. I seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but often, when you visit one friend, you find another.”

“She is a sick lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She always stays with us when she is in town.”

“Thank you. I am afraid I cannot say that I know her. We have found out a very important fact with these questions, Watson,” he went on in a low voice, as we went upstairs together. “We now know that the people who are so interested in our friend are not staying in his hotel. As we have seen, they want very much to watch him. But they want just as much that he should not see them. Now, this fact suggests a great deal.”

“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 almost ran into Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was red with anger, and in one hand he held an old, dusty boot. He was so furious that he could hardly speak clearly. And when he did speak, his accent was much broader and more Western than anything 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 to monkey with the wrong man, unless they’re careful. By thunder, if that fellow can’t find my missing boot, there will be trouble. I can take a joke as well as anyone, Mr. Holmes, but this time they’ve gone a bit too far.”

“Still looking for your boot?”

“Yes, sir, and I 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. There were the new brown ones, the old black ones, and the patent leathers that I’m wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and today they’ve sneaked off with one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak up, man, and don’t stand there staring!”

A German waiter had appeared. He looked very nervous and upset.

“No, sir. I have asked 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. I’ll tell him that I’m going straight out of this hotel.”

“It will be found, sir. I promise you, if you will be a little patient, it will be found.”

“Make sure it is. It’s the last thing of mine that I’ll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse me for troubling you about such a small thing—”

“I think it’s well worth troubling about.”

“Why, you look very serious about it.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I just don’t try to explain it. It seems the very maddest, strangest thing that ever happened to me.”

“The strangest, perhaps—” said Holmes thoughtfully.

“What do you make of it yourself?”

“Well, I can’t say that I understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry. Think of it together with your uncle’s death. I have handled five hundred very important cases. I am not sure that any of them goes as deep as this one. But we hold several threads in our hands. The chances are that one of them will lead us to the truth. We may waste time following the wrong one. But sooner or later we must find the right one.”

We had a pleasant lunch, and we said little about the business that had brought us together. Afterwards we went to the private sitting-room. There Holmes asked Baskerville what he planned to do.

“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 plenty of evidence that you are being followed in London. Among the millions of people in this great city, it is difficult to find out who these people are. It is also difficult to find out what they want. If they mean evil, they might do you harm, and we could not stop it. Dr. Mortimer, did you know that you were followed from my house this morning?”

Dr. Mortimer jumped violently. “Followed! By whom?”

“That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Among your neighbours or the people you know on Dartmoor, is there any man with a full black 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 better find out if he is really there. Perhaps, by some chance, he is in London.”

“How can you do that?”

“Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That will do. Address it to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. Where 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 tell us before evening if Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not.”

“That’s right,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyway?”

“He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. His family have looked after the Hall for four generations now. As far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable as any couple in the county.”

“At the same time,” said Baskerville, “one thing is clear enough. As long as none of the family live at the Hall, these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do.”

“That is true.”

“Did Barrymore get anything from Sir Charles’s will?” asked Holmes.

“He and his wife got five hundred pounds each.”

“Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

“Yes. Sir Charles was very fond of talking about what was in his will.”

“That is very interesting.”

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

“Indeed! And did anyone else get something?”

“Many people got small sums, and a large number of public charities got money. All the rest went to Sir Henry.”

“And how much was the rest?”

“Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that such a huge sum was involved,” he said.

“Sir Charles was known to be rich. But we did not know how very rich he was until we examined his investments. The total value of the estate was close to a million.”

“Dear me! That is a prize big enough that a man might well play a desperate game for it. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Suppose that anything happened to our young friend here—you will forgive the unpleasant idea!—who would inherit the estate?”

“Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother, died unmarried. So the estate would go to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland.”

“Thank you. These details are all very interesting. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?”

“Yes. He once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man who looks very dignified and lives a saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any money from Sir Charles, although Sir Charles pressed him to take it.”

“And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles’s thousands.”

“He would be the heir to the estate, because it is entailed. He would also be the heir to the money, unless the present owner made a will that said otherwise. The owner 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, because I only learned yesterday how things stood. But in any case, I feel that the money should go with the title and the estate. That was my poor uncle’s idea. How can the owner bring back the glory of the Baskervilles if he hasn’t enough money to look after the property? House, land, and dollars must go together.”

“Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I agree with you that you should go down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one condition that I must make. You certainly must not go alone.”

“Dr. Mortimer is going back with me.”

“But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to look after, and his house is miles away from yours. Even with all the goodwill in the world, he may not be able to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take someone with you. It must be a man you can trust, who will always be by your side.”

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

“If things came to a crisis, I should try to be there in person. But you can understand my position. I have a large practice, and people are always asking for my help from many places. So I cannot be away from London for an unknown length of time. At this very moment, a blackmailer is dirtying one of the most respected names in England. Only I can stop a terrible scandal. You will see that I cannot possibly go to Dartmoor.”

“Whom would you recommend, then?”

Holmes put his hand on my arm. “If my friend would agree to do it, there is no better man to have at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say that more confidently than I can.”

The suggestion took me completely by surprise. But before I had time to answer, Baskerville took my hand and shook it warmly.

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

I have always loved the promise of adventure. And I was flattered by Holmes’s words, and by how eagerly the baronet welcomed me as a companion.

“I will come, with pleasure,” I said. “I do not know a better way to spend my time.”

“And you will report to me very carefully,” said Holmes. “When a crisis comes, as it will, I will tell you how to act. I suppose that everything could be ready by Saturday?”

“Would that suit Dr. Watson?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then on Saturday, unless you hear otherwise, we shall meet at the ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

We had stood up to leave when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph. He dived into one of the corners of the room and pulled a brown boot from under a cabinet.

“My missing boot!” he cried.

“May all our difficulties disappear as easily!” said Sherlock Holmes.

“But it is a very strange thing,” Dr. Mortimer said. “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 put it there while we were having lunch.”

The German was sent for, but he said that he knew nothing about it. No other questions could clear up the matter either. So one more item was added to a long series of small mysteries. They had followed each other very quickly, and they seemed to have no purpose. Leaving aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles’s death, we had a line of events that we could not explain. They had all happened within two days. First, there was the printed letter. Then there was the black-bearded spy in the hansom. There was the loss of the new brown boot, and then the loss of the old black boot. And now there was the return of the new brown boot.

Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street. I saw his frowning brows and his sharp, eager face. I knew that his mind, like mine, was busy. He was trying to find some plan into which all these strange events could fit. They seemed to have no connection with each other. All afternoon and late into the evening, he sat lost in tobacco smoke and thought.

Just before dinner, two telegrams arrived. The first said:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

The second said:

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. Nothing excites me more than a case where everything goes against you. We must look around for another scent.”

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

“Exactly. I have sent a wire to the Official Registry to get his name and address. I should not be surprised if this is the answer to my question.”

The ring at the bell turned out to be something even better than an answer. The door opened, and a rough-looking fellow came in. Clearly he was the cabman himself.

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

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

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

“First of all, your name and address, in case I need 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 your passenger. He came and watched this house at ten o’clock this morning. Afterwards he followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. “Why, there’s no point in my telling you things. You seem to know as much as I do already,” he said. “The truth is that the gentleman told me he was a detective. He said I mustn’t say anything about him to anyone.”

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

“Yes, he did.”

“When did he say this?”

“When he left me.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“He told me his name.”

Holmes threw me a quick look of triumph. “Oh, he told you his name, did he? That was careless of him. What was the name that he gave?”

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

I have never seen my friend more completely taken by surprise than by the cabman’s answer. For a moment he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh.

“A touch, Watson—a clear touch!” he said. “I am fighting a foil as quick and as flexible as my own. He hit me very neatly 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 everything that happened.”

“He called me over at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective. 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. We waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the cab stand. We followed their cab until it stopped somewhere near here.”

“This very door,” said Holmes.

“Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my passenger knew all about it. We stopped halfway down the street and waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen walked past us, and we followed them down Baker Street and along—”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“—until we were three-quarters of the way down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap. He shouted that I should drive straight to Waterloo Station as fast as I could go. I whipped up the mare, and we were there in under ten minutes. Then he paid his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station. But just as he was leaving, he turned round and said: ‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I come to know the name.”

“I see. And you saw no more of him?”

“Not after he went into the station.”

“And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

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

“The 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 me any more information. Good-night!”

“Good-night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton left, laughing quietly to himself. Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a sad smile.

“Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,” he said. “The cunning rascal! He knew our address. He knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had come to me for advice. He recognised me in Regent Street. He guessed that I had got the number of the cab and would find the driver. And so he sent back this bold message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have an enemy 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. The more I see of it, the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh. But I promise you that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street again.”

### Glossary

- **register**: the book in a hotel where guests write their names
- **halloa**: an old way of saying "hello!" or "hey!" when you are surprised
- **playing me for a sucker**: treating me like a fool who is easy to trick
- **monkey with**: interfere with, cause trouble for
- **den of thieves**: a place full of people who steal
- **entailed**: legally tied to the title, so it must pass to the next heir
- **scent**: the smell of a person or animal that a hunting dog follows
- **a touch / foil**: in sword fighting, a "touch" is a hit, and a "foil" is a thin sword
- **toff**: a well-dressed gentleman
- **trap**: the small door in the roof of a cab, for talking to the driver
- **worthy of our steel**: good enough to be a real enemy for us, like a strong fighter
- **checkmated**: beaten, like a king that cannot escape in the game of chess

## Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall

Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready on the day we had agreed, and we left for Devonshire as planned. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station. On the way he gave me his last orders and advice.

“I will not influence your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson,” he said. “I simply want you to report the facts to me as fully as possible. You can leave the theories to me.”

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“Anything that may have something to do with the case, even indirectly. Especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours. And any new details about the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days. But I am afraid the results have been negative. Only one thing seems to be certain. Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman with a very kind nature. So this persecution does not come from him. I really think that we can take him out of our calculations completely. That leaves the people who will actually be around Sir Henry Baskerville on the moor.”

“Would it not be better, first of all, to get rid of this Barrymore couple?”

“Certainly not. You could not make a bigger mistake. If they are innocent, it would be cruel and unjust. If they are guilty, we would lose all chance of proving it. No, no, we will keep them on 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, who I believe is completely honest. And there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister. People say that she is a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall. We know nothing about him either. And there are one or two other neighbours. These are the people that you must study very closely.”

“I will do my best.”

“You have weapons, I suppose?”

“Yes, I thought it would be wise to take them.”

“Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never stop being careful.”

Our friends had already found a first-class carriage, and they were waiting for us on 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. Nobody has followed us during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch. No one could have escaped our notice.”

“You have always stayed together, I suppose?”

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

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

“But we had no trouble of any kind.”

“It was unwise, all the same,” said Holmes. He shook his head and looked very serious. “Sir Henry, I beg you not to go about alone. Some great misfortune will happen to 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 move slowly along the platform. “Sir Henry, remember one of the phrases in that strange old legend which Dr. Mortimer read to us. Avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.”

When we had left the platform far behind, I looked back. I saw the tall, stern figure of Holmes. He was standing without moving and watching us go.

The journey was quick and pleasant. I spent it getting to know my two companions better, and playing with Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had turned reddish, and the brick houses had changed to granite. Red cows ate grass in fields with good hedges. The rich grass and the thick green plants showed that the climate was richer, though also wetter. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window. He cried out with delight when he recognised the familiar look of the Devon countryside.

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

“I never met a Devonshire man who did not swear that his county was the best,” I said.

“It depends on the type of man quite as much as on the county,” said Dr. Mortimer. “One look at our friend here shows the rounded head of the Celt. Inside it, he carries the Celtic enthusiasm and the Celtic power to love and to be loyal. Poor Sir Charles had a very rare type of head. It was half Gaelic and half Ivernian. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?”

“I was a teenage boy when my father died, and I had never seen the Hall. He lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. From there 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 very eager to see the moor.”

“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted. There is your first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, and he pointed out of the carriage window.

Beyond the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood, a grey, sad hill rose in the distance. It had a strange, jagged top. It was dim and unclear, like a fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time with his eyes fixed on it. I could read in his eager face how much it meant to him. This was his first sight of that strange place. The men of his blood had ruled there for so long and had left such a deep mark. There he sat in the corner of an ordinary railway carriage, with his tweed suit and his American accent. And yet I looked at his dark, expressive face, and I felt something more strongly than ever. He was a true descendant of that long line of proud, fiery and masterful men. There was pride, courage and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils and his large hazel eyes. A difficult and dangerous search might lie before us on that unfriendly moor. If so, here at least was a comrade worth taking a risk for. I was certain that he would bravely share it.

The train stopped at a small country station, and we all got out. Outside, beyond the low white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our arrival was clearly a great event. The station-master and the porters crowded round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country place. But I was surprised to see two men like soldiers standing by the gate. They wore dark uniforms and leaned on their short rifles. They looked at us sharply as we passed. The coachman was a hard-faced, twisted little fellow. He saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying quickly down the broad white road. Rolling fields of grass curved upward on both sides of us. Old houses with pointed roofs looked out from among the thick green trees. But behind this peaceful, sunny countryside there always rose the long, gloomy curve of the moor. It was dark against the evening sky, and broken by jagged and sinister hills.

The wagonette turned into a side road. We went up and round through deep lanes. Wheels had worn them down over hundreds of years. There were high banks on both sides, heavy with dripping moss and thick, fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bracken that was turning bronze and spotted brambles shone in the light of the setting sun. We were still climbing steadily. We passed over a narrow granite bridge and went along beside a noisy stream. It rushed quickly down, foaming and roaring among the grey boulders. Both the road and the stream wound up through a valley thick with small oak trees and fir trees. At every turn Baskerville cried out with delight. He looked eagerly around him and asked countless questions. To his eyes everything seemed beautiful. But to me there was a touch of sadness over the countryside. It showed so clearly that the year was dying. Yellow leaves covered the lanes like a carpet and fluttered down on us as we passed. The noise of our wheels died away as we drove through piles of rotting leaves. They seemed to me sad gifts for Nature to throw in front of the carriage of the returning Baskerville heir.

“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer. “What is this?”

In front of us lay a steep slope covered with heather. It was a part of the moor that stuck out towards us. On the top, hard and clear like the statue of a rider on its base, was a soldier on horseback. He was dark and stern, and he held his rifle ready over his arm. He was watching the road on which we were travelling.

“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat. “A convict has escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now. The warders are watching every road and every station, but they haven’t seen him yet. The farmers round 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 a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, he isn’t like any ordinary convict. This is a man who would stop at nothing.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case well. Holmes had been interested in it because the crime was so unusually fierce. The murderer had acted with cruel brutality in everything he did. His behaviour was so terrible that people had doubts whether he was completely sane. That was why his death sentence had been changed. Our wagonette had reached the top of a rise. In front of us lay the huge, wide moor. It was spotted with twisted, rocky piles of stones and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and made us shiver. Somewhere out there, on that empty plain, this devilish man was hiding. He was hiding in a hole like a wild animal, and his heart was full of hatred against all the people who had thrown him out. This was the last thing needed to complete the grim feeling of the empty land, the cold wind and the darkening sky. Even Baskerville became silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him.

We had left the rich farming country behind and below us. We looked back at it now. The low sun sent its rays across it at an angle. They turned the streams into threads of gold. They shone on the red earth, newly turned by the plough, and on the wide, tangled woods. In front of us the road grew colder and wilder. It crossed huge reddish-brown and olive-green slopes with giant boulders scattered over them. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, with stone walls and a stone roof. No climbing plants grew on it to soften its hard shape. Suddenly we looked down into a hollow shaped like a cup. Here and there grew small oaks and firs. The fury of many years of storms had twisted and bent them. Two high, narrow towers rose above the trees. The driver pointed with his whip.

“Baskerville Hall,” he said.

Its master had stood up. He was staring at it, with red cheeks and shining eyes. A few minutes later we reached the lodge-gates. They were a maze of strange, fancy patterns in wrought iron. On each side stood a pillar, worn by the weather and spotted with lichens. On top of the pillars were the boars’ heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite, with the bare wooden beams of the roof showing like ribs. Opposite it stood a new building, half finished. It was the first result of Sir Charles’s South African gold.

We went through the gateway into the avenue. Here the wheels became quiet again among the leaves. The old trees stretched their branches over our heads like a dark tunnel. Baskerville shivered as he looked up the long, dark drive. At the far end the house shone faintly like a ghost.

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

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

The young heir looked around with a gloomy face.

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

The avenue opened onto a wide area of grass, and the house lay in front of us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building, with a porch sticking out from it. The whole front was covered in ivy. Here and there a patch had been cut away, where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark curtain of leaves. The twin towers rose from this central block. They were very old, with battlements on top and many narrow loopholes in the walls. To the right and left of the towers were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy windows divided into sections by stone bars. The roof was high and steep, with tall chimneys. From them rose a single black column of smoke.

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

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

“You don’t mind if I drive 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 waiting for me. I would stay to show you round the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I am. Good-bye. And never hesitate, night or day, to send for me if I can help.”

The sound of the wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall. The door shut heavily behind us with a loud clang. We found ourselves in a fine room. It was large and high, with huge, heavy beams of oak that age had turned black. In the great old-fashioned fireplace, behind the tall iron fire-dogs, a log fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, because they were numb after our long drive. Then we looked around us. We saw the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panels on the walls, the stags’ heads and the coats of arms. Everything was dim and dark in the soft light of the lamp in the centre.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Isn’t it the very picture of an old family home? Just think! This is the same hall in which my people have lived for five hundred years. It makes me feel solemn to think of it.”

I saw his dark face light up with a boyish enthusiasm as he looked around him. The light fell on him where he stood. But long shadows stretched down the walls and hung above him like a black roof. Barrymore had come back from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the quiet manner of a well-trained servant. He was a striking-looking man. He was tall and handsome, with a square black beard and a pale, distinguished face.

“Would you like 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 to stay with you, Sir Henry, until you have made your new arrangements. But you will understand that under the new conditions this house will need a large staff.”

“What new conditions?”

“I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles lived a very quiet life, and we were able to take care of his needs. You will naturally want to have more company, so you will need changes in your household.”

“Do you mean that you and your wife want to leave?”

“Only when it is quite convenient for you, sir.”

“But your family have been with us for several generations, haven’t they? I would be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection.”

I thought I could see some signs of emotion on the butler’s white face.

“I feel that too, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very fond of Sir Charles. His death was a shock to us, and it has made this place very painful for us. I am afraid that we shall never again feel easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall.”

“But what do you plan to do?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that we shall manage to start some business of our own. Sir Charles’s generosity has given us the money to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had better show you to your rooms.”

A square gallery with a railing ran round the top of the old hall. A double stair led up to it. From this central point, two long corridors ran the whole length of the building, and all the bedrooms opened off them. My own room was in the same wing as Baskerville’s, almost next door to it. These rooms seemed much more modern than the central part of the house. The bright wallpaper and the many candles helped a little to remove the gloomy feeling that our arrival had left in my mind.

But the dining-room, which opened off the hall, was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a long room. A step divided the raised daïs, where the family sat, from the lower part, which was kept for their servants. At one end there was a minstrel’s gallery, which looked down on the room. Black beams crossed above our heads, and beyond them was a ceiling darkened by smoke. Rows of burning torches might have made it softer and warmer. So might the colour and loud, rough fun of an old-time feast. But now there were only two gentlemen dressed in black. They sat in the little circle of light from a shaded lamp. Here your voice became quiet and your spirits sank. A dim line of ancestors looked down on us, in every kind of clothes, from the Elizabethan knight to the fashionable young man of the Regency. They stared down at us, and their silent company made us uneasy. We talked very little. I, for one, was glad when the meal was over. Then we were able to go into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

“My word, it isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose you can get used to it, but I feel a bit out of place at present. I don’t wonder that my uncle got a little nervous, living all alone in a house like this. But if it suits you, we will go to bed early tonight. Perhaps things will seem more cheerful in the morning.”

Before I went to bed, I pulled back my curtains and looked out of my window. It opened onto the grassy space in front of the hall door. Beyond it, two groups of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the gaps in the racing clouds. In its cold light I saw a broken line of rocks beyond the trees. And beyond them was the long, low curve of the sad moor. I closed the curtain. I felt that this last impression matched all the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last. I was tired, but I could not sleep. I kept turning restlessly from side to side, looking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck every quarter of an hour. Apart from that, a deathly silence lay over the old house. And then suddenly, in the very middle of the night, a sound came to my ears. It was clear and ringing, and there was no mistaking it. It was the sob of a woman. It was the stifled, choking gasp of someone who is torn apart by a sorrow she cannot control. I sat up in bed and listened carefully. The noise could not have been far away, and it was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited, with every nerve alert. But there was no other sound, except the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.

### Glossary

- **exalted**: raised up high; here, at their strongest and most powerful
- **wagonette**: a small open carriage pulled by horses
- **cobs**: small, strong horses
- **warder**: a guard in a prison
- **lodge-gates**: the main gates of a large country estate, next to a small gatekeeper’s house (the lodge)
- **lichens**: small grey, green or yellow plants that grow on stones and trees
- **candle-power**: a measure of how bright a lamp is
- **fire-dogs**: iron stands that hold the logs in a fireplace
- **daïs**: a raised part of the floor at one end of a large room
- **minstrel’s gallery**: a small balcony in an old hall where musicians played
- **Regency**: a period in British history in the early 1800s

## Chapter 7. The Stapletons of Merripit House

The next morning was fresh and beautiful. It helped a little to remove from our minds the grim, grey impression that our first experience of Baskerville Hall had left on us both. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast, sunlight poured in through the high windows. The coats of arms on the glass threw watery patches of colour. In the golden light the dark wooden panels on the walls shone like bronze. It was hard to believe that this was really the same room which had filled our hearts with such gloom the evening before.

“I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!” said the baronet. “We were tired from our journey and cold from 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 only our imagination,” I answered. “For example, did you happen to hear someone sobbing in the night? A woman, I think?”

“That is strange. When I was half asleep, I did think that I heard something like that. I waited quite a long time, but there was no more of it. So I decided that it was all a dream.”

“I heard it clearly, 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 if he could explain what we had heard. I thought that the butler’s pale face turned even paler 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 promise you that the sound could not have come from her.”

And yet he lied when he said it. By chance, after breakfast, I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor, with the sun full on her face. She was a large, heavy woman with strong, plain features. Her face showed no feeling, and her mouth was hard and stern. But her eyes gave her away. They were red, and they looked at me from between swollen eyelids. So it was she who had cried in the night. And if she had, her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of being found out when he said that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she cry so bitterly? Already a feeling of mystery and gloom was gathering around this pale, handsome, black-bearded man. He was the first person to find the body of Sir Charles. We had only his word for everything that had led up to the old man’s death. Was it possible, after all, that it was Barrymore whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might easily have been the same. The cabman had described a rather shorter man, but that impression could easily have been wrong. How could I settle the question for good? Clearly the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster. I must find out if the test telegram had really been put into Barrymore’s own hands. Whatever the answer was, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

After breakfast Sir Henry had many papers to examine, so it was a good time for my trip. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor. At last it brought me to a small grey village. Two larger buildings stood high above the rest. I found that they were the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer. The postmaster was also the village grocer, and he remembered the telegram clearly.

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

“Who delivered it?”

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

“Yes, father, I delivered it.”

“Into his own hands?” I asked.

“Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so I couldn’t 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 crossly. “Didn’t he get the telegram? If there is any mistake, it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.”

It seemed hopeless to go on asking questions. But it was clear that, in spite of Holmes’s trick, we had no proof. Barrymore might have been in London all the time. Suppose that it was so. Suppose that the same man was the last to see Sir Charles alive, and also the first to follow the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he working for other people, or did he have some evil plan of his own? Why would he want to persecute the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning cut out of the main article in the *Times*. Was that his work? Or was it perhaps the work of someone who wanted to stop his plans? The only possible motive was the one that Sir Henry had suggested. If the family could be scared away, the Barrymores would have a comfortable home forever. But surely that explanation was not nearly enough. It could not explain the deep and clever scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that this was the most complex case of his whole long series of sensational investigations. As I walked back along the grey, lonely road, I prayed for my friend. I hoped that he would soon be free from his other business. Then he could come down and take this heavy weight of responsibility off my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted. I heard the sound of running feet behind me and a voice calling my name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer. But to my surprise it was a stranger who was running after me. He was a small, slim man with no beard and a neat, rather proper face. He had light, straw-coloured hair and a thin jaw, and he was between thirty and forty years old. He was dressed in a grey suit and wore a straw hat. A tin box for collecting plants hung over his shoulder, and in one hand he carried a green butterfly-net.

“I am sure you will excuse my boldness, Dr. Watson,” he said, as he came up to me, out of breath. “Here on the moor we are simple, friendly people, and we do not wait for formal introductions. Perhaps you have heard my name from our friend Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House.”

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

“I have been visiting Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. We were going the same way, so I thought I would catch up with you and introduce myself. I hope that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?”

“He is very well, thank you.”

“We were all rather afraid that the new baronet might refuse to live here after the sad death of Sir Charles. It is asking a lot of a rich man to come down and bury himself in a place like this. But I need not tell you that it means a great deal to the countryside. I suppose Sir Henry has no superstitious fears about it?”

“I do not think that it is likely.”

“Of course you know the legend of the devil dog which haunts the family?”

“I have heard it.”

“It is amazing how easily the country people here believe things! Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature on the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I thought I could read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. “The story took a strong hold on Sir Charles’s imagination. I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.”

“But how?”

“His nerves were in such a state that the sight of any dog might have had a fatal effect on his sick heart. I believe that he really did see something of that kind on that last night in the yew alley. I was afraid that some disaster might happen. 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.”

“So you think that some dog chased Sir Charles, and that he died of fright because of it?”

“Have you any better explanation?”

“I have not come to any conclusion.”

“Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

For a moment the words took my breath away. But I looked at my companion’s calm face and steady eyes, and I saw that he did not mean to surprise me.

“It is no use pretending that we do not know you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “The stories about your detective have reached us here. You could not make him famous without becoming known yourself. When Mortimer told me your name, he could not deny who you were. If you are here, then Mr. Sherlock Holmes must be interested in the matter. So I am naturally curious to know what he thinks about it.”

“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 take up his attention.”

“What a pity! He might throw some light on something which is so dark to us. But as for your own investigations, if I can help you in any way, I hope that you will tell me. If I knew what kind of suspicions you have, or how you plan to investigate the case, I might even give you some help or advice now.”

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

“Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be careful and discreet. You have rightly put me in my place. I feel that I was pushing in where I had no right to. I promise you that I will not mention the matter again.”

We had come to a place where a narrow grassy path turned off from the road and wound away across the moor. On the right was a steep hill with boulders scattered over it. Long ago it had been cut into to make a granite quarry. The side that faced us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its cracks. Over a distant rise a grey feather of smoke floated in the air.

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

My first thought was that I should be at Sir Henry’s side. But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills which covered the table in his study. I certainly could not help him with those. And Holmes had clearly said that I should study the neighbours on the moor. So I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and we turned down the path together.

“It is a wonderful place, the moor,” he said. He looked around at the rolling hills. They were like long green waves, with tops of jagged granite that rose up like strange, foaming seas. “You never get tired of the moor. You cannot imagine the wonderful secrets which it holds. It is so huge, and so empty, and so mysterious.”

“You know it well, then?”

“I have only been here two years. The people who live here would call me a newcomer. We came soon after Sir Charles settled here. But my interests led me to explore every part of the country around. I should think that few men know it better than I do.”

“Is it hard to know?”

“Very hard. Look, for example, at this great plain to the north, with the strange hills rising out of it. Do you notice anything unusual about it?”

“It would be a wonderful place for a gallop on a horse.”

“You would naturally think so. And that thought has cost several people their lives before now. Do you notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?”

“Yes, the land there seems richer than the rest.”

Stapleton laughed. “That is the great Grimpen Mire,” he said. “One false step out there means death to man or animal. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. For quite a long time I saw his head stretching up out of the bog-hole, but in the end it sucked him down. Even in dry seasons it is dangerous to cross it. But after these autumn rains it is a terrible place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and come back alive. By George, there is another of those poor ponies!”

Something brown was rolling and struggling among the green grasses. Then a long, twisting neck, full of pain, 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!” he said. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more, perhaps. They get used to going there in the dry weather. Then they never know the difference until the mire has them in its grip. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”

“And you say you can get into it?”

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

“But why would you want to go into such a horrible place?”

“Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands. The mire has crawled round them over the years, and nobody can cross it to reach them. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you are clever enough to reach them.”

“I shall try my luck some day.”

He looked at me in surprise. “For God’s sake, put that idea out of your mind,” he said. “Your death would be my fault. I promise you, there would not be the smallest chance of your coming back alive. I can only do it because I remember certain complicated landmarks.”

“Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”

A long, low moan, sadder than I can describe, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say where it came from. It grew from a dull murmur into a deep roar. Then it sank back again into a sad, throbbing murmur. Stapleton looked at me with a strange expression on his face.

“Strange place, the moor!” he said.

“But what is it?”

“The country people 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.”

With a chill of fear in my heart, I looked around at the huge, rising plain, spotted with green patches of rushes. Nothing moved over that wide space except two ravens. They were croaking loudly from a tor behind us.

“You are an educated man. You don’t believe nonsense like that?” I said. “What do you think is the cause of such a strange sound?”

“Bogs make strange noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the water rising, or something.”

“No, no, that was a living voice.”

“Well, perhaps it was. Have you ever heard a bittern booming?”

“No, I never have.”

“It’s a very rare bird in England now. It has almost died out. But anything is possible on the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that we have heard the cry of the last of the bitterns.”

“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that I have ever heard in my life.”

“Yes, it’s a rather strange and frightening place altogether. Look at the hillside over there. What do you think of those?”

The whole steep slope was covered with grey rings of stone. There were at least twenty of them.

“What are they? Sheep-pens?”

“No, they are the homes of our good ancestors. Prehistoric man lived in great numbers on the moor. Nobody in particular has lived there since. So we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his huts with the roofs off. If you are curious enough to go inside, you can even see his fireplace and his bed.”

“But it is quite a town. When did people live in it?”

“Neolithic man. There is no date.”

“What did he do?”

“He let his cattle eat the grass on these slopes. And he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to replace the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the hill opposite. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very unusual things about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me for a moment! It is surely Cyclopides.”

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path. In an instant Stapleton was rushing after it with amazing energy and speed. To my alarm the creature flew straight towards the great mire. My new friend never stopped for a moment. He jumped from one clump of grass to the next behind it, his green net waving in the air. In his grey clothes, moving in jerky zigzags, he looked rather like a huge moth himself. I stood and watched him. I admired his amazing energy, but I was afraid that he might lose his footing in the dangerous mire. Then I heard the sound of steps. I turned round and found a woman near me on the path. She had come from the direction of Merripit House, where I had seen the feather of smoke. But a dip in the moor had hidden her until she was quite close.

I could not doubt that this was Miss Stapleton. I had been told about her. There must be very few ladies of any kind on the moor. And I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as a beauty. The woman who came towards me was certainly beautiful, and of a very unusual type. There could not be a greater difference between a brother and a sister. Stapleton was pale in colouring, with light hair and grey eyes. She was darker than any dark-haired woman that I have seen in England. She was slim, elegant and tall. She had a proud, finely shaped face. It was so regular that it might have seemed cold and without feeling. But she had a sensitive mouth and beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress, she was indeed a strange sight on a lonely moorland path. When I turned, her eyes were on her brother. Then she walked more quickly towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to explain who I was. But her own words turned all my thoughts in a new direction.

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

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 strange lisp in the way she spoke. “But for God’s sake, do what I ask you. Go back, and never set foot on 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 any cost! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word about what I have said. Would you mind picking that orchid for me, over there among the mare’s-tails? We have lots of orchids on the moor. But of course, you are rather late to see the beauties of the place.”

Stapleton had given up the chase. He came back to us breathing hard, his face red from his efforts.

“Halloa, Beryl!” he said. I thought that his greeting did not sound very warm.

“Well, Jack, you are very hot.”

“Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare, and you seldom find one in late autumn. What a pity that I missed him!” He spoke as if he did not care. But his small, light eyes kept moving from the girl to me and back again.

“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,” I said. “Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson.”

A look of annoyance passed over her expressive face, and she turned red. “We have misunderstood each other,” she said.

“Why, you did not have very much time to talk,” her brother said, with the same questioning eyes.

“I talked as if Dr. Watson lived here, instead of being just a visitor,” she said. “It cannot matter much to him if it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, won’t you, and see Merripit House?”

A short walk brought us to it. It was a cold, bare moorland house. Once, in the old rich days, it had been a farm where someone raised cattle. But now it had been repaired and turned into a modern home. There was an orchard all round it. But, as usual on the moor, the trees were small and bent by the cold, and the whole place looked poor and sad. A strange old manservant let us in. He was small and wrinkled, with a rusty-coloured coat, and he seemed to suit the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms, furnished very elegantly. I thought I could recognise the lady’s taste in them. I looked out of their windows at the endless moor. It was spotted with granite and rolled on without a break to the farthest horizon. I could not help wondering what had brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in a place like this.

“Strange place to choose, isn’t it?” he said, as if he were answering my thought. “And yet we manage to be fairly happy, don’t we, Beryl?”

“Quite happy,” she said. But her words did not sound as if she believed them.

“I had a school,” said Stapleton. “It was in the north country. For a man of my character, the work was mechanical and uninteresting. But I loved the privilege of living with young people. I loved helping to shape those young minds, and passing on to them my own character and ideals. However, fate was against us. A serious disease spread through the school, and three of the boys died. The school never recovered from the blow, and much of my money was lost forever. And yet, if I did not miss the charming company of the boys, I could be glad of my own bad luck. I have strong interests in botany and zoology, and here I find unlimited work to do. And my sister loves Nature as much as I do. Dr. Watson, you have brought all this on yourself, by the look on your face as you looked at the moor from our window.”

“It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull here. Less for you, perhaps, than for your sister.”

“No, no, I am never dull,” she said quickly.

“We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a very learned man in his own subject. Poor Sir Charles was also an excellent companion. We knew him well, and we miss him more than I can say. Do you think that I would be in the way if I called this afternoon to meet Sir Henry?”

“I am sure that he would be delighted.”

“Then perhaps you would tell him that I plan to do so. In our small way, we may be able to make things easier for him until he gets used to his new home. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and look at my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time you have looked through them, lunch will be almost ready.”

But I was eager to get back to the man I was there to protect. The sadness of the moor, the death of the poor pony, the weird sound that was connected with the grim legend of the Baskervilles: all these things made my thoughts sad. And on top of these rather vague impressions there was the clear, definite warning of Miss Stapleton. She had given it so earnestly that I could not doubt there was some serious, deep reason behind it. They tried hard to make me stay for lunch, but I refused. I set off at once on my way back, along the grassy path by which we had come.

But there must have been some short cut for people who knew it. Before I reached the road, I was amazed to see Miss Stapleton sitting on a rock beside the track. Her face was a beautiful pink from her efforts, and she held her hand to her side.

“I have run all the way to stop you, Dr. Watson,” she said. “I did not even have time to put on my hat. I must not stay, or my brother may notice that I am gone. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about my stupid mistake in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said. They have nothing at all to do with you.”

“But I can’t forget them, Miss Stapleton,” I said. “I am Sir Henry’s friend, and his safety matters very much to me. Tell me why you were so eager for Sir Henry to go back to London.”

“A woman’s sudden fancy, 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 excitement in your voice. I remember the look in your eyes. Please, please be honest with me, Miss Stapleton. Ever since I came here, I have felt shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire. There are little green patches everywhere into which you may sink, and there is no guide to show the path. So tell me what you meant, and I promise to pass on your warning to Sir Henry.”

For a moment she looked as if she could not decide. But her eyes had become hard again when she answered me.

“You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,” she said. “My brother and I were very shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very well, because his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. The curse which hung over the family made a deep impression on him. When this tragedy came, I naturally felt that his fears must have had some reason. So I was upset when another member of the family came down to live here. I felt that he should be warned of the danger that he will face. That was all that I meant to say.”

“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 deadly to his family. The world is wide. Why should he want to live in the place of danger?”

“Because it *is* the place of danger. That is Sir Henry’s nature. Unless you can give me some clearer information than this, I am afraid it would be impossible to make him go.”

“I cannot say anything definite, because I do not know anything definite.”

“I would like to ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If that is all you meant when you first spoke to me, why didn’t you want your brother to hear what you said? There is nothing that he, or anyone else, could object to.”

“My brother very much wants someone to live at the Hall. He thinks that it is good for the poor people on the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I had said anything which might make Sir Henry go away. But I have done my duty now, and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will notice that I am gone. Then he will suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!” She turned, and in a few minutes she had disappeared among the scattered boulders. And I, with my soul full of vague fears, went on my way to Baskerville Hall.

### Glossary

- **scullery-maid**: a young female servant who washes dishes and does rough work in the kitchen
- **loft**: a room or space under the roof of a building
- **naturalist**: a person who studies plants and animals
- **butterfly-net**: a net on a stick for catching butterflies
- **mire**: soft, wet, muddy ground that a person or animal can sink into
- **bittern**: a rare brown bird that lives in wet places and makes a deep, booming sound
- **Neolithic**: from the late Stone Age, many thousands of years ago
- **lisp**: a way of speaking in which "s" sounds a little like "th"
- **mare’s-tails**: tall, thin water plants that grow in wet ground
- **Lepidoptera**: the scientific name for butterflies and moths

## Chapter 8. First Report of Dr. Watson

From this point on, I will follow the course of events by copying my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They lie in front of me on the table. One page is missing, but apart from that they are exactly as I wrote them. My memory of these tragic events is clear. But the letters show my feelings and suspicions at the time more accurately than my memory possibly can.

Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

MY DEAR HOLMES,

My earlier letters and telegrams have kept you quite well informed about everything that has happened in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer you stay here, the more the spirit of the moor sinks into your soul. You feel its great size, and also its grim charm. Once you are out on the moor, you have left every sign of modern England behind you. But on the other hand, everywhere you notice the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides, as you walk, you see the houses of these forgotten people. You see their graves, and the huge standing stones which are thought to have marked their temples. You look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides, and you leave your own time behind you. Suppose you saw a hairy man in animal skins crawl out of the low door, fitting a stone-tipped arrow onto the string of his bow. You would feel that he belonged there more naturally than you. The strange thing is that so many of them lived on soil that must always have been very poor. I am no expert on ancient times. But I could imagine that they were some peaceful race who were always being attacked and chased. I could imagine that they were forced to accept land which no one else would take.

However, all this has nothing to do with the job you sent me to do. It will probably be very boring to your strictly practical mind. I can still remember that you did not care at all whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. So let me return to the facts about Sir Henry Baskerville.

You have not had any report in the last few days. That is because, until today, there was nothing important to tell. Then something very surprising happened, which I shall tell you about in good time. But first of all, I must keep you informed about some of the other parts of the situation.

One of these is the escaped convict on the moor. I have said little about him so far. There is now strong reason to believe that he has got right away. This is a great relief to the people who live in lonely houses in this area. A fortnight has passed since his escape. During that time nobody has seen him or heard anything of him. Surely he cannot have survived on the moor for all that time. Of course, hiding would not be difficult at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat, unless he caught and killed one of the moor sheep. So we think that he has gone, and the farmers in the lonely places sleep better because of it.

There are four strong, healthy men in this household, so we could take good care of ourselves. But I admit that I have had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There is one maid, an old manservant, the sister and the brother, and the brother is not a very strong man. They would be helpless if a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal ever managed to get in. Both Sir Henry and I were worried about them. We suggested that Perkins the groom should go over and sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.

The fact is that our friend the baronet is beginning to show a lot of interest in our beautiful neighbour. That is not surprising. Time passes slowly in this lonely place for an active man like him. And she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her. This is a strange contrast to her cool, unemotional brother. And yet he, too, makes you think of hidden fires. He certainly has a very strong influence over her. I have seen her look at him again and again as she talked. It was as if she wanted him to approve of what she said. I hope that he is kind to her. There is a dry shine in his eyes, and his thin lips are firmly set. This goes with a strong and possibly a hard nature. You would find him an interesting person to study.

He came over to visit Baskerville on that first day. The very next morning he took us both to see the place where the legend of the wicked Hugo is said to have begun. It was a trip of some miles across the moor. The place is so gloomy that it might have given someone the idea for the story. We found a short valley between rough tors. It led to an open, grassy space, dotted with white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones. They were worn and sharp at the top, so that they looked like the huge, decaying teeth of some monstrous animal. In every way it matched the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was very interested. More than once he asked Stapleton if he really believed that the supernatural could interfere in the lives of men. He spoke lightly, but it was clear that he was very serious. Stapleton was careful in his answers. It was easy to see that he said less than he could have said. He did not give his whole opinion, out of respect for the baronet’s feelings. He told us of similar cases where families had suffered from some evil influence. He left us with the impression that he shared the common view about the matter.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry met Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her, he seemed to be strongly attracted to her. And I am very much mistaken if she did not feel the same. He talked about her again and again on our walk home. Since then hardly a day has passed without our seeing something of the brother and sister. They are dining here tonight, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. You would think that Stapleton would be very happy about such a match. And yet more than once I have seen a look of the strongest disapproval on his face when Sir Henry has paid some attention to his sister. No doubt he is very fond of her, and he would live a lonely life without her. But it would seem extremely selfish if he stood in the way of such a brilliant marriage for her. Yet I am certain that he does not want their friendship to grow into love. Several times I have noticed that he has taken trouble to stop them from being *tête-à-tête*. By the way, you told me never to let Sir Henry go out alone. That will become much more difficult if a love affair is added to our other problems. I would soon become very unpopular if I carried out your orders exactly.

The other day—on Thursday, to be more exact—Dr. Mortimer had lunch with us. He has been digging in a barrow at Long Down, and he has found a prehistoric skull, which fills him with great joy. There was never such a single-minded enthusiast as he is! The Stapletons came in afterwards. At Sir Henry’s request, the good doctor took us all to the yew alley. He showed us exactly how everything happened on that terrible night. The yew alley is a long, gloomy walk between two high walls of cut hedge. There is a narrow strip of grass on each side. At the far end there is an old summer-house that is falling to pieces. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman dropped his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the case and tried to imagine everything that had happened. As the old man stood there, he saw something coming across the moor. It terrified him so much that he lost his mind. He ran and ran until he died of pure horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he ran. And what was he running from? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a ghostly hound, black, silent and monstrous? Was there a human hand in the matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he wanted to say? It was all dim and unclear. But always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.

I have met one other neighbour since I last wrote. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives about four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly man, with a red face and white hair, and he gets angry very easily. His great passion is the British law, and he has spent a large fortune on lawsuits. He fights just for the pleasure of fighting. He is equally ready to take either side of a question. So it is no wonder that he has found it an expensive hobby. Sometimes he will close a public path and challenge the parish to make him open it. At other times he will tear down another man’s gate with his own hands. Then he will say that a path has been there since ancient times, and challenge the owner to take him to court for trespass. He knows a lot about the old rights of landowners and villages. Sometimes he uses his knowledge to help the villagers of Fernworthy, and sometimes against them. So from time to time, depending on what he has done last, they either carry him in triumph down the village street or burn him in effigy. People say that he has about seven lawsuits going on at present. They will probably swallow up the rest of his fortune. Then he will lose his power to hurt anyone, and he will be harmless in the future. Apart from the law, he seems a kind, good-natured person. I only mention him because you particularly asked me to describe the people around us.

At present he is busy in a strange way. He is an amateur astronomer, and he has an excellent telescope. He lies on the roof of his own house with it and searches the moor all day. He hopes to catch sight of the escaped convict. If he used his energy only for this, all would be well. But there are rumours that he plans to take Dr. Mortimer to court for opening a grave without the agreement of the dead person’s nearest family. This is because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. Frankland helps to keep our lives from being boring. He gives us a little comedy where it is badly needed.

And now I have told you the latest news about the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall. So let me end with the most important thing. Let me tell you more about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising events of last night.

First of all, the test telegram. You sent it from London to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that, from what the postmaster said, the test was worthless. We have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how things stood. In his direct way, he at once called Barrymore up and asked him if 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 thought for a little while.

“No,” he said. “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 came back to the subject himself.

“I could not quite understand the purpose of your questions this morning, Sir Henry,” he said. “I hope that they do not mean that I have done anything to lose your trust?”

Sir Henry had to tell him that this was not so. To calm him, he gave him a large part of his old clothes, because all his new London clothes had now arrived.

Mrs. Barrymore interests me. She is a heavy, solid person. She is very limited, extremely respectable, and rather strict and puritanical. You could hardly imagine anyone less emotional. Yet I have told you how I heard her sobbing bitterly on my first night here. And since then I have more than once noticed signs of tears on her face. Some deep sorrow is always eating away at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her. And sometimes I suspect that Barrymore is a tyrant at home. I have always felt that there was something strange and doubtful in this man’s character. But the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.

And yet in itself it may seem a small matter. You know that I am not a very deep sleeper. And since I have been on guard in this house, I have slept more lightly than ever. Last night, at about two in the morning, I was woken by a quiet, secret step passing my room. I got up, opened my door and looked out. A long black shadow was moving down the corridor. It came from a man who was walking softly down the passage with a candle in his hand. He was in his shirt and trousers, with nothing on his feet. I could only see his outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and carefully. There was something guilty and secretive in his whole appearance, more than I can describe.

I have told you that the balcony which runs round the hall breaks the corridor in two, and that the corridor continues on the other side. I waited until he was out of sight, and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony, he had reached the end of the other corridor. I could see a faint light through an open door, so I knew that he had gone into one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms have no furniture and nobody uses them. So his trip became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily, as if he were standing still. I crept down the passage as quietly as I could and looked round the corner of the door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window, with the candle held against the glass. His face was half turned towards me. It seemed stiff with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood there, watching closely. Then he gave a deep groan, and with an impatient movement he put out the light. At once I hurried back to my room. Very soon the quiet, secret steps passed again on their way back. Long afterwards, when I had fallen into a light sleep, I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock. But I could not tell where the sound came from. I cannot guess what it all means. But some secret business is going on in this house of gloom, and sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of it. I will not trouble you with my theories, because you asked me to give you only facts. I had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign based on what I saw last night. I will not speak about it just now. But it should make my next report interesting reading.

### Glossary

- **God-forsaken**: very lonely, empty and unpleasant, as if God has left it
- **standing stones**: very large stones set upright in the ground by people in ancient times
- **convict**: a criminal who has been sent to prison
- **fortnight**: two weeks
- **tête-à-tête**: alone together, with nobody else present
- **barrow**: an ancient grave covered with a mound of earth
- **trespass**: going onto someone’s land without permission
- **burn in effigy**: burn a model of a person to show anger at him
- **amateur astronomer**: a person who studies the stars as a hobby, not as a job
- **puritanical**: very strict about right and wrong, and against pleasure
- **plan of campaign**: a plan of action, like the plan for a battle

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

Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.

MY DEAR HOLMES,

In the early days of my mission I had to leave you without much news. But you must agree that I am now making up for lost time. Events are now coming quickly, one after another. My last report ended on my highest note, with Barrymore at the window. Now I already have a lot of news, and unless I am very wrong, it will surprise you a great deal. Things have taken a turn which I could not have expected. In the last forty-eight hours they have become much clearer in some ways. In other ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you everything, and you can judge for yourself.

On the morning after my adventure, before breakfast, I went down the corridor. I examined the room where Barrymore had been the night before. I noticed that its western window has one special feature. Of all the windows in the house, it has the nearest view of the moor. There is an opening between two trees. From this point you can look right down onto the moor. From all the other windows you can only get a distant glimpse of it. So Barrymore must have been looking out for something or somebody on the moor. Only this window would serve that purpose. But the night was very dark, so I can hardly imagine how he hoped to see anyone.

An idea had come to me. Perhaps there was some secret love affair. That would explain his secret movements at night, and also his wife's unhappiness. The man is very good-looking. He could easily steal the heart of a country girl. So this theory seemed to have something to support it. After I returned to my room, I had heard a door open. That might mean that he had gone out to a secret meeting. That was how I reasoned with myself in the morning. I tell you the direction of my suspicions, although the result has shown that they were wrong.

But whatever the true reason for Barrymore's movements, I could not keep them to myself any longer. I felt that this responsibility was too much for me until I could explain them. So after breakfast I spoke to the baronet in his study, and I told him everything that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.

"I knew that Barrymore walked about at night, and I meant to speak to him about it," he said. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going. It was just about the hour you mention."

"Then perhaps he visits that particular window every night," I suggested.

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

"I believe that he would do exactly what you suggest now," I said. "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 anyway we must take that chance. We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure. It was clear that he welcomed the adventure. It was a change from his rather quiet life on the moor.

The baronet has been in contact with the architect who made the plans for Sir Charles. He has also been in contact with a builder from London. So we can expect great changes to begin here soon. Decorators and furnishers have come up from Plymouth. It is clear that our friend has big ideas. He will spare no effort or money to bring back the old greatness of his family. When the house is repaired and has new furniture, he will only need a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves, there are quite clear signs that he will find one, if the lady is willing. I have seldom seen a man so much in love with a woman as he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton.

And yet, as the saying goes, "the course of true love" does not run quite as smoothly as you would expect here. Today, for example, a very unexpected little wave broke its calm surface. It has left our friend very puzzled and annoyed.

After the conversation about Barrymore which I have described, Sir Henry put on his hat and got ready to go out. Of course, I did the same.

"What, are *you* coming, Watson?" he asked, and he looked at me in a strange way.

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

"Yes, I am."

"Well, you know my instructions. I am sorry to get in your way. But you heard how seriously Holmes said that I must not leave you. He said that, above all, you must not go alone on the moor."

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

"My dear fellow," he said, "Holmes is very wise. But he did not foresee some things that have happened since I came to the moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would want to spoil my fun. I must go out alone."

This put me in a very awkward position. I did not know what to say or do. Before I had made up my mind, he picked up his walking-stick and was gone.

But when I thought the matter over, my conscience troubled me badly. For whatever reason, I had let him go out of my sight. I imagined how I would feel if I had to come back to you. I would have to confess that some bad thing had happened because I had ignored your instructions. I tell you, my cheeks went red at the very thought. Perhaps it was not too late to catch up with him. So I set off at once towards Merripit House.

I hurried along the road as fast as I could, but I saw nothing of Sir Henry. Then I came to the point where the moor path goes off from the road. There I was afraid that I had come in the wrong direction after all. So I climbed a hill from which I could see a long way. It was the same hill which has the dark quarry cut into it. From there I saw him at once. He was on the moor path, about a quarter of a mile away. A lady was by his side, and she could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them. They had met by arrangement.

They were walking slowly along, deep in conversation. I saw her making quick little movements with her hands. She seemed very serious about what she was saying. He listened closely, and once or twice he shook his head strongly, as if he did not agree. I stood among the rocks and watched them. I was very puzzled about what to do next. To follow them and break into their private conversation seemed a terrible thing to do. And yet my clear duty was never to let him out of my sight, not for one moment. To spy on a friend was a hateful job. Still, I could see no better plan than to watch him from the hill. Afterwards I could clear my conscience by telling him what I had done. It is true that I was too far away to help him if sudden danger came. And yet I am sure that you will agree with me. The position was very difficult, and there was nothing more that I could do.

Our friend Sir Henry and the lady had stopped on the path. They were standing there, deeply lost in their conversation. Suddenly I realised that I was not the only person watching them. A little piece of green floating in the air caught my eye. When I looked again, I saw that it was on a stick. A man was carrying it as he moved over the rough ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was much closer to the pair than I was, and he seemed to be moving towards them.

At this moment Sir Henry suddenly pulled Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her. But it seemed to me that she was pulling away from him, with her face turned away. He bent his head down to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. The next moment I saw them jump apart and turn round quickly. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, with his silly net hanging behind him. In front of the lovers he waved his arms and almost danced with excitement.

I could not imagine what the scene meant. But it seemed to me that Stapleton was shouting insults at Sir Henry. Sir Henry tried to explain. His explanations became angrier as the other man refused to accept them. The lady stood by in proud silence. Finally Stapleton turned sharply away. He waved to his sister in a commanding way. She gave Sir Henry an uncertain look, and then she walked off by her brother's side. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that he was displeased with the lady too. The baronet stood for a minute and looked after them. Then he walked slowly back the way he had come. His head was hanging down. He was the very picture of sadness.

I could not imagine what all this meant. But I felt deeply ashamed. I had watched such a private scene without my friend knowing. So I ran down the hill and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was red with anger and his forehead was wrinkled. He looked like a man who has no idea what to do.

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

I explained everything to him. I told him that I had found it impossible to stay behind. I told him how I had followed him and how I had seen everything that had happened. For a moment his eyes burned at me. But my honesty took away his anger, and at last he gave a rather sad laugh.

"You would think the middle of that open country was a fairly safe place to be private," he said. "But, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have come out to watch me ask for a girl's love. And I did it pretty badly too! Where did you book your seat?"

"I was on that hill."

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

"Yes, I did."

"Did he ever seem crazy to you, this brother of hers?"

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

"I dare say not. I always thought he was sane enough until today. But you can believe me, either he or I should be locked up in a straitjacket. What's wrong with me, anyway? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me honestly, now! Is there anything that would stop me from being a good husband to a woman that I loved?"

"I should say not."

"He can't object to my position in the world. So it must be me myself that he has something against. What has he got against me? I never hurt a man or a woman in my life, as far as I know. And yet he would not even let me touch the tips of her fingers."

"Did he say so?"

"That, and a lot more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her for these few weeks. But from the first moment I just felt that she was made for me. And she felt it too. She was happy when she was with me, and I'll swear to that. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us be together. Today, for the first time, I saw a chance to say a few words to her alone.

"She was glad to meet me. But when she did, she would not talk about love. And she would have stopped me talking about it too, if she could. She kept coming back to the same thing. She said this was a place of danger. She said that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that since I had met her, I was in no hurry to leave. I said that if she really wanted me to go, there was only one way to make it work. She must arrange to come with me. And with that, I asked her plainly to marry me.

"But before she could answer, down came this brother of hers. He came running at us with a face like a madman's. He was white with anger, and those light eyes of his were burning with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I show her attentions which she did not like? Did I think that I could do what I liked, just because I was a baronet? If he had not been her brother, I would have known better how to answer him.

"As it was, I told him that I was not ashamed of my feelings for his sister. I said that I hoped she would do me the honour of becoming my wife. That did not seem to make things any better. So then I lost my temper too. I answered him more hotly than I should have, perhaps, since she was standing there. So it ended with him going off with her, as you saw. And here I am, as puzzled as any man in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than I can ever hope to pay."

I tried one or two explanations. But in fact I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend has a title, a fortune, the right age, a good character and a good appearance. All of these are in his favour. I know nothing against him, unless it is this dark fate which runs in his family. It is very surprising that his offer was refused so roughly, without any thought of what the lady herself wanted. And it is very surprising that the lady accepted this without protest.

However, our guesses were put to rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that same afternoon. He had come to apologise for his rudeness that morning. He had a long private talk with Sir Henry in the study. The result of their conversation was that the quarrel is completely mended. As a sign of this, we are to have dinner at Merripit House next Friday.

"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 admit that no man could make a finer apology than he has made."

"Did he give any explanation of the way he behaved?"

"His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that he understands her value. They have always been together. He says that he has been a very lonely man, with only her for company. So the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He said that he had not understood that I was falling in love with her. But then he saw with his own eyes that it was true, 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 everything that had happened. He saw how foolish and how selfish it was to imagine that he could keep a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him, he would rather it was to a neighbour like me than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him. It would take him some time before he could prepare himself for it. He would stop all his opposition if I made him a promise. For three months I must let the matter rest. During that time I must be happy just to build a friendship with the lady, without asking for her love. I promised this, and so the matter rests."

So that is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have found solid ground anywhere in this bog where we are struggling. We know now why Stapleton did not like his sister's admirer, even when that admirer was such a good match as Sir Henry.

And now I move on to another thread which I have pulled out of this tangled knot. It is the mystery of the sobs in the night, of Mrs. Barrymore's face wet with tears, and of the butler's secret journey to the western window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes! Tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent. Tell me that you do not regret the trust you showed in me when you sent me down here. All these things have been completely explained by one night's work.

I have said "by one night's work." But in truth it was by two nights' work, because on the first night we found nothing at all. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning. But we heard no sound of any kind, except the clock striking on the stairs. It was a very sad, dull night of watching. It ended with both of us falling asleep in our chairs.

Luckily we were not discouraged, and we decided to try again. The next night we turned the lamp down low. We sat smoking cigarettes without making the smallest sound. It was unbelievable how slowly the hours crawled by. And yet we were helped through it by a kind of patient interest. A hunter must feel the same as he watches his trap and hopes that an animal will walk into it. One o'clock struck, and then two. We had almost given up hope for the second time. Then suddenly we both sat straight up in our chairs. All our tired senses were sharp and awake again. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

We heard it pass along very quietly, until it faded away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door, and we set out after it. Our man had already gone round the gallery, and the corridor was completely dark. We crept softly along until we came into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall man with the black beard. His shoulders were bent as he walked on tiptoe down the passage. Then he went through the same door as before. The light of the candle made a frame of light round the door in the darkness. One single yellow beam shot across the dark corridor.

We moved carefully towards it. We tested every board before we dared to put our whole weight on it. We had been careful to leave our boots behind us. But even so, the old boards cracked and creaked under our feet. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he would not hear us coming. But luckily the man is rather deaf, and he was completely busy with what he was doing. At last we reached the door and looked through. We found him bent low at the window with the candle in his hand. His white, serious face was pressed against the glass, exactly as I had seen him two nights before.

We had not made any plan. But the baronet is a man who always finds the most direct way the most natural. He walked into the room. As he did so, Barrymore jumped up from the window with a sharp hiss of breath. He stood in front of us, grey in the face and trembling. His dark eyes stared out of the white mask of his face. They were full of horror and surprise as he looked from Sir Henry to me.

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

"Nothing, sir." He was so upset that he could hardly speak. His candle was shaking, and the shadows jumped up and down. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to check that they are shut."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes, sir, all the windows."

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly. "We have decided to get 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 man looked at us helplessly. He twisted his hands together like someone in the deepest 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, it is not my secret, and I cannot tell it. If it was only about me, I would not try to keep it from you."

Suddenly I had an idea. I took the candle from the butler's trembling hand.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," I said. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and I stared out into the darkness of the night. I could just see the black line of the trees and the lighter open space of the moor, because the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of joy. A tiny point of yellow light had suddenly pierced the dark curtain of the night. It shone steadily in the centre of the black square of the window.

"There it is!" I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing, nothing at all!" the butler broke in. "I promise you, sir..."

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "Look, the other one moves too! Now, you rascal, do you say that it is not a signal? Come on, speak! Who is your partner out there, and what is this secret plot?"

The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business and not yours. I will not tell."

"Then you leave my service right away."

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

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

"No, no, sir! No, not against you!" It was a woman's voice. Mrs. Barrymore was standing at the door. She was paler and more horrified than her husband. She was wearing a shawl and a skirt. Her large, heavy figure might have looked funny, but the strong feeling on her face stopped it from being funny.

"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 fault, 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 die at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him. And his light out there shows us the place where we must 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."

So this was the explanation of the secret journeys at night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement. Was it possible? This calm, very respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most famous criminals in the country!

"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We spoiled him too much when he was a boy. We let him have his own way in everything. In the end 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 friends. The devil entered into him. He broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. He sank lower and lower, from one crime to the next. Only the mercy of God saved him from being hanged.

"But to me, sir, he was always the little boy with curly hair. I had looked after him and played with him, as an older sister does. That was why he broke out of prison, sir. He knew that I was here, and that we could not refuse to help him. One night he dragged himself here, tired and starving, with the warders close behind him. What could we do? We took him in, and fed him, and cared for him.

"Then you came home, sir. My brother thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the search for him was over. So he went into hiding there. But every second night we checked if he was still there. We put a light in the window, and if there was an answer, my husband took some bread and meat out to him. Every day we hoped that he had gone. But as long as he was there, we could not leave him alone. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest Christian woman. You will see that if there is any blame in this, it is not my husband's. It is mine. He has done everything for my sake."

The woman spoke so seriously and so strongly that we had to believe her.

"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 said. Go to your room, both of you. We will talk more about this in the morning."

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

"I'm surprised he dares," said Sir Henry.

"Perhaps it is placed so that you can only see it from here."

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

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

"Not more than a mile or two away."

"Not even that."

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

The same thought had come into my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores had trusted us with their secret. We had forced it out of them. The man was a danger to everyone. He was a complete criminal, and he deserved no pity and no excuse. We were only doing our duty if we took this chance to put him back where he could do no harm. He had a brutal and violent nature. If we did nothing, other people would have to pay the price. Our neighbours the Stapletons, for example, might be attacked by him on any night. Perhaps it was this thought that made Sir Henry so keen on the adventure.

"I will come," I said.

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

Five minutes later we were outside the door and starting on our expedition. We hurried through the dark bushes. The autumn wind was moaning dully, and the falling leaves were rustling. The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and rotting things. Now and then the moon looked out for a moment. But clouds were racing across the sky, and just as we came out onto the moor, a thin rain began to fall. In front of us the light still burned steadily.

"Are you armed?" I asked.

"I have a hunting-whip."

"We must get close to him quickly, because they say he is a desperate fellow. We will take him by surprise. Then we will have him in our power before he can fight back."

"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? What about that hour of darkness when the power of evil is strongest?"

As if in answer to his words, a strange cry suddenly rose out of the great darkness of the moor. It was the same cry which I had heard before, at the edge of the great Grimpen Mire. It came on the wind through the silence of the night. First there was a long, deep low sound. Then there was a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. It sounded again and again, and the whole air shook with it. It was harsh, wild and threatening. The baronet caught my sleeve, and his face shone 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 a complete silence closed in around us. We stood and listened hard, but nothing came.

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

My blood ran cold. There was a break in his voice, and it told me of the sudden horror that had taken hold of him.

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

"Who?"

"The people in the countryside."

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

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

I hesitated, but I could not escape the question.

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

He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

"It was a hound," he said at last. "But it seemed to come from miles away, over there, I think."

"It was hard to say where it came from."

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

"Yes, it is."

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

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

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

"No, no."

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

It was as cold as a block of marble.

"You'll be all right tomorrow."

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

"Shall we turn back?"

"No, by thunder. We came out to catch our man, and we will do it. We are after the convict, and a hound from hell is after us, as likely as not. Come on! We'll finish this, even if all the devils of hell are loose on the moor."

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness. The black shapes of the rocky hills rose all around us, and the yellow point of light burned steadily in front. Nothing is so hard to judge as the distance of a light on a pitch-dark night. Sometimes the light seemed to be far away on the horizon. At other times it seemed to be only a few yards away from us. But at last we could see where it came from, and then we knew that we were really very close.

A candle was stuck in a crack in the rocks, and it was burning low. The rocks were on each side of it. They kept the wind away from it. They also stopped anyone from seeing it, except from the direction of Baskerville Hall. A big granite rock hid us as we came near. We bent down behind it and looked over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it. There was just the one straight yellow flame, and the shine of the rock on each side of it.

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

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

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks where the candle was burning, a face suddenly pushed out. It was an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, deeply lined and marked by wicked passions. It was dirty with mud, with a beard that stuck out and long, tangled hair. It might have belonged to one of those ancient wild men who lived in holes on the hillsides. The light below him shone in his small, cunning eyes. They looked fiercely to the right and to the left through the darkness. He was like a clever, wild animal that has heard the steps of the hunters.

Something had clearly made him suspicious. Perhaps Barrymore had some private signal which we had not given. Or perhaps the fellow had some other reason to think that something was wrong. But I could read the fear on his wicked face. At any moment he might put out the light and disappear into the darkness. So I jumped forward, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed a curse at us. He threw a rock, and it broke into pieces against the big rock which had hidden us. I caught one glimpse of his short, wide, strong body as he jumped to his feet and turned to run.

At the same moment, by lucky chance, the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the top of the hill. There was our man, running very fast down the other side. He jumped over the stones in his way as easily as a mountain goat. A lucky long shot from my revolver might have injured him and stopped him. But I had brought it only to defend myself if I was attacked. I had not brought it to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

We were both fast runners and quite fit. But we soon found that we had no chance of catching him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight. In the end he was only a small dot moving quickly among the rocks on the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we had no breath left. But the space between us grew wider and wider. At last we stopped and sat on two rocks, breathing hard. We watched him as he disappeared into the distance.

And it was at this moment that a very strange and unexpected thing happened. We had stood up from our rocks and were turning to go home. We had given up the hopeless chase. The moon was low on our right. The sharp, rocky top of a granite tor stood up against the lower edge of its silver circle. There, as black as a statue made of ebony against that shining background, I saw the figure of a man on the tor.

Do not think that I imagined it, Holmes. I promise you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, it was the figure of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little apart, his arms folded and his head bent down. He seemed to be thinking deeply as he looked over that huge wild land of peat and granite in front of him. He might have been the spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the convict had disappeared. Also, he was a much taller man.

With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet. But in the moment when I turned to take his arm, the man was gone. The sharp granite point was still cutting the lower edge of the moon. But there was no sign on its top of that silent figure which had stood so still.

I wanted to go in that direction and search the tor, but it was quite far away. The baronet's nerves were still shaking from that cry. It had reminded him of the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for new adventures. He had not seen this lonely man on the tor. So he could not feel the strong excitement which the man's strange presence and his commanding position had given me.

"A warder, no doubt," he said. "The moor has been full of them since this fellow escaped."

Well, perhaps his explanation is the right one. But I would like to have some more proof of it. Today we plan to tell the people at Princetown where they should look for their missing man. But it is bad luck that we did not have the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner.

Those are the adventures of last night. You must agree, my dear Holmes, that I have done very well for you with this report. No doubt much of what I tell you is not important. But still I feel that it is best to give you all the facts. Then you can choose for yourself the ones which will be most useful to you in reaching your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. As far as the Barrymores are concerned, we have found the reason for their actions, and that has made the situation much clearer. But the moor, with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants, is as impossible to understand as ever. Perhaps in my next letter I will be able to throw some light on this too. Best of all would be if you could come down to us. In any case, you will hear from me again in the next few days.

### Glossary

- **mission**: an important job that someone sends you to do
- **conscience**: the feeling inside you that tells you if something is right or wrong
- **quarry**: a place where stone is cut out of the ground
- **straitjacket**: a special jacket that holds the arms of a dangerous or very ill person
- **baronet**: a man with the title "Sir" that passes from father to son
- **apologise**: to say that you are sorry for something you did
- **gallery**: a balcony that goes round the inside of a big hall
- **creak**: a long, high sound, like old wood makes when someone steps on it
- **deaf**: not able to hear well, or not able to hear at all
- **signal**: a light or sign that sends a secret message
- **convict**: a criminal who has been sent to prison
- **warder**: a guard in a prison
- **defiant**: refusing to obey, in a proud and angry way
- **rascal**: a dishonest or bad man
- **hunting-whip**: a short whip with a handle, used when riding a horse
- **expedition**: a journey with a special purpose
- **tor**: a hill with a rocky top, typical of Dartmoor
- **ebony**: a very hard, black wood
- **peat**: dark, soft earth in wet places, made of old plants

## Chapter 10. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson

So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I sent to Sherlock Holmes during these early days. But now I have come to a point in my story where I must stop using this method. Once again I must trust my memory, helped by the diary which I kept at the time. A few short pieces from the diary will bring me to those scenes which I will never forget. Every detail of them is fixed in my memory. So I will go on from the morning after our failed chase of the convict and our other strange experiences on the moor.

October 16th.—A dull and foggy day with a light rain. The house is shut in by rolling clouds. Now and then they rise and show the dreary curves of the moor. There are thin silver lines of water on the sides of the hills. The distant rocks shine where the light falls on their wet faces. It is sad outside and inside. After the excitement of the night, the baronet is in a black mood. I myself feel a weight at my heart. I feel that danger is coming. The danger is always there, and it is more terrible because I cannot say what it is.

And don't I have a reason for this feeling? Think of the long line of events which have all pointed to some evil power at work around us. There is the death of the last owner of the Hall. It matched the family legend so exactly. And there are the many reports from country people about a strange creature on the moor. Twice I have heard with my own ears the sound like the distant baying of a hound. It is unbelievable and impossible that it should really be outside the normal laws of nature. A ghost hound which leaves real footprints and fills the air with its howling? Surely nobody can think of such a thing.

Stapleton may believe in such a superstition, and Mortimer too. But if I have one quality in the world, it is common sense. Nothing will make me believe in such a thing. If I did, I would sink to the level of these poor country people. They are not happy with a simple devil dog. They must describe it with the fire of hell shooting from its mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent.

But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying on the moor. Suppose there really was some huge hound loose on the moor. That would go a long way to explain everything. But where could such a hound hide? Where did it get its food? Where did it come from? How is it that no one has seen it by day? I must admit that the natural explanation has almost as many difficulties as the other one.

And apart from the hound, there is always the fact of the human hand in London. There was the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real. But it might have been the work of a friend who wanted to protect him, just as easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he stayed in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he, could he be the stranger whom I saw on the tor?

It is true that I only saw him once, and only for a moment. And yet there are some things that I am ready to swear to. He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was much taller than Stapleton and much thinner than Frankland. It might possibly have been Barrymore. But we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. So a stranger is still following us, just as a stranger followed us in London. We have never got rid of him. If I could catch that man, then at last we might reach the end of all our difficulties. I must now give all my energy to this one purpose.

My first idea was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second idea, and the wiser one, is to play my own game and to say as little as possible to anyone. He is silent, and his thoughts seem far away. That sound on the moor has strangely shaken his nerves. I will say nothing that might add to his worries. But I will take my own steps to reach my own goal.

We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked if he could speak to Sir Henry. They were shut in his study together for some time. I was sitting in the billiard-room, and more than once I heard raised voices. I had a pretty good idea what they were arguing about. After a time the baronet opened his door and called me.

"Barrymore thinks that he has a complaint against us," he said. "He thinks that it was unfair of us to hunt down his brother-in-law. He had told us the secret of his own free will."

The butler was standing in front of us, very pale but very calm.

"I may have spoken too strongly, sir," he said. "If I have, I certainly ask your pardon. But at the same time I was very surprised this morning. I heard you two gentlemen come back, and I learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against already. I did not want to put more people on his track."

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

"I didn't think that you would use it against him, Sir Henry. I really didn't."

"The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses all over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stop at nothing. You only need to see his face to know that. Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example. There is no one but himself to defend it. Nobody is safe until that man is locked up."

"He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word on that. And he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I promise you, Sir Henry, in a very few days everything will be arranged. Then he will be on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I beg you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have stopped searching for him there. He can stay quietly there until the ship is ready for him. You can't report him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, say nothing to the police."

"What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country, the tax-payer would not have to pay for him any more."

"But what about the chance that he robs someone before he goes?"

"He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have given him everything that he could need. If he committed a crime, he would show where he was hiding."

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

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

"I guess we are helping a criminal, Watson? But after what we have heard, I don't feel that I could give the man up. So that's the end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."

The man said a few broken words of thanks and turned away. But then he hesitated and came back.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I would like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry. Perhaps I should have said it before. But I only found it out long after the inquest. I've never said a word about it yet to any living person. It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

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

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

"What then?"

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

"To meet a woman! He?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the woman's name?"

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

"How do you know this, Barrymore?"

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He usually had a great many letters. He was a public man and well known for his kind heart. So everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, by chance, there was only this one letter, so I noticed it more. It was from Coombe Tracey, and the address was in a woman's handwriting."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought no more about it. And I never would have, if it had not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning Sir Charles's study. Nobody had touched it since his death. She found the ashes of a burned letter at the back of the fireplace. Most of it was burned to pieces. But one little strip, the end of a page, held together. You could still read the writing, although it was grey on a black background. It seemed to us that it was a note added at the end of the letter. It said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.' Under it were the initials L. L."

"Have you got that strip of paper?"

"No, sir, it fell to pieces after we moved it."

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

"Well, sir, I did not pay special attention to his letters. I would not have noticed this one, but it happened to come alone."

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

"No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect that if we could find that lady, we would know more about Sir Charles's death."

"I cannot understand, Barrymore, why you hid this important information."

"Well, sir, our own trouble came to us immediately after that. And then again, sir, we were both very fond of Sir Charles. We had good reason to be, after all that he did for us. Bringing this up again could not help our poor master. And it is wise to be careful when there's a lady in the case. Even the best of us..."

"You thought it might hurt his good name?"

"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to us. I feel it would be unfair to you if I did not tell you all that I know about it."

"Very good, Barrymore. You can go."

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

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

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

"Tell Holmes all about it at once. It will give him the clue that he has been looking for. I will be very surprised if it does not bring him down here."

I went to my room at once and wrote my report of the morning's conversation for Holmes. It was clear to me that he had been very busy lately. The notes which I received from Baker Street were few and short. They had no comments on the information which I had sent, and they hardly mentioned my mission at all. No doubt his blackmail case is taking all his attention. And yet this new fact will surely catch his attention and make him interested again. I wish that he were here.

October 17th.—All day today the rain has poured down. It rustled on the ivy and dripped from the edges of the roof. I thought of the convict out on the bare, cold moor, where there is no shelter. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes were, he has suffered something to pay for them. And then I thought of that other man: the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that heavy rain, the unseen watcher, the man of darkness?

In the evening I put on my raincoat and walked far over the soaking wet moor. My head was full of dark thoughts. The rain beat on my face, and the wind whistled around my ears. God help anyone who wanders into the great mire now. Even the firm high ground is becoming a bog. I found the black tor where I had seen the lonely watcher. From its rocky top I looked out over the sad, rolling hills. Showers of rain blew across their reddish-brown slopes. Heavy clouds, the colour of slate, hung low over the land. They trailed in grey rings down the sides of the strange-shaped hills. Far away on the left, in a low valley, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were half hidden by the mist. They were the only signs of human life that I could see. The only other signs were the prehistoric huts which stood thickly on the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any sign of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before.

As I walked back, Dr. Mortimer caught up with me. He was driving his dog-cart along a rough moorland track which came from the lonely farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very kind to us. Hardly a day has passed without him calling at the Hall to see how we are. He insisted that I climb into his dog-cart, and he drove me home. I found him very worried because his little spaniel had disappeared. It had wandered onto the moor and had never come back. I comforted him as well as I could. But I thought of the pony in the Grimpen Mire, and I do not think that he will see his little dog again.

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

"Hardly any, I think."

"Then can you tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?"

He thought for a few minutes.

"No," he said. "There are a few gipsies and working people that I can't speak for. But among the farmers or the gentry there is no one with those initials. Wait a moment, though," he added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons. Her initials are L. L. But she lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She is Frankland's daughter."

"What! Old Frankland, that strange old man?"

"Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came to draw pictures on the moor. He turned out to be a bad man, and he left her. But from what I hear, perhaps the fault was not all on his side. Her father refused to have anything to do with her. She had married without his permission, and perhaps there were one or two other reasons too. So the girl has had a pretty bad time, between the old sinner and the young one."

"How does she live?"

"I think old Frankland gives her a very small amount of money. But it cannot be more than that, because his own money matters are in a bad state. Whatever she may have deserved, people could not let her sink into complete ruin. Her story became known, and several people here did something to help her earn an honest living. Stapleton was one, and Sir Charles was another. I gave a small sum myself. It was to start her in a typewriting business."

He wanted to know why I was asking. But I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much. There is no reason why we should share our secrets with anyone. Tomorrow morning I will go to Coombe Tracey. This Mrs. Laura Lyons has a doubtful reputation. But if I can see her, I will have taken a long step towards explaining one event in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly becoming as clever as a snake. Mortimer asked me more questions than I wanted to answer. So I asked him, as if by chance, what type of skull Frankland had. After that I heard nothing but talk about skulls for the rest of our drive. I have not lived with Sherlock Holmes for years for nothing.

I have only one other event to write down on this stormy and sad day. It was my conversation with Barrymore just now. It gives me one more strong card, which I can play at the right time.

Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and afterwards he and the baronet played a card game called écarté. The butler brought me my coffee in the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

"Well," I said, "has this dear relation of yours left? Or is he still hiding out there?"

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

"Did you see him then?"

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

"Then he was certainly there?"

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

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

"So you know that there is another man?"

"Yes, sir. There is another man on the moor."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, sir."

"Then how do you know about him?"

"Selden told me about him, sir, a week ago or more. He's hiding too, but he's not a convict, as far as I can tell. I don't like it, Dr. Watson. I tell you honestly, sir, I don't like it." He spoke with sudden, strong feeling.

"Now listen to me, Barrymore! My only interest in this matter is your master's. I came here only to help him. Tell me honestly what it is that you don't like."

Barrymore hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he was sorry about his outburst. Or perhaps he found it hard to put his feelings into words.

"It's all these strange happenings, sir," he cried at last. He waved his hand towards the window, which faced the moor. The rain was beating hard against it. "There's something wrong somewhere. There's some black, wicked plan getting ready, I'll swear to that! I would be very glad, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!"

"But what is it that frightens you?"

"Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, whatever the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. No man would cross it after the sun goes down, even if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out there, watching and waiting! What's he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone with the name of Baskerville. I will be very glad to leave it all behind, on the day when Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the Hall."

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

"He saw him once or twice. But he is a clever one and gives nothing away. At first Selden thought that he was the police. But soon he found that the man had some plan of his own. He was a kind of gentleman, as far as Selden could see. But Selden could not find out what he was doing."

"And where did he say that the man lived?"

"Among the old houses on the hillside. The stone huts where the ancient people used to live."

"But what about his food?"

"Selden found out that he has a boy who works for him and brings him everything he needs. I expect the boy goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants."

"Very good, Barrymore. We may talk more about this some other time."

When the butler had gone, I walked over to the black window. I looked through the wet, blurred glass at the racing clouds and at the shapes of the trees tossing in the wind. It is a wild night even indoors. What must it be like in a stone hut on the moor? What kind of hatred can make a man hide in such a place at such a time? And what deep and serious purpose can he have, to make him suffer like this? There, in that hut on the moor, seems to be the very centre of the problem which has troubled me so badly. I swear that I will not let another day pass before I have done everything a man can do to reach the heart of the mystery.

### Glossary

- **diary**: a book where you write what happens each day
- **superstition**: a belief in magic or luck that is not based on reason
- **brother-in-law**: the brother of your wife or husband
- **inquest**: an official inquiry to find out how someone died
- **initials**: the first letters of a person's names, for example L. L.
- **dog-cart**: a small, light carriage pulled by one horse
- **gentry**: rich, well-born families who own land
- **typewriting**: writing letters and papers on a machine with keys
- **coroner**: the official who leads an inquest
- **hut**: a small, simple house, here a very old one made of stone

## Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor

The pieces from my private diary in the last chapter have brought my story up to the eighteenth of October. At that time these strange events began to move quickly towards their terrible end. The events of the next few days are cut deep into my memory. I can tell them without looking at the notes which I made at the time.

I begin with the day after I had found out two very important facts. The first was that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville. She had arranged to meet him at the very place and hour of his death. The second was that the man hiding on the moor could be found among the stone huts on the hillside. With these two facts in my hands, I felt that I must throw some more light on these dark places. If I could not, then I must be lacking either in intelligence or in courage.

I had no chance to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons the evening before. Dr. Mortimer stayed with him, playing cards, until it was very late. But at breakfast I told him about my discovery. I asked him if he would like to come with me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come. But when we thought about it again, we both felt that the results might be better if I went alone. The more formal we made the visit, the less information we might get. So I left Sir Henry behind, although my conscience troubled me a little. Then I drove off on my new search.

When I reached Coombe Tracey, I told Perkins to put the horses in a stable. Then I asked where I could find the lady whom I had come to question. I had no difficulty finding her rooms. They were in the centre of the town and well furnished. A maid showed me in without any formality. As I entered the sitting-room, a lady was sitting in front of a Remington typewriter. She jumped up with a pleasant smile of welcome. But her face fell when she saw that I was a stranger. She sat down again and asked me why I had come.

My first impression of Mrs. Lyons was of great beauty. Her eyes and her hair were the same rich hazel colour. Her cheeks had a lot of freckles, but they had the lovely colour of a dark-haired woman. It was the delicate pink which hides at the heart of a pale yellow rose. Admiration, I repeat, was my first impression. But my second impression was criticism. There was something slightly wrong with the face. There was some coarseness in her expression, perhaps some hardness in her eyes, some looseness in her lips. These things spoiled its perfect beauty. But of course, these are thoughts which came to me later. At the time I only knew that I was with a very beautiful woman, and that she was asking me why I had come. Until that moment I had not quite understood how delicate my mission was.

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

It was a clumsy way to begin, and the lady made me feel it. "My father and I have nothing in common," she said. "I owe him nothing, and his friends are not my friends. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind people, I might have starved. My father would not have cared."

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

The freckles suddenly stood out on the lady's face.

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

"You knew him, didn't you?"

"I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I can support myself, it is mostly because he took an interest in my unhappy situation."

"Did you write letters to him?"

The lady looked up quickly, and there was an angry light in her hazel eyes.

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

"The purpose is to avoid a public scandal. It is better for me to ask them here than for the matter to go outside our control."

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

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

"Did you write letters to Sir Charles?"

"Yes, I wrote to him once or twice to thank him for his kindness and his generosity."

"Do you know the dates of those letters?"

"No."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very shy, private man. He preferred to do good in secret."

"But you saw him so rarely and wrote to him so rarely. How did he know enough about your affairs to help you, as you say he did?"

She had an answer ready at once.

"Several gentlemen knew my sad history, and they joined together to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and close friend of Sir Charles. He was very kind, and Sir Charles learned about my affairs through him."

I already knew that Sir Charles Baskerville had used Stapleton several times to hand out his charity money. So the lady's words seemed to be true.

"Did you ever write to Sir Charles and ask him to meet you?" I went on.

Mrs. Lyons went red with anger again. "Really, sir, this is a very strange question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must ask it again."

"Then my answer is: certainly not."

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

In a moment the red colour had gone, and a face as white as death was in front of me. Her dry lips could not speak the word "No." I saw it rather than heard it.

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

I thought that she had fainted. But with a great effort she recovered herself.

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

"You are unfair to Sir Charles. He *did* burn the letter. But sometimes you can still read a letter even when it has been burned. So you admit now that you wrote it?"

"Yes, I did write it," she cried. The words poured out of her like a flood. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wanted him to help me. I believed that if I could speak to him, I could get his help. So I asked him to meet me."

"But why at such an hour?"

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

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

"Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to the house of a man who is not married?"

"Well, what happened when you got there?"

"I never went."

"Mrs. Lyons!"

"No, I swear it to you on everything I hold sacred. I never went. Something happened which stopped me from going."

"What was that?"

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

"So you admit that you arranged to meet Sir Charles at the very hour and place of his death. But you say that you did not go to the meeting."

"That is the truth."

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

"Mrs. Lyons," I said, as I stood up at the end of this long interview which had led nowhere, "you are taking a very great responsibility. You are putting yourself in a very false position, because you will not tell me honestly everything you know. If I have to ask the police for help, you will find out how much trouble you are in. If you are innocent, why did you first deny that you wrote to Sir Charles on that date?"

"Because I was afraid that people might come to some wrong conclusion. I was afraid that I might be dragged into a scandal."

"And why did you beg Sir Charles so strongly to destroy your letter?"

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

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

"You quoted some of it."

"I quoted the note at the end. As I said, the letter had been burned, and I could not read all of it. I ask you once again: why did you beg Sir Charles so strongly to destroy this letter, which he received on the day of his death?"

"The matter is a very private one."

"That is all the more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

"Then I will tell you. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history, you will know that I married too quickly and without thinking. I have had reason to be sorry for it."

"I have heard that much."

"My life has been one long, endless suffering because of a husband whom I hate. The law is on his side. Every day I face the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time when I wrote this letter to Sir Charles, I had learned that I might get my freedom again if certain costs could be paid. It meant everything to me: peace of mind, happiness, self-respect, everything. I knew how generous Sir Charles was. I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips, he would help me."

"Then why did you not go?"

"Because in the meantime I received help from someone else."

"Then why did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"

"I would have done so, but I saw his death in the newspaper the next morning."

The woman's story held together well, and none of my questions could shake it. I could only check it in one way. I would have to find out if she had really started a divorce case against her husband at about the time of the tragedy.

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been. She would have needed a trap to take her there. And it could not have brought her back to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such a journey could not be kept secret. So it was probable that she was telling the truth, or at least a part of the truth.

I came away puzzled and discouraged. Once again I had reached that blank wall. It seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to reach the goal of my mission. And yet, the more I thought about the lady's face and her manner, the more I felt that she was keeping something from me. Why did she turn so pale? Why did she fight against every admission until I forced it from her? Why had she said nothing at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she wanted me to believe. For the moment I could go no further in that direction. I must turn back to that other clue, which I had to look for among the stone huts on the moor.

And that was a very vague direction. I realised this as I drove back. I noticed how hill after hill showed signs of the ancient people. Barrymore had only told me that the stranger lived in one of these empty huts. And there are many hundreds of them, all over the moor. But I had my own experience to guide me. I had seen the man himself standing on the top of the Black Tor. So that should be the centre of my search. From there I would explore every hut on the moor until I found the right one. If this man was inside, I would find out from his own lips who he was and why he had followed us for so long. I would do it at the point of my revolver if necessary. He might escape from us in the crowds of Regent Street. But it would be hard for him to do so on the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I found the hut and the man was not inside, I must stay there and wait until he returned, however long it took. Holmes had missed him in London. It would really be a triumph for me if I could catch him where my master had failed.

Again and again in this case, luck had been against us. But now at last it came to help me. And the messenger of good luck was none other than Mr. Frankland. He was standing outside his garden gate, with his grey whiskers and red face. The gate opened onto the main road which I was travelling along.

"Good day, Dr. Watson," he cried, in an unusually good mood. "You really must give your horses a rest and come in for a glass of wine. And you must congratulate me."

My feelings towards him were far from friendly, after what I had heard about how he treated his daughter. But I wanted to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and this was a good chance. So I got down and sent a message to Sir Henry that I would walk back in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

"It is a great day for me, sir, one of the best days of my life," he cried, with many little laughs. "I have won two victories in one day. I mean to teach people round here that the law is the law. And I mean to show them that there is a man here who is not afraid to use it. I have won a public right of way through the centre of old Middleton's park. It goes right across it, sir, less than a hundred yards from his own front door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these rich and powerful men that they cannot trample on the rights of ordinary people, curse them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy people used to have their picnics. These terrible people seem to think that property has no rights. They think they can crowd wherever they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases have been decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had a day like this since I took Sir John Morland to court for trespass. He was shooting on his own rabbit land."

"How on earth did you do that?"

"Look it up in the law books, sir. It is worth reading. Frankland *v.* Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me £200, but I won my case."

"Did it do you any good?"

"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I gained nothing from it. I act only from a sense of public duty. For example, I have no doubt that the Fernworthy people will burn an effigy of me tonight. The last time they did it, I told the police that they should stop these shameful shows. The County police are in a terrible state, sir. They have not given me the protection which I have a right to. The case of Frankland *v.* Regina will bring the matter to the attention of the public. I told them that they would be sorry for the way they treated me, and already my words have come true."

"How?" I asked.

The old man put on a very knowing look. "Because I could tell them something which they badly want to know. But nothing would make me help those rascals in any way."

I had been looking for some excuse to get away from his talk. But now I began to want to hear more of it. I had seen enough of the old sinner's contrary nature. I knew that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop him from telling me his secrets.

"Some case about hunting on someone else's land, no doubt?" I said, as if I did not care.

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

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

"I may not know exactly where he is. But I am quite sure that I could help the police to catch him. Has it never occurred to you that the way to catch that man is to find out where he gets his food? Then you could follow it to him."

He certainly seemed to be coming uncomfortably near the truth. "No doubt," I said. "But how do you know that he is anywhere on the moor?"

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

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

"You'll be surprised to hear that a child takes the food to him. I see him every day through my telescope on the roof. He goes along the same path at the same hour. And who would he be going to, except the convict?"

This was real luck! And yet I hid every sign of interest. A child! Barrymore had said that a boy brought supplies to our unknown man. So Frankland had come across his track, and not the convict's. If I could get his knowledge, it might save me a long and tiring search. But clearly my strongest cards were to seem doubtful and not interested.

"I would say that it was much more likely to be the son of one of the moorland shepherds, taking his father his dinner."

The smallest sign of disagreement made the bossy old man flare up. His eyes looked at me with hatred, and his grey whiskers stood up like those of an angry cat.

"Indeed, sir!" he said, and he pointed out over the wide moor. "Do you see that Black Tor over there? Well, do you see the low hill beyond it, with the thornbush on it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to stay with his sheep? Your suggestion, sir, is a completely ridiculous one."

I answered humbly that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. He was pleased that I had given way, and he told me more.

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good reasons before I form an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able... But wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is there something moving on that hillside at this very moment?"

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

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

The telescope was a large, impressive instrument. It stood on three legs on the flat roof of the house. Frankland pressed his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.

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

There he was, sure enough. It was a small, poorly dressed boy with a little bundle on his shoulder, slowly climbing the hill with great effort. When he reached the top, I saw his rough figure in torn clothes for a moment against the cold blue sky. He looked around him in a secret, nervous way, like someone who is afraid of being followed. Then he disappeared over the hill.

"Well! Am I right?"

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

"And even a county policeman could guess what the job is. But they shall not have one word from me. And I order you to keep it secret too, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!"

"Just as you wish."

"They have treated me shamefully, shamefully. When the facts come out in Frankland *v.* Regina, I dare say a wave of anger will run through the country. Nothing would make me help the police in any way. For all they cared, these rascals might have burned me at the stake, instead of my effigy. Surely you are not going! You will help me to finish this bottle of wine, to celebrate this great day!"

But I refused all his requests. I also managed to talk him out of his plan to walk home with me. I stayed on the road as long as he could see me. Then I turned off across the moor and headed for the stony hill where the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour. I swore that if I missed this chance which luck had given me, it would not be because of a lack of energy or determination.

The sun was already going down when I reached the top of the hill. The long slopes below me were golden-green on one side and in grey shadow on the other. A mist lay low on the far horizon. The strange shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor stuck up out of it. Over the wide land there was no sound and no movement. One big grey bird, a gull or a curlew, flew high up in the blue sky. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge curve of the sky and the empty land below it. The bare scene, the feeling of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all made my heart go cold.

The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down below me, in a narrow gap between the hills, there was a circle of the old stone huts. In the middle of them was one which still had enough roof to give shelter from the weather. My heart jumped when I saw it. This must be the hole where the stranger was hiding. At last my foot was at the door of his hiding place. His secret was almost in my hands.

I walked towards the hut very carefully, just as Stapleton would approach a butterfly sitting still, with his net ready. As I came closer, I made sure that someone had really been living there. A faint path among the rocks led to the broken opening which served as a door. Everything was silent inside. The unknown man might be hiding there, or he might be wandering on the moor. My nerves were tingling with the feeling of adventure. I threw away my cigarette and closed my hand round the handle of my revolver. I walked quickly up to the door and looked in. The place was empty.

But there were plenty of signs that I had not followed a false trail. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets, rolled up in a waterproof cover, lay on the same stone shelf where Neolithic man had once slept. The ashes of a fire were piled in a rough fireplace. Beside it lay some cooking pots and a bucket half-full of water. A pile of empty tins showed that someone had been living here for some time. As my eyes got used to the light and shadow, I saw a small metal cup and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut, a flat stone was used as a table. On it stood a small cloth bundle. No doubt it was the same one which I had seen through the telescope on the boy's shoulder. It held a loaf of bread, a tin of cooked tongue and two tins of peaches.

I looked at it and put it down again. Then my heart jumped, because I saw that under it there was a sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up. This is what I read, roughly written in pencil:

"Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey."

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands. I thought about the meaning of this short message. So it was me, and not Sir Henry, whom this secret man was following. He had not followed me himself. But he had put someone on my track, perhaps the boy, and this was his report. Possibly I had not taken a single step on the moor without being watched and reported. There was always this feeling of an unseen force. It was like a fine net drawn round us with great skill and care. It held us so lightly that only at some great moment did you realise that you were really caught in it.

If there was one report, there might be others. So I looked round the hut to find them. But there was no sign of anything like that. Nor could I find any sign which might show the character or the plans of the man who lived in this strange place. I could only see that he lived a very simple, hard life and cared little for comfort. I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the big holes in the roof. Then I understood how strong and unchanging his purpose must be, to keep him in such an unfriendly home. Was he our evil enemy, or was he perhaps our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew.

Outside, the sun was sinking low, and the western sky was blazing with red and gold. The distant pools in the great Grimpen Mire threw back its light in red patches. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall. And there was a distant cloud of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the Stapletons' house. Everything was sweet and soft and peaceful in the golden evening light. And yet, as I looked at it all, my soul did not share the peace of Nature. It trembled at the mystery and the terror of the meeting which was coming nearer every moment. My nerves were tingling, but my purpose was firm. I sat in the dark corner of the hut and waited patiently and seriously for the man who lived there to come back.

And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp sound of a boot striking a stone. Then another, and another, coming nearer and nearer. I moved back into the darkest corner. I cocked the pistol in my pocket. I had decided not to show myself until I had a chance to see something of the stranger. There was a long pause, which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps came closer, and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a voice that I knew well. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."

### Glossary

- **typewriter**: a machine with keys that prints letters onto paper
- **freckles**: small brown spots on the skin, often on the face
- **scandal**: something shocking that makes people talk and damages someone's good name
- **divorce**: the legal end of a marriage
- **right of way**: a legal right for people to walk across someone else's land
- **trespass**: going onto someone else's land without permission
- **effigy**: a model of a person, sometimes burned to show anger
- **telescope**: an instrument that makes faraway things look close
- **curlew**: a large brown bird with a long, curved beak that lives on wet land
- **cocked**: made a gun ready to fire

## Chapter 12. Death on the Moor

For a moment or two I sat there without breathing. I could hardly believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me. At the same moment, a heavy weight of responsibility seemed to lift from my soul. That cold, sharp, ironic voice could belong to only one man in all the world.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Holmes!”

“Come out,” he said, “and please be careful with the revolver.”

I bent down under the rough stone above the doorway. There he sat on a stone outside. His grey eyes were dancing with amusement as they looked at my astonished face. He was thin and tired, but clear and alert. His sharp face was brown from the sun and rough from the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist on the moor. Holmes always loved to be clean, like a cat. So his chin was as smooth and his shirt as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

“I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” I said, as I shook his hand hard.

“Or more astonished, eh?”

“Well, I must admit that too.”

“The surprise was not all on one side, I promise you. I had no idea that you had found my secret hiding-place. And I certainly did not know that you were inside it. I only knew when I was twenty steps from the door.”

“My footprint, I suppose?”

“No, Watson. I am afraid I could not recognise your footprint among all the footprints of the world. If you really want to trick me, you must change your tobacconist. When I see the end of a cigarette marked ‘Bradley, Oxford Street’, I know that my friend Watson is near. You will see it there, beside the path. No doubt you threw it down at that great moment when you rushed into the empty hut.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought so. And I know how admirably stubborn you are. So I was sure that you were sitting in ambush, with a weapon near your hand. You were waiting for the man who lives here to come back. So you really thought that I was the criminal?”

“I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

“Excellent, Watson! And how did you find out where I was? Perhaps you saw me on the night of the convict hunt? I was careless that night. I let the moon rise behind me.”

“Yes, I saw you then.”

“And no doubt you searched all the huts until you came to this one?”

“No. Someone had seen your boy, and that showed me where to look.”

“The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not understand it when I first saw the light flashing on the lens.” He got up and looked into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some food. What’s this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?”

“Yes.”

“To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

“Exactly.”

“Well done! Clearly we have been working along the same lines. When we put our results together, I expect we shall know the case fairly fully.”

“Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here. The responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves. But how in the world did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street, working on that blackmail case.”

“That was what I wished you to think.”

“Then you use me, and yet you do not trust me!” I cried, with some bitterness. “I think I have deserved better from you, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you have been extremely valuable to me in this case, as in many others. Please forgive me if I seemed to play a trick on you. In truth, I did it partly for your own sake. I understood the danger you were in. That was what made me come down and look at the matter myself. If I had been with Sir Henry and you, I am sure that I would have seen things just as you did. Also, my presence would have warned our very dangerous enemies to be careful. As it is, I have been able to move about freely. I could never have done that if I had lived at the Hall. And I am still an unknown factor in the business. I am ready to throw in all my weight at the critical moment.”

“But why keep me in the dark?”

“It could not have helped us for you to know. And it might have led to my discovery. You would have wanted to tell me something. Or, in your kindness, you would have brought me out something to make me comfortable. So we would have run an unnecessary risk. I brought Cartwright down with me. You remember the little fellow at the messenger office? He has looked after my simple needs: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What more does a man want? He has given me an extra pair of eyes on a very quick pair of feet. Both have been extremely valuable.”

“Then my reports have all been wasted!” My voice shook as I remembered the work and the pride I had put into writing them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

“Here are your reports, my dear fellow. I have read them many times, I promise you. I made excellent arrangements, so they reached me only one day late. I must praise you very highly for the energy and the intelligence that you have shown. This has been an extremely difficult case.”

I still felt rather hurt by the trick that he had played on me. But the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove the anger from my mind. I also felt in my heart that he was right. It really was best for our purpose that I had not known he was on the moor.

“That’s better,” he said, when he saw the shadow leave my face. “And now tell me about your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons. It was not hard for me to guess that you had gone to see her. I already know that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might be useful to us in this matter. In fact, if you had not gone today, I would very probably have gone tomorrow.”

The sun had set, and dusk was falling over the moor. The air had turned cold, and we went into the hut for warmth. There we sat together in the half-dark, and I told Holmes about my conversation with the lady. He was so interested that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.

“This is most important,” he said, when I had finished. “It fills a gap in this very complex affair. Until now I had not been able to bridge that gap. Perhaps you know that there is a close relationship between this lady and the man Stapleton?”

“I did not know of a close relationship.”

“There is no doubt about it. They meet, they write, and they understand each other completely. Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to separate his wife—”

“His wife?”

“I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is really his wife.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he let Sir Henry fall in love with her?”

“Sir Henry’s falling in love could hurt nobody except Sir Henry. Stapleton took special care that Sir Henry did not court her. You saw that yourself. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister.”

“But why this careful deception?”

“Because he saw that she would be much more useful to him if people thought she was a free woman.”

All my unspoken feelings and my vague suspicions suddenly took shape. They all centred on the naturalist. I thought of that calm, colourless man with his straw hat and his butterfly-net. Now I seemed to see something terrible in him. He was a creature of endless patience and cunning, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

“So it is he who is our enemy? It is he who followed us in London?”

“That is how I read the riddle.”

“And the warning—it must have come from her!”

“Exactly.”

I began to see the shape of some monstrous wickedness, half seen and half guessed. It rose up out of the darkness that had surrounded me for so long.

“But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife?”

“Because on the day he first met you, he forgot himself. He told you a true piece of his life story. I dare say he has often been sorry about it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, nobody is easier to trace than a schoolmaster. There are agencies for teachers. Through them you can identify any man who has worked in the profession. A little investigation showed me that a school had failed under terrible circumstances. The man who had owned it had disappeared with his wife. His name was different, but the descriptions matched. Then I learned that the missing man loved the study of insects. After that, the identification was complete.”

The darkness was lifting, but much was still hidden in the shadows.

“If this woman is really his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?” I asked.

“That is one of the points where your own work has given us light. Your interview with the lady has made the situation much clearer. I did not know that she was planning a divorce from her husband. In that case, she thought Stapleton was an unmarried man. No doubt she expected to become his wife.”

“And when she learns the truth?”

“Why, then the lady may be useful to us. Our first duty must be to see her tomorrow—both of us. Don’t you think, Watson, that you have been away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville Hall.”

The last red lines of the sunset had faded in the west, and night had fallen on the moor. A few faint stars were shining in a violet sky.

“One last question, Holmes,” I said, as I stood up. “Surely there is no need for secrets between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he trying to get?”

Holmes’s voice sank low as he answered.

“It is murder, Watson. It is clever, cold-blooded, carefully planned murder. Do not ask me for details. My nets are closing around him, just as his nets are closing around Sir Henry. With your help, he is already almost in my power. Only one danger can threaten us. He may strike before we are ready to strike. Another day—two at the most—and my case will be complete. But until then, guard your charge as closely as a loving mother watches her sick child. Your journey today was worth it. And yet I almost wish that you had not left his side. Listen!”

A terrible scream burst out of the silence of the moor. It was a long cry of horror and pain. That frightful cry turned the blood in my veins to ice.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What is it? What does it mean?”

Holmes had jumped to his feet. I saw his dark, athletic shape at the door of the hut. His shoulders were bent, and his head was pushed forward. He was staring into the darkness.

“Quiet!” he whispered. “Quiet!”

The cry had been loud because it was so violent. But it had rung out from somewhere far away on the dark plain. Now it burst on our ears again, nearer, louder and more urgent than before.

“Where is it?” Holmes whispered. From the trembling in his voice I knew that he, the man of iron, was shaken to his soul. “Where is it, Watson?”

“There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

“No, there!”

Again the cry of pain swept through the silent night, louder and much nearer than ever. And a new sound mixed with it. It was a deep, low rumble, musical and yet threatening. It rose and fell like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

“The hound!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, what if we are too late!”

He had started to run fast over the moor, and I had followed close behind him. But now, from somewhere in the broken ground just in front of us, there came one last hopeless scream. Then there was a dull, heavy thud. We stopped and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the night. There was no wind at all.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man who has lost his head. He stamped his feet on the ground.

“He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late.”

“No, no, surely not!”

“What a fool I was to wait and do nothing! And you, Watson, see what happens when you leave your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened, we’ll avenge him!”

We ran blindly through the darkness. We crashed into boulders and pushed our way through gorse bushes. We ran up hills, breathing hard, and rushed down slopes. We always ran towards the place where those dreadful sounds had come from. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly around him. But the shadows were thick on the moor, and nothing moved on its dreary face.

“Can you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“But listen, what is that?”

A low moan had reached our ears. There it was again, on our left! On that side, a ridge of rocks ended in a steep cliff. Below it was a slope covered with stones. On the rough face of the rocks lay some dark, strange object, with its arms and legs spread wide. As we ran towards it, the vague outline became a clear shape. It was a man lying face down on the ground. His head was bent under him at a horrible angle. His shoulders were rounded, and his body was pulled together, as if he were turning a somersault. His position was so strange that for a moment I did not realise the truth. That moan had been the sound of his soul leaving his body. Not a whisper and not a movement came now from the dark figure. We bent over him. Holmes put his hand on him and then lifted it again with a cry of horror. He struck a match. Its light shone on his fingers, which were sticky with blood. It shone on the terrible pool which was slowly spreading from the victim’s crushed skull. And it shone on something else, which made our hearts sick and weak inside us. It was the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

Neither of us could ever forget that unusual reddish tweed suit. It was the very one he had worn on the first morning that we saw him in Baker Street. We saw it clearly for one moment. Then the match flickered and went out, just as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face showed white in the darkness.

“The brute! The brute!” I cried, with my hands in fists. “Oh, Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for leaving him to his fate.”

“I am more to blame than you, Watson. I wanted my case to be complete and perfect. For that, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the greatest blow of my whole career. But how could I know—how *could* I know—that he would risk his life alone on the moor, after all my warnings?”

“To think that we heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and yet we could not save him! Where is this brute of a hound that drove him to his death? It may be hiding among these rocks at this very moment. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this crime.”

“He shall. I will make sure of that. Uncle and nephew have both been murdered. One was frightened to death by the mere sight of a beast which he thought was supernatural. The other was driven to his death as he ran wildly to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Apart from what we heard, we cannot even swear that the beast exists, because Sir Henry has clearly died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another day has passed!”

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the broken body. This sudden disaster could never be undone. It had brought all our long, tiring work to such a sad end. Then, as the moon rose, we climbed to the top of the rocks that our poor friend had fallen from. From the top we looked out over the dark moor, half silver and half shadow. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the lonely home of the Stapletons. As I looked at it, I shook my fist at it with a bitter curse.

“Why should we not catch him at once?”

“Our case is not complete. The fellow is extremely careful and cunning. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one wrong move, the villain may still escape us.”

“What can we do?”

“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only do the last duties for our poor friend.”

Together we made our way down the steep slope and came to the body. It lay black and clear against the silvery stones. I saw the pain in those twisted arms and legs. It hurt me like a sudden pain of my own, and tears filled my eyes.

“We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”

He had given a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and shaking my hand hard. Could this be my serious, self-controlled friend? There were hidden fires in him, indeed!

“A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”

“A beard?”

“It is not the baronet—it is—why, it is my neighbour, the convict!”

With feverish speed we turned the body over. The dripping beard pointed up at the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the heavy, overhanging forehead and the deep-set animal eyes. It was the same face that had glared at me in the candlelight from over the rock. It was the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in an instant everything was clear to me. I remembered that the baronet had told me something. He had given his old clothes to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed them on to help Selden to escape. Boots, shirt, cap—they were all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy was still black enough. But at least this man had deserved death under the laws of his country. I told Holmes how things stood. My heart was overflowing with thankfulness and joy.

“Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death,” he said. “It is clear enough that the hound was given the smell of something of Sir Henry’s. Most probably it was the boot which was taken from the hotel. And so it hunted this man down. But there is one very strange thing. How did Selden, in the darkness, know that the hound was on his trail?”

“He heard it.”

“Hearing a hound on the moor would not throw a hard man like this convict into such terror. Yet he risked being caught again by screaming wildly for help. From his cries, he must have run a long way after he knew that the animal was after him. How did he know?”

“To me there is a greater mystery. Suppose that all our guesses are correct. Then why should this hound—”

“I suppose nothing.”

“Well, then, why should this hound be loose tonight? I suppose it does not always run free on the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there.”

“My problem is the more difficult of the two. I think we shall very soon get an explanation of yours. But mine may remain a mystery forever. The question now is this: what shall we do with this poor man’s body? We cannot leave it here for the foxes and the ravens.”

“I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can contact the police.”

“Exactly. I am sure that you and I could carry it that far. Halloa, Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself! How amazing, and how bold! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a word, or all my plans will fall to pieces.”

A figure was coming towards us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone on him. I could see the small, neat shape and the cheerful, confident walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again.

“Why, Dr. Watson, that’s not you, is it? You are the last man I would expect to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Not—don’t tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and bent over the dead man. I heard him take a sharp breath, and the cigar fell from his fingers.

“Who—who’s this?” he stammered.

“It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

Stapleton turned a terribly pale face towards us. But with a great effort he had controlled his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. “Dear me! What a very shocking business! How did he die?”

“It seems that he broke his neck when he fell over these rocks. My friend and I were walking on the moor when we heard a cry.”

“I heard a cry too. That was what brought me out. I was worried about Sir Henry.”

“Why about Sir Henry in particular?” I could not help asking.

“Because I had suggested that he should come over to us. When he did not come, I was surprised. So of course I became afraid for his safety when I heard cries on the moor. By the way”—his eyes moved quickly from my face to Holmes’s again—“did you hear anything else besides a cry?”

“No,” said Holmes. “Did you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a ghost hound, and so on. People say that it can be heard at night on the moor. I was wondering if there was any sign of such a sound tonight.”

“We heard nothing of the kind,” I said.

“And what is your theory about this poor fellow’s death?”

“I am sure that worry and life out in the open air have driven him out of his mind. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state. In the end he fell over here and broke his neck.”

“That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton. He gave a sigh, and I took it as a sign of relief. “What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My friend bowed politely. “You are quick at recognising people,” he said.

“We have been expecting you here since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”

“Yes, indeed. I am sure that my friend’s explanation covers the facts. I will take an unpleasant memory back to London with me tomorrow.”

“Oh, you go back tomorrow?”

“That is my plan.”

“I hope your visit has thrown some light on these events that have puzzled us?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“One cannot always have the success one hopes for. An investigator needs facts, not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case.”

My friend spoke in his most open and careless manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

“I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house. But it would frighten my sister so much that I do not feel it would be right. I think that if we put something over his face, he will be safe until morning.”

And so it was arranged. Stapleton offered us his hospitality, but we refused it. Holmes and I set off for Baskerville Hall and left the naturalist to go home alone. When we looked back, we saw his figure moving slowly away over the wide moor. Behind him was that one black spot on the silvery slope. It showed where the man was lying who had come to such a horrible end.

“We’re fighting at close quarters at last,” said Holmes, as we walked together across the moor. “What nerve the fellow has! He found that the wrong man had died in his trap. That must have been a terrible shock. Yet see how he controlled himself! I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you again now. We have never had an enemy more worthy of our steel.”

“I am sorry that he has seen you.”

“And so was I at first. But there was no way to avoid it.”

“What effect do you think it will have on his plans, now that he knows you are here?”

“It may make him more careful. Or it may drive him to desperate action at once. Like most clever criminals, he may trust his own cleverness too much. He may believe that he has completely fooled us.”

“Why should we not arrest him at once?”

“My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic. But suppose, just for argument, that we had him arrested tonight. How on earth would that help us? We could prove nothing against him. That is the devilish cunning of it! If he were acting through a human helper, we could get some evidence. But even if we dragged this great dog into the light of day, it would not help us. It would not put a rope round its master’s neck.”

“Surely we have a case.”

“Not even the shadow of one. We have only guesses and ideas. We would be laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence.”

“There is Sir Charles’s death.”

“He was found dead without a mark on him. You and I know that he died of pure fright. We also know what frightened him. But how can we make twelve slow, solid jurymen know it? What signs are there of a hound? Where are the marks of its teeth? Of course, we know that a hound does not bite a dead body. And we know that Sir Charles was dead before the brute ever reached him. But we have to prove all this, and we are not able to do it.”

“Well, then, what about tonight?”

“We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was running on this man’s trail. And there is no motive at all. No, my dear fellow. We must accept the fact that we have no case at present. It is worth taking any risk in order to build one.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“I have great hopes of Mrs. Laura Lyons. She may do a lot for us when the true situation is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. ‘Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof.’ But I hope that before the day is over I shall have the upper hand at last.”

I could get nothing more from him. He walked on, lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

“Are you coming up to the house?”

“Yes. I see no reason to hide any longer. But one last word, Watson. Say nothing about the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that Selden died in the way that Stapleton wants us to believe. Then he will have stronger nerves for the hard test that he must face tomorrow. If I remember your report correctly, he is going to dine with these people tomorrow.”

“And so am I.”

“Then you must make an excuse, and he must go alone. That will be easy to arrange. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers.”

### Glossary

- **tobacconist**: a shop or a person that sells tobacco and cigarettes.
- **ambush**: hiding and waiting to attack or catch someone.
- **your charge**: the person you must look after and protect (here, Sir Henry).
- **court**: to show a woman that you love her and want to marry her.
- **avenge**: to punish someone for a wrong that they did to another person.
- **gorse**: a wild bush with sharp spines and yellow flowers that grows on the moor.
- **somersault**: a movement in which your body turns over, heels over head.
- **worthy of our steel**: strong and clever enough to be a real fight for us (steel here means a sword).
- **jurymen**: the twelve ordinary people in a court who decide if someone is guilty.
- **“Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof”**: words from the Bible: tomorrow’s troubles can wait until tomorrow.

## Chapter 13. Fixing the Nets

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes. For some days he had been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. But he did raise his eyebrows when he found that my friend had no luggage. Holmes also gave no explanation for this. Between us we soon gave him the things he needed. Then, over a late supper, we told the baronet as much of our adventure as it seemed wise for him to know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of giving the news to Barrymore and his wife. For him, perhaps, it was simply a relief. But she cried bitterly into her apron. To all the world Selden was a violent man, half animal and half demon. But to her he always stayed the little wilful boy from her own girlhood. He was the child who had held on to her hand. A man must be evil indeed if not one woman mourns for him.

“I’ve been sitting sadly in the house all day since Watson went off in the morning,” said the baronet. “I guess I deserve some credit, because I have kept my promise. If I hadn’t sworn not to go about alone, I might have had a livelier evening. Stapleton sent me a message asking me over to his house.”

“I have no doubt that you would have had a livelier evening,” said Holmes drily. “By the way, I don’t suppose you know that we have been mourning for you? We thought you had broken your neck.”

Sir Henry opened his eyes wide. “How was that?”

“This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I am afraid that the servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police.”

“That is unlikely. As far as I know, there was no mark on any of them.”

“That’s lucky for him. In fact, it’s lucky for all of you, because you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am an honest detective. So I am not sure that my first duty is not to arrest the whole household. Watson’s reports are very dangerous documents for all of you.”

“But what about the case?” asked the baronet. “Have you made anything out of the tangle? I can’t say that Watson and I know much more than when we came down.”

“I think that before long I shall be able to make the situation rather clearer to you. It has been an extremely difficult and very complicated business. There are still several points that we need light on. But the light is coming all the same.”

“We’ve had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard the hound on the moor. So I can swear that it is not all empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a chain, I’ll be ready to swear that you are the greatest detective of all time.”

“I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right, if you will give me your help.”

“I will do whatever you tell me to do.”

“Very good. And I will also ask you to do it blindly, without always asking the reason.”

“Just as you like.”

“If you will do this, I think that our little problem will probably soon be solved. I have no doubt—”

He stopped suddenly. He stared hard into the air above my head. The lamplight fell full on his face. It was so concentrated and so still that it looked like a finely cut classical statue. It was a perfect picture of alertness and expectation.

“What is it?” we both cried.

As he looked down, I could see that he was holding back some strong feeling inside him. His face was still calm, but his eyes shone with amusement and triumph.

“Excuse the admiration of an expert,” he said, and he waved his hand towards the line of portraits on the opposite wall. “Watson won’t accept that I know anything about art. But that is only jealousy, because our views on the subject are different. Now, this is really a very fine series of portraits.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Sir Henry. He looked at my friend with some surprise. “I don’t pretend to know much about these things. I’d be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a picture. I didn’t know that you found time for such things.”

“I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That lady in the blue silk over there is a Kneller, I’ll swear. And the fat gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all family portraits, I suppose?”

“Every one.”

“Do you know the names?”

“Barrymore has been teaching me them. I think I can say my lessons fairly well.”

“Who is the gentleman with the telescope?”

“That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville. He served under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William Baskerville. He was Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt.”

“And this Cavalier opposite me—the one in the black velvet and the lace?”

“Ah, you have a right to know about him. He is the cause of all the trouble. That is the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”

I looked at the portrait with interest and some surprise.

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “He seems quiet and gentle enough. But I dare say there was a devil hiding in his eyes. I had pictured him as a stronger and more brutal person.”

“There’s no doubt that it is genuine. The name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas.”

Holmes said little more. But the picture of the wild old drinker seemed to fascinate him. His eyes kept returning to it all through supper. Only later, when Sir Henry had gone to his room, could I follow Holmes’s thoughts. He led me back into the dining-hall with his bedroom candle in his hand. He held the candle up to the old portrait, which had grown dark with time.

“Do you see anything there?”

I looked at the broad hat with its feathers and the long curling hair. I looked at the white lace collar and the straight, severe face between them. It was not a brutal face. But it was stiff, hard and stern, with a firm mouth and thin lips. The eyes were cold and unforgiving.

“Is it like anyone you know?”

“There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”

“Just a hint, perhaps. But wait a moment!” He stood on a chair. He held up the light in his left hand. Then he curved his right arm over the broad hat and round the long curls of hair.

“Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had jumped out of the canvas.

“Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to study faces, not the things around them. A criminal investigator must above all be able to see through a disguise.”

“But this is wonderful. It might be his portrait.”

“Yes. It is an interesting example of a throwback, both in body and in spirit. A study of family portraits is enough to make a man believe that the dead are born again. The fellow is a Baskerville. That is clear.”

“And he has plans to inherit the title and the estate.”

“Exactly. By chance this picture has given us one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him! I dare say that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering in our net. He will be as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!” He burst into one of his rare laughs as he turned away from the picture. I have not often heard him laugh. And his laugh has always meant something bad for somebody.

I got up early in the morning, but Holmes was up even earlier. As I dressed, I saw him coming up the drive.

“Yes, we should have a full day today,” he said. He rubbed his hands with the joy of action. “The nets are all in place, and soon we will begin to pull them in. Before the day is over we’ll know if we have caught our big pike with the thin jaws. Or perhaps he will slip through the holes in the net.”

“Have you been on the moor already?”

“I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown about Selden’s death. I think I can promise that none of you will have trouble about it. And I have also been in touch with my faithful Cartwright. He would certainly have waited sadly at the door of my hut until he died, like a dog at his master’s grave. So I had to tell him that I was safe.”

“What is the next move?”

“To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!”

“Good morning, Holmes,” said the baronet. “You look like a general who is planning a battle with his chief officer.”

“That is exactly the situation. Watson was asking for orders.”

“And so am I.”

“Very good. I understand that you are going to dine with our friends the Stapletons tonight.”

“I hope that you will come too. They are very hospitable people, and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you.”

“I am afraid that Watson and I must go to London.”

“To London?”

“Yes. I think that we would be more useful there at this moment.”

The baronet’s face clearly fell.

“I hoped that you were going to stay with me until the end of this business. The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone.”

“My dear fellow, you must trust me completely and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell your friends that we would have been happy to come with you. But urgent business made it necessary for us to be in town. We hope to return to Devonshire very soon. Will you remember to give them that message?”

“If you insist on it.”

“There is no other way, I promise you.”

I saw from the baronet’s dark face that he was deeply hurt. He felt that we were deserting him.

“When do you want to go?” he asked coldly.

“Right after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey. But Watson will leave his things here as a promise that he will come back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton. Tell him that you are sorry you cannot come.”

“I have a good mind to go to London with you,” said the baronet. “Why should I stay here alone?”

“Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that you would do as you were told. And I tell you to stay.”

“All right, then, I’ll stay.”

“One more order! I want you to drive to Merripit House. But send back your trap, and let them know that you plan to walk home.”

“To walk across the moor?”

“Yes.”

“But that is the very thing that you have so often warned me not to do.”

“This time you can do it safely. I have full confidence in your nerve and courage. If I did not, I would not suggest it. But it is essential that you do it.”

“Then I will do it.”

“And as you value your life, do not cross the moor in any direction except along the straight path. It leads from Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and it is your natural way home.”

“I will do just what you say.”

“Very good. I would like to get away as soon after breakfast as possible. Then we can reach London in the afternoon.”

I was very surprised by this plan. I did remember that Holmes had told Stapleton the night before that his visit would end the next day. But I had not expected him to want me to go with him. Nor could I understand how we could both be away at a moment which he himself called critical. However, there was nothing to do but obey him completely. So we said good-bye to our unhappy friend. A couple of hours later we were at the station of Coombe Tracey, and we had sent the trap back home. A small boy was waiting on the platform.

“Any orders, sir?”

“You will take this train to town, Cartwright. As soon as you arrive, you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville in my name. Say that I have dropped my pocketbook. If he finds it, he is to send it by registered post to Baker Street.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ask at the station office if there is a message for me.”

The boy came back with a telegram, and Holmes gave it to me. It said:

Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty. Lestrade.

“That is the answer to my wire of this morning. I think he is the best of the professionals, and we may need his help. Now, Watson, I think we cannot use our time better than by calling on your friend Mrs. Laura Lyons.”

His plan of campaign was beginning to be clear to me. He would use the baronet to make the Stapletons believe that we had really gone. But in fact we would come back at the moment when we were likely to be needed. Sir Henry might mention that telegram from London to the Stapletons. If he did, it would remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets closing around that pike with the thin jaws.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office. Sherlock Holmes began the interview so openly and so directly that she was quite amazed.

“I am investigating the circumstances of the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville,” he said. “My friend here, Dr. Watson, has told me what you said to him. He has also told me what you kept back about that matter.”

“What have I kept back?” she asked defiantly.

“You have admitted that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten o’clock. We know that this was the place and the hour of his death. You have kept back the connection between these events.”

“There is no connection.”

“In that case it must be a truly extraordinary coincidence. But I think that we shall be able to prove a connection after all. I want to be completely honest with you, Mrs. Lyons. We believe that this case is murder. And the evidence may show the guilt not only of your friend Mr. Stapleton, but of his wife as well.”

The lady jumped up from her chair.

“His wife!” she cried.

“It is no longer a secret. The person who has passed as his sister is really his wife.”

Mrs. Lyons had sat down again. Her hands were holding the arms of her chair so tightly that her pink nails had turned white.

“His wife!” she said again. “His wife! He is not a married man.”

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do that—!”

The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

“I have come ready to do so,” said Holmes. He took several papers from his pocket. “Here is a photograph of the couple. It was taken in York four years ago. On the back it says ‘Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur’. But you will easily recognise him. And you will recognise her too, if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur by witnesses whom we can trust. At that time they ran St. Oliver’s private school. Read them, and see if you can doubt who these people are.”

She looked at the papers quickly. Then she looked up at us with the stiff, hard face of a desperate woman.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, “this man offered to marry me if I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to me in every possible way, the villain. He has never told me one word of truth. And why—why? I believed that it was all for my sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why should I stay loyal to him, when he was never loyal to me? Why should I try to protect him from the results of his own wicked acts? Ask me anything you like, and I will hold nothing back. One thing I swear to you. When I wrote the letter, I never dreamed of any harm to the old gentleman. He had been my kindest friend.”

“I believe you completely, madam,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It must be very painful for you to tell these events. Perhaps it will be easier if I tell you what happened. You can stop me if I make any important mistake. Was it Stapleton who suggested that you should send this letter?”

“He dictated it.”

“I suppose that he gave you a reason. You would get help from Sir Charles to pay the legal costs of your divorce?”

“Exactly.”

“And then, after you had sent the letter, he persuaded you not to go to the meeting?”

“He told me that it would hurt his pride if any other man paid for such a thing. He said that he was a poor man himself. But he would spend his last penny to remove the obstacles between us.”

“He seems to be a very consistent character. And then you heard nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?”

“No.”

“And he made you swear to say nothing about your meeting with Sir Charles?”

“He did. He said that the death was very mysterious. If the facts came out, people would certainly suspect me. He frightened me into keeping silent.”

“Quite so. But you had your suspicions?”

She hesitated and looked down.

“I knew him,” she said. “But if he had stayed loyal to me, I would always have stayed loyal to him.”

“I think that, all in all, you have had a lucky escape,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You have had him in your power, and he knew it. And yet you are still alive. For some months you have been walking very near the edge of a cliff. We must say good morning to you now, Mrs. Lyons. You will probably hear from us again very soon.”

“Our case is becoming complete. One difficulty after another is disappearing in front of us,” said Holmes. We were standing at the station, waiting for the express from London. “Soon I shall be able to tell the whole story as one connected account. It is one of the strangest and most sensational crimes of modern times. Students of crime will remember similar events in Godno, in Little Russia, in the year ’66. And of course there are the Anderson murders in North Carolina. But this case has some features which are completely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very clever, cunning man. But I shall be very surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed tonight.”

The London express came roaring into the station. A small, wiry man jumped down from a first-class carriage. He looked like a bulldog. We all three shook hands. Lestrade looked at my companion with great respect. I saw at once that he had learned a lot since they had first worked together. I could well remember those days. Then the practical policeman used to laugh with scorn at the theories of the thinker.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“The biggest thing for years,” said Holmes. “We have two hours before we need to think of starting. I think we might use them to get some dinner. And then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your throat. We will give you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don’t suppose you will forget your first visit.”

### Glossary

- **mourn**: to feel and show great sadness because someone has died.
- **muzzle**: to put a cover over a dog’s mouth so that it cannot bite.
- **portrait**: a painting of a person.
- **Cavalier**: a gentleman who supported the king in the English Civil War, often with long hair and fine clothes.
- **throwback**: a person who looks or acts like an ancestor from long ago.
- **pike**: a large, fierce fish with long jaws and sharp teeth.
- **trap**: a small, light carriage pulled by a horse.
- **warrant**: an official paper that allows the police to arrest someone.
- **dictate**: to say words aloud so that another person can write them down.
- **consistent**: always behaving in the same way.

## Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles

Sherlock Holmes had one fault—if it really was a fault. He hated to tell his full plans to anyone else until the very moment when he carried them out. Partly, no doubt, this came from his own masterful nature. He loved to control and surprise the people around him. Partly it came from his professional caution, which told him never to take any chances. But the result was very hard for the people who worked for him as his agents and helpers. I had often suffered from it, but never more than during that long drive in the darkness. The great test was in front of us. At last we were about to make our final effort. And yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only guess what he planned to do. At last I felt the cold wind on our faces. I saw the dark, empty spaces on each side of the narrow road. Then I knew that we were back on the moor once again, and my nerves thrilled with excitement. Every step of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our greatest adventure.

We could not talk freely, because the driver of the hired wagonette was with us. So we had to talk about unimportant things, although our nerves were tight with emotion and excitement. It was hard to hold back like that. So I was relieved when at last we passed Frankland’s house. Then I knew that we were getting near to the Hall and to the place of action. We did not drive up to the door. We got down near the gate of the avenue. We paid the driver of the wagonette and told him to go back to Coombe Tracey at once. Then we started to walk to Merripit House.

“Are you armed, Lestrade?”

The little detective smiled. “As long as I have my trousers, I have a hip-pocket. And as long as I have my hip-pocket, I have something in it.”

“Good! My friend and I are also ready for trouble.”

“You’re keeping very quiet about this business, Mr. Holmes. What’s the game now?”

“A waiting game.”

“My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place,” said the detective, with a shiver. He looked round at the gloomy slopes of the hill. He looked at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. “I see the lights of a house ahead of us.”

“That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must ask you to walk on tiptoe. And please do not talk louder than a whisper.”

We moved carefully along the path as if we were going to the house. But Holmes stopped us when we were about two hundred yards from it.

“This will do,” he said. “These rocks on the right will hide us very well.”

“We are to wait here?”

“Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow, Lestrade. You have been inside the house, haven’t you, Watson? Can you tell us where the rooms are? What are those windows with small panes at this end?”

“I think they are the kitchen windows.”

“And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?”

“That is certainly the dining-room.”

“The blinds are up. You know the ground best. Creep forward quietly and see what they are doing. But for heaven’s sake, don’t let them know that someone is watching them!”

I walked on tiptoe down the path. I bent down behind the low wall which went round the orchard of small, bent trees. I crept along in its shadow until I reached a place where I could look straight through the window. It had no curtains.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat on either side of the round table, and I could see them from the side. Both of them were smoking cigars, and there was coffee and wine in front of them. Stapleton was talking in a lively way. But the baronet looked pale, and his mind seemed to be somewhere else. Perhaps he was thinking about that lonely walk across the unlucky moor. Perhaps that thought was weighing heavily on his mind.

As I watched them, Stapleton got up and left the room. Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, smoking his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the sharp sound of boots on gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall where I was hiding. I looked over the wall. I saw the naturalist stop at the door of a shed in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock. As he went in, there was a strange scuffling noise inside. He was inside for only a minute or so. Then I heard the key turn again, and he walked past me and went back into the house. I saw him join his guest again. Then I crept quietly back to my companions to tell them what I had seen.

“You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?” Holmes asked, when I had finished my report.

“No.”

“Where can she be, then? There is no light in any other room except the kitchen.”

“I cannot think where she is.”

I have said that a thick white fog hung over the great Grimpen Mire. It was drifting slowly towards us. On that side of us it piled itself up like a wall. The wall was low but thick, with clear edges. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great field of shining ice. The tops of the distant tors were like rocks floating on it. Holmes’s face was turned towards it. He muttered impatiently as he watched it move slowly towards us.

“It’s moving towards us, Watson.”

“Is that serious?”

“Very serious indeed. It is the one thing in the world that could spoil my plans. He can’t be very long now. It is already ten o’clock. Our success and even his life may depend on one thing. He must come out before the fog covers the path.”

Above us the night was clear and fine. The stars shone cold and bright. A half-moon covered the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. In front of us lay the dark shape of the house. Its jagged roof and its many chimneys stood out sharply against the silver, starry sky. Wide bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. Suddenly one of them went out. The servants had left the kitchen. There was only the lamp in the dining-room now. There the two men still chatted over their cigars—the murderous host and the guest who knew nothing.

Every minute that white, woolly plain which covered half the moor was drifting closer to the house. Already its first thin wisps were curling across the golden square of the lighted window. We could no longer see the far wall of the orchard. The trees were standing up out of a swirl of white mist. As we watched, the fog came crawling round both corners of the house. Slowly it rolled together into one thick bank. The upper floor and the roof floated on it like a strange ship on a shadowy sea. Holmes struck the rock in front of us hard with his hand. He stamped his feet in his impatience.

“If he isn’t out in a quarter of an hour, the path will be covered. In half an hour we won’t be able to see our hands in front of us.”

“Shall we move farther back, to higher ground?”

“Yes, I think that would be best.”

So as the bank of fog flowed on, we moved back in front of it. At last we were half a mile from the house. And still that thick white sea moved slowly on, and nothing could stop it. The moon made its upper edge silver.

“We are going too far,” said Holmes. “We cannot take the risk that the hound catches him before he reaches us. Whatever happens, we must stay where we are.” He dropped onto his knees and pressed his ear to the ground. “Thank God, I think that I hear him coming.”

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. We crouched among the stones and stared hard at the silver-topped bank of fog in front of us. The steps grew louder. Then, through the fog, as if through a curtain, stepped the man we were waiting for. He looked around him in surprise as he came out into the clear, starlit night. Then he came quickly along the path. He passed close to where we lay and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked, he kept looking over one shoulder and then the other. He looked like a man who is uneasy.

“Quiet!” cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a pistol as someone made it ready. “Look out! It’s coming!”

There was a thin, light, continuous patter from somewhere deep inside that crawling bank of fog. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay. All three of us stared at it. We did not know what horror was about to break out of it. I was next to Holmes, and I looked at his face for a moment. It was pale and full of triumph, and his eyes were shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly his eyes stared forward, stiff and fixed, and his mouth opened in amazement. At the same moment Lestrade gave a cry of terror. He threw himself face down on the ground. I jumped to my feet. My hand held my pistol, but it could not move. My mind was frozen by the dreadful shape which had sprung out at us from the shadows of the fog. It was a hound, an enormous hound, as black as coal. But no living person has ever seen a hound like this one. Fire burst from its open mouth. Its eyes glowed with a burning light. Its nose, the hair on its neck and the loose skin under its throat were all outlined in flickering flame. Nothing could be more savage, more terrible or more hellish than that dark shape and wild face. It came at us out of the wall of fog. Not even a madman in the worst of his fevered dreams could imagine such a thing.

The huge black creature was leaping down the path in long jumps. It followed close behind the footsteps of our friend. We were so frozen by the terrible sight that we let it pass before we found our courage again. Then Holmes and I both fired together. The creature gave a horrible howl, which showed that at least one of us had hit it. But it did not stop. It jumped on. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back. His face was white in the moonlight, and his hands were raised in horror. He stared helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown away all our fears. If it could be hurt, it was a living animal. And if we could wound it, we could kill it. I have never seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. People say that I am a fast runner. But he ran ahead of me as far as I ran ahead of the little detective. As we flew up the path, we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry in front of us. We heard the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast jump on its victim. It threw him to the ground and bit and tore at his throat. But the next moment Holmes had fired five shots from his revolver into the creature’s side. It gave a last howl of pain and snapped viciously in the air. Then it rolled onto its back, its four feet kicking wildly, and fell limp on its side. I bent down, breathing hard, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shining head. But there was no need to pull the trigger. The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay unconscious where he had fallen. We tore away his collar. Holmes said a prayer of thanks when we saw that there was no sign of a wound. We had saved him in time. Already our friend’s eyelids were trembling, and he made a weak effort to move. Lestrade pushed his brandy-flask between the baronet’s teeth. Then two frightened eyes looked up at us.

“My God!” he whispered. “What was it? What, in heaven’s name, was it?”

“It’s dead, whatever it is,” said Holmes. “We’ve put the family ghost to rest once and forever.”

The creature that lay stretched out in front of us was terrible in its size and strength alone. It was not a pure bloodhound, and it was not a pure mastiff. It seemed to be a mix of the two. It was thin, savage and as large as a small lioness. Even now, in the stillness of death, its huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame. Its small, cruel, deep-set eyes had rings of fire round them. I put my hand on the glowing nose. When I held up my hand, my own fingers glowed and shone in the darkness.

“Phosphorus,” I said.

“A clever mixture of it,” said Holmes, and he smelled the dead animal. “It has no smell which might have spoiled the dog’s sense of smell. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for giving you this fright. I was ready for a hound, but not for a creature like this. And the fog gave us little time to meet it.”

“You have saved my life.”

“After first putting it in danger. Are you strong enough to stand?”

“Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, help me up, please. What do you plan to do?”

“To leave you here. You are not fit for more adventures tonight. If you will wait, one of us will go back with you to the Hall.”

He tried to get to his feet, but he was unsteady. He was still terribly pale, and every part of his body was trembling. We helped him to a rock. He sat there shivering, with his face hidden in his hands.

“We must leave you now,” said Holmes. “The rest of our work must be done, and every moment is important. We have our case, and now we only need our man.

“It’s a thousand to one that we won’t find him at the house,” he went on, as we hurried back down the path. “Those shots must have told him that the game was over.”

“We were quite far away, and this fog may have made them quieter.”

“He followed the hound to call it back. You can be certain of that. No, no, he’s gone by now! But we’ll search the house and make sure.”

The front door was open, so we rushed in. We hurried from room to room. A shaky old manservant met us in the passage, and he was amazed. There was no light except in the dining-room. But Holmes picked up the lamp and searched every corner of the house. We could see no sign of the man we were chasing. But on the upper floor, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

“There’s someone in here!” cried Lestrade. “I can hear a movement. Open this door!”

A faint moaning and rustling came from inside. Holmes kicked the door with the flat of his foot, just above the lock. It flew open. With our pistols in our hands, all three of us rushed into the room.

But there was no sign of the desperate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. Instead we found something so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment and stared at it in amazement.

The room had been made into a small museum. Along the walls stood many glass-topped cases. They were full of his collection of butterflies and moths. Collecting them had been the hobby of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of the room there was an upright wooden post. Someone had put it there long ago to hold up the old roof beam, which was full of wormholes. A figure was tied to this post. It was so wrapped up in the sheets used to tie it that for a moment we could not tell if it was a man or a woman. One towel went round the throat and was tied at the back of the post. Another covered the lower part of the face. Above it, two dark eyes stared back at us. They were full of grief and shame and a dreadful question. In a minute we had torn off the gag and unwrapped the sheets. Mrs. Stapleton sank to the floor in front of us. As her beautiful head fell forward onto her chest, I saw a clear red mark across her neck. It was the mark of a whip.

“The brute!” cried Holmes. “Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She has fainted because of the cruel treatment and exhaustion.”

She opened her eyes again.

“Is he safe?” she asked. “Has he escaped?”

“He cannot escape us, madam.”

“No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

“And the hound?”

“It is dead.”

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!” She pushed her arms out of her sleeves. We saw with horror that they were covered in bruises. “But this is nothing—nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and made dirty. I could bear it all as long as I still hoped that he loved me. I could bear cruel treatment, loneliness, a life of lies—everything. But now I know that in this too he has fooled me and used me as his tool.” She began to sob wildly as she spoke.

“You feel no good will towards him, madam,” said Holmes. “Then tell us where we can find him. If you have ever helped him to do evil, help us now and make up for it.”

“There is only one place where he can have gone,” she answered. “There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. He kept his hound there. And he had also made preparations there, so that he would have a place to hide. That is where he would run to.”

The bank of fog lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the lamp up to it.

“See,” he said. “No one could find the way into the Grimpen Mire tonight.”

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth shone with fierce joy.

“He may find his way in, but he will never find his way out,” she cried. “How can he see the guiding sticks tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the path through the mire. Oh, if only I could have pulled them out today! Then you would really have had him in your power!”

It was clear to us that it was useless to follow him until the fog had lifted. In the meantime we left Lestrade in charge of the house. Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. We could no longer keep the story of the Stapletons from him. He learned the truth about the woman he had loved, and he took the blow bravely. But the shock of the night’s adventures had broken his nerves. Before morning he lay in a high fever, out of his mind, and Dr. Mortimer was looking after him. Later the two of them had to travel together round the world. Only after that was Sir Henry again the strong, healthy, cheerful man he had been. He had been like that before he became master of that unlucky estate.

And now I come quickly to the end of this strange story. In it I have tried to make the reader share our dark fears and vague guesses. For so long they clouded our lives, and they ended in such a tragic way. On the morning after the death of the hound, the fog had lifted. Mrs. Stapleton led us to the place where she and her husband had found a path through the bog. We saw how eager and happy she was to put us on her husband’s trail. That helped us to understand the horror of this woman’s life. We left her standing on a thin strip of firm, peaty ground, which became narrower as it went out into the wide bog. From its end, small sticks planted here and there showed where the path went. It zigzagged from one clump of rushes to the next. On both sides were pits covered with green slime and dirty, deep bogs. They blocked the way to any stranger. Tall, rotting reeds and thick, slimy water-plants filled the air with a smell of decay. A heavy, unhealthy mist rose into our faces. More than once a wrong step plunged us up to our thighs into the dark, shaking mire. It moved for yards around our feet in soft waves. Its strong grip pulled at our heels as we walked. When we sank into it, it felt like an evil hand that was pulling us down into those dirty depths. Its grip was so grim and so determined. Only once did we see a sign that someone had passed that dangerous way before us. A dark thing was sticking out of a clump of cotton grass, which held it up out of the slime. Holmes stepped off the path to grab it, and he sank to his waist. If we had not been there to pull him out, he could never have stood on firm land again. He held up an old black boot. “Meyers, Toronto” was printed on the leather inside.

“It is worth a mud bath,” he said. “It is our friend Sir Henry’s missing boot.”

“Stapleton threw it there as he ran away.”

“Exactly. He kept it in his hand after he used it to put the hound on Sir Henry’s track. When he knew that the game was over, he ran away, still holding it. And at this point in his flight he threw it away. At least we know that he got this far safely.”

But we were never to know more than that, although we could guess a lot. There was no chance of finding footprints in the mire, because the mud rose and quickly filled them. But at last we reached firmer ground on the other side of the bog. There we all looked eagerly for footprints. But we never saw the smallest sign of them. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached his island hiding-place that last night. He had struggled towards it through the fog. But somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, the huge bog sucked him in. Down in its dirty slime, this cold and cruel-hearted man is buried forever.

On the island in the bog, where he had hidden his savage helper, we found many signs of him. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half filled with rubbish showed where an old mine had been. Beside it were the ruins of the miners’ cottages. No doubt the miners had been driven away by the terrible smell of the swamp all around. In one of the cottages, a metal ring and a chain and a pile of chewed bones showed where the animal had been kept. Among the rubbish lay a skeleton with a tangle of brown hair still stuck to it.

“A dog!” said Holmes. “By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not think that this place holds any secret which we have not already discovered. He could hide his hound, but he could not keep it quiet. That is why there were those cries, which were not pleasant to hear even in daylight. When necessary, he could keep the hound in the shed at Merripit. But it was always a risk. He dared to do it only on the great day which he thought would be the end of all his efforts. This paste in the tin is no doubt the shining mixture that he painted on the creature. Of course, the idea came from the story of the family hell-hound. It also came from his wish to frighten old Sir Charles to death. The poor devil of a convict saw such a creature jumping after him through the darkness of the moor. No wonder he ran and screamed! Our friend did the same, and so might we. It was a clever trick. It might drive your victim to his death. And apart from that, many peasants have seen the creature on the moor. If a peasant saw such a thing, would he dare to look at it too closely? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now. We have never yet helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than the one who is lying over there.” He swept his long arm towards the huge spotted stretch of bog. Its green patches stretched far away until they joined the reddish-brown slopes of the moor.

### Glossary

- **ambush**: hiding and waiting to attack or catch someone.
- **orchard**: a piece of land where fruit trees grow.
- **phosphorus**: a chemical that shines in the dark.
- **bloodhound / mastiff**: very large, strong kinds of dog.
- **gag**: a piece of cloth put over or in someone’s mouth so that they cannot speak or shout.
- **bruise**: a dark mark on the skin where someone has been hit.
- **mire / bog**: soft, wet, muddy ground that a person or animal can sink into.
- **rushes / reeds**: tall grass-like plants that grow in wet places.
- **shaft**: a deep, narrow hole that goes down into a mine.
- **peasant**: a poor person who works on the land in the country.

## Chapter 15. A Retrospection

It was the end of November. On a cold, wet and foggy night, Holmes and I sat on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. Our visit to Devonshire had ended tragically. Since then he had worked on two affairs of the greatest importance. In the first, he had shown the shocking behaviour of Colonel Upwood in the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club. In the second, he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier. She had been accused of the murder of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carére. Readers will remember that the young lady was found six months later in New York, alive and married. My friend was in excellent spirits after his success in a series of difficult and important cases. So I was able to persuade him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for this chance. I knew that he would never let one case run into another. His clear and logical mind would not leave its present work to think about memories of the past. But Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were in London. They were about to start that long voyage which had been recommended to repair his broken nerves. They had visited us that very afternoon. So it was natural that we should talk about the case.

“From the point of view of the man who called himself Stapleton,” said Holmes, “the whole course of events was simple and direct. But at the beginning we had no way of knowing the reasons for his actions. We could only learn part of the facts. So to us it all seemed extremely complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton. The case has now been cleared up so completely that I do not know of anything that is still a secret to us. You will find a few notes on the matter under the letter B in my list of cases.”

“Perhaps you would kindly give me an outline of the events from memory.”

“Certainly, though I cannot promise that I remember all the facts. When the mind concentrates very hard, it has a strange way of wiping out what has passed. Think of a lawyer who knows his case perfectly. He can argue with an expert on the expert’s own subject. But after a week or two in the courts, it has all gone out of his head again. In the same way, each of my cases pushes out the one before it. Mlle. Carére has made my memory of Baskerville Hall unclear. Tomorrow some other little problem may come to me. Then it will push out the beautiful French lady and the wicked Upwood in their turn. But I will tell you the events of the case of the hound as well as I can. And you can remind me of anything that I may have forgotten.

“My inquiries show beyond all doubt that the family portrait did not lie. This fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles. Rodger ran away to South America with a very bad reputation. People said that he died there unmarried. But in fact he did marry, and he had one child—this fellow. His real name is the same as his father’s. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beautiful women of Costa Rica. Then he stole a large sum of public money. He changed his name to Vandeleur and ran away to England. There he started a school in the east of Yorkshire. Why did he try this particular kind of business? On the voyage home he had made friends with a tutor who had a serious lung disease. He used this man’s ability to make the school a success. But Fraser, the tutor, died. The school had begun well, but first it got a bad name and then a shameful one. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton. He brought what was left of his fortune to the south of England. He also brought his plans for the future and his love of insects. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognised expert on the subject. In his Yorkshire days he was the first to describe a certain moth. The name of Vandeleur has been given to that moth forever.

“Now we come to the part of his life which has been of such great interest to us. The fellow had clearly made inquiries. He found that only two lives stood between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire, I believe that his plans were still very vague. But he meant to do harm from the beginning. That is clear from the way he took his wife with him and pretended that she was his sister. He clearly already had the idea of using her as a decoy. But perhaps he was not yet sure how to arrange the details of his plot. In the end he meant to have the estate. To get it, he was ready to use any tool or to take any risk. First he settled as near to his family’s old home as he could. Second, he made friends with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

“The baronet himself told him about the family hound. In this way Sir Charles prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton—I will go on calling him that—knew that the old man’s heart was weak. He knew that a shock would kill him. He had learned this from Dr. Mortimer. He had also heard that Sir Charles was superstitious and took this grim legend very seriously. His clever mind at once saw a way to kill the baronet. And it would hardly be possible to prove that the real murderer was guilty.

“Once he had the idea, he carried it out with great skill. An ordinary schemer would have been happy to work with a savage hound. But the use of artificial means to make the creature look like a devil was a flash of genius. He bought the dog in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage dog that they had. He brought it down on the North Devon railway line. Then he walked a long way over the moor, so that nobody would notice it and talk about it. On his insect hunts he had already learned how to get into the Grimpen Mire. So he had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. There he kept it in a kennel and waited for his chance.

“But his chance was slow in coming. The old gentleman could not be tempted out of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton waited secretly with his hound, but with no success. During these useless trips, peasants saw him—or rather, they saw his partner, the dog. That made the legend of the demon dog seem true once again. He had hoped that his wife might lead Sir Charles to his ruin. But here she showed unexpected independence. She refused to make the old gentleman fall in love with her, because that might deliver him to his enemy. Threats did not move her. I am sorry to say that even blows did not move her. She would have nothing to do with it. For a time Stapleton was stuck.

“Then he found a way out of his difficulties by chance. Sir Charles had become his friend. He asked Stapleton to hand out his charity money to this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons. Stapleton pretended to be a single man, and in this way he gained complete power over her. He let her understand that he would marry her if she got a divorce from her husband. Suddenly he learned that Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer. Stapleton himself pretended to agree with that advice. This news forced him to act. He must act at once, or his victim might escape from his power. So he put pressure on Mrs. Lyons to write that letter. In it she begged the old man to meet her on the evening before he left for London. Then Stapleton gave her an argument which sounded reasonable but was false. With it he stopped her from going. And so he had the chance he had been waiting for.

“He drove back from Coombe Tracey in the evening. He was in time to get his hound and paint it with his devilish paint. Then he brought the beast round to the gate. He had good reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman waiting there. The dog, urged on by its master, jumped over the moor-gate. It chased the unfortunate baronet, who ran screaming down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must have been a truly dreadful sight. That huge black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, came leaping after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept to the strip of grass at the side, while the baronet had run down the path. So only the man’s track could be seen. When the creature saw him lying still, it probably came up to sniff at him. But it found that he was dead, and so it turned away again. It was then that it left the footprint which Dr. Mortimer actually saw. The hound was called back. It hurried away to its den in the Grimpen Mire. It left behind a mystery which puzzled the authorities and frightened the countryside. In the end, the case came to us.

“That is the story of Sir Charles Baskerville’s death. You see how devilishly cunning it was. It would really be almost impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only partner in the crime could never betray him. And because the trick was so strange and so unbelievable, it worked even better. Both of the women in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion of Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had plans against the old man. She also knew that the hound existed. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things. But she had noticed that the death came at the time of a meeting which was never cancelled. And only Stapleton knew about that meeting. However, both women were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully done. But the more difficult half still remained.

“Perhaps Stapleton did not know that there was an heir in Canada. In any case, he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer. Dr. Mortimer told him all the details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton’s first idea was that he might kill this young stranger from Canada in London. Then Sir Henry would never come down to Devonshire at all. Stapleton had not trusted his wife since she had refused to help him to trap the old man. He did not dare to leave her out of his sight for long. He was afraid that he would lose his power over her. That was why he took her to London with him. I have found out that they stayed at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street. In fact, it was one of the hotels that my agent visited in his search for evidence. There Stapleton kept his wife locked in her room. Meanwhile he put on a false beard and followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street. Later he followed him to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some idea of his plans. But she was very afraid of her husband, because he had treated her brutally. So she did not dare to write and warn the man who she knew was in danger. If Stapleton found the letter, her own life would not be safe. In the end, as we know, she found a way. She cut out the words for the message, and she wrote the address in a disguised hand. The letter reached the baronet and gave him the first warning of his danger.

“It was essential for Stapleton to get something of Sir Henry’s clothing. If he had to use the dog, he would always have the means to set it on Sir Henry’s track. He started at once, as quick and as bold as ever. We cannot doubt that he paid the boots or the chamber-maid of the hotel well to help him. But by chance, the first boot that they got for him was a new one. So it was useless for his purpose. Then he had it returned and got another one. That incident taught me a great deal. It proved to me without doubt that we were dealing with a real hound. Nothing else could explain why he wanted an old boot so badly and did not care about a new one. The more *outré* and strange an incident is, the more carefully we should examine it. A point may seem to make a case more complicated. But if we think about it carefully and handle it scientifically, that very point is the one most likely to explain the case.

“Then our friends visited us the next morning. Stapleton followed them all the time in the cab. He knew where our rooms were and what I looked like. And there was the way he behaved in general. All this makes me think that his life of crime was not limited to this one Baskerville affair. Something else is suggestive. In the last three years there have been four large burglaries in the west of England. No criminal was ever arrested for any of them. The last was at Folkestone Court, in May. In that one, a masked burglar who was working alone was surprised by the page-boy. The burglar shot the boy in cold blood. I cannot doubt that Stapleton refilled his shrinking supply of money in this way. For years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.

“That morning, when he escaped from us so successfully, we saw how quick and clever he was. We also saw how bold he was, when he sent my own name back to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London. So he knew that he had no chance there. He went back to Dartmoor and waited for the baronet to arrive.”

“One moment!” I said. “No doubt you have described the events in the right order. But there is one point which you have not explained. What happened to the hound while its master was in London?”

“I have given some thought to this matter, and it is certainly important. There is no doubt that Stapleton had someone he trusted. But he probably never shared all his plans with this person. That would have put him in the man’s power. There was an old manservant at Merripit House whose name was Anthony. We can trace his connection with the Stapletons back for several years, as far as the days when they ran the school. So he must have known that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. Now, Anthony is not a common name in England. But Antonio is a common name in all Spanish and Spanish-American countries. That is suggestive. The man spoke good English, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, but with a strange, lisping accent. I myself have seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked. So it is very probable that he looked after the hound while his master was away. But perhaps he never knew what the beast was used for.

“The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire. Sir Henry and you soon followed them there. Now a word about my own position at that time. Perhaps you remember that I examined the paper with the printed words very closely. I was looking for a water-mark. To do this, I held it a few inches from my eyes. And I noticed a faint smell of the perfume called white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, and a criminal expert really must be able to tell them apart. More than once in my own experience, a case has depended on recognising a perfume quickly. The perfume suggested that a lady was involved. And so my thoughts already began to turn towards the Stapletons. So before we ever went to the west of England, I was sure about the hound. And I had guessed who the criminal was.

“My plan was to watch Stapleton. But it was clear that I could not do this if I were with you. He would be very much on his guard. So I deceived everybody, including you. I came down secretly while everyone thought I was in London. My hardships were not as great as you imagined. And anyway, such small matters must never get in the way of an investigation. I stayed mostly at Coombe Tracey. I only used the hut on the moor when I needed to be near the place of action. Cartwright had come down with me. He was disguised as a country boy, and he was a great help to me. I depended on him for food and clean shirts. While I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was often watching you. In this way I was able to hold all the strings in my hand.

“I have already told you that your reports reached me quickly. They were sent on at once from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were very useful to me. The most useful was that one true piece of Stapleton’s life story, which he told you by chance. With it I was able to find out who the man and the woman really were. At last I knew exactly where I stood. The case had become much more complicated because of the escaped convict and his connection with the Barrymores. You cleared this up very effectively too. But I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations.

“By the time you found me on the moor, I knew everything about the whole business. But I did not have a case that I could take to a jury. Stapleton made an attempt on Sir Henry that night, but it ended in the death of the unfortunate convict. Even that did not help us much to prove that our man was a murderer. There seemed to be no other way but to catch him in the act. To do that, we had to use Sir Henry as bait. He had to be alone and, as it seemed, without protection. We did this. It cost our client a terrible shock, but we succeeded in completing our case. And we drove Stapleton to his destruction. I must admit that I managed the case badly, because Sir Henry was put in such danger. But we had no way of knowing how terrible the beast would look. The sight of it froze us. Nor could we know that the fog would come and let it burst on us so suddenly. We reached our goal at a cost. But both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer tell me that the harm will not last. A long journey may help our friend to recover from his broken nerves. It may also help him to recover from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere. For him, the saddest part of all this black business was that she had deceived him.

“Now I only need to explain the part that she played from beginning to end. There is no doubt that Stapleton had a strong power over her. Perhaps it was love, or perhaps it was fear. Very possibly it was both, because the two feelings can easily exist together. In any case, his power worked completely. On his orders she agreed to pretend that she was his sister. But there was a limit to his power over her. He found it when he tried to make her a direct partner in murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry, as far as she could without getting her husband into trouble. Again and again she tried to warn him. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy. He saw the baronet courting the lady. That was part of his own plan. But still he could not help interrupting them with a passionate outburst. It showed the fiery soul that his calm, controlled manner hid so cleverly. By encouraging the friendship, he made sure that Sir Henry would often come to Merripit House. Then sooner or later he would get the chance he wanted. But on the day of the crisis, his wife suddenly turned against him. She had learned something about the death of the convict. And she knew something else. On the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner, the hound was being kept in the shed. She accused her husband of planning a crime. There was a furious scene. In it he showed her for the first time that there was another woman in his love. At that moment her loyalty turned into bitter hatred. He saw that she would betray him. So he tied her up, so that she would have no chance to warn Sir Henry. No doubt he hoped that the whole countryside would blame the baronet’s death on the family curse. And they certainly would. Then, he hoped, he could win his wife back. She would accept what had happened and keep silent about what she knew. I think that he made a mistake here in any case. Even if we had not been there, his fate would still have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not forgive such a wrong so easily. And now, my dear Watson, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this strange case without looking at my notes. I do not think that anything important has been left unexplained.”

“He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death with his monster hound, as he had done with the old uncle.”

“The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would stop him from fighting back.”

“No doubt. There is only one difficulty left. Suppose Stapleton had inherited the estate and the title. How could he explain one fact? He, the heir, had been living close to the property under another name. And he had told nobody who he was. How could he claim it without causing suspicion and questions?”

“It is a great difficulty. I am afraid that you ask too much if you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are my field of inquiry. But what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem several times. There were three possible ways. He might claim the property from South America. He could prove who he was to the British authorities there. In that way he could get the fortune without ever coming to England at all. Or he might wear a clever disguise during the short time that he needed to be in London. Or, again, he might give a partner the proofs and papers. He would put this man in as the heir and keep a right to part of his income. From what we know of him, we cannot doubt that he would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of hard work. For one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts to more pleasant things. I have a box for *Les Huguenots*. Have you heard the De Reszkes? Could I ask you, then, to be ready in half an hour? We can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way.”

### THE END

### Glossary

- **retrospection**: looking back at events in the past.
- **scandal**: an event that shocks people because someone has behaved very badly.
- **decoy**: a person or thing used to lead someone into a trap.
- **schemer**: a person who makes secret, clever plans, often to do something wrong.
- **kennel**: a small house or place where a dog is kept.
- **the boots**: the hotel servant who cleans the guests’ boots.
- **outré**: a French word: very strange, extreme or unusual.
- **burglary**: the crime of breaking into a building to steal things.
- **page**: a boy servant in a large house.
- **jessamine**: a plant with white flowers and a sweet smell (also called jasmine).
- **bait**: something used to attract an animal or person into a trap.
- **a box** (at the opera)**: a small private area with seats, separate from the other seats.