ArcaMax Publishing > Books > Fiction > The Hound of the Baskervilles > Section 5
The Hound of the Baskervilles

Arthur Conan Doyle

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



Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.
MY DEAR HOLMES:
If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early
days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for
lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon
us.  In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore
at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will,
unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you.  Things
have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated.  In some
ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much
clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated.  But
I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself.

Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went
down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had
been on the night before.  The western window through which he
had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all
other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on to
the moor.  There is an opening between two trees which enables
one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while
from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which
can be obtained.  It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since
only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking
out for something or somebody upon the moor.  The night was very
dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to
see anyone.  It had struck me that it was possible that some
love intrigue was on foot.  That would have accounted for his
stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife.  The
man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal
the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have
something to support it.  That opening of the door which I had
heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had
gone out to keep some clandestine appointment.  So I reasoned
with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my
suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were
unfounded.

But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might
be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until
I could explain them was more than I could bear.  I had an interview
with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all
that I had seen.  He was less surprised than I had expected.

"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to
speak to him about it," said he.  "Two or three times I have heard
his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour
you name."

"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular
window," I suggested.

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

"I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said
I.  "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

"Then we shall do it together."

"But surely he would hear us."

"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance
of that.  We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he
passes."  Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was
evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat
quiet life upon the moor.

The baronet has been in communication with the architect who
prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from
London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon.
There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and
it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare
no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family.  When
the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need
will be a wife to make it complete.  Between ourselves there are
pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is
willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a
woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton.
And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly
as one would under the circumstances expect.  Today, for example,
its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has
caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance.

After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir
Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out.  As a matter of
course I did the same.

"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a
curious way.

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

"Yes, I am."

"Well, you know what my instructions are.  I am sorry to intrude,
but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave
you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor."

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

"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not
foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the
moor.  You understand me?  I am sure that you are the last man
in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport.  I must go out
alone."

It put me in a most awkward position.  I was at a loss what to
say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up
his cane and was gone.

But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached
me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of
my sight.  I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return
to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through
my disregard for your instructions.  I assure you my cheeks flushed
at the very thought.  It might not even now be too late to overtake
him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House.

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing
anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor
path branches off.  There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the
wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could
command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry.
Thence I saw him at once.  He was on the moor path about a quarter
of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss
Stapleton.  It was clear that there was already an understanding
between them and that they had met by appointment.  They were
walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest
in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or
twice shook his head in strong dissent.  I stood among the rocks
watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next.
To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed
to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant
to let him out of my sight.  To act the spy upon a friend was a
hateful task.  Still, I could see no better course than to observe
him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to
him afterwards what I had done.  It is true that if any sudden
danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and
yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was
very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and
were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was
suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview.
A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another
glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was
moving among the broken ground.  It was Stapleton with his
butterfly-net.  He was very much closer to the pair than I was,
and he appeared to be moving in their direction.  At this instant
Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side.  His arm was
round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from
him with her face averted.  He stooped his head to hers, and she
raised one hand as if in protest.  Next moment I saw them spring
apart and turn hurriedly round.  Stapleton was the cause of the
interruption.  He was running wildly towards them, his absurd
net dangling behind him.  He gesticulated and almost danced with
excitement in front of the lovers.  What the scene meant I could
not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir
Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the
other refused to accept them.  The lady stood by in haughty silence.
Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory
way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry,
walked off by the side of her brother.  The naturalist's angry
gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure.
The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he
walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging,
the very picture of dejection.

What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed
to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge.
I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom.
His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like
one who is at his wit's ends what to do.

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

I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to
remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed
all that had occurred.  For an instant his eyes blazed at me,
but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into
a rather rueful laugh.

"You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the
whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--
and a mighty poor wooing at that!  Where had you engaged a seat?"

"I was on that hill."

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

"Yes, I did."

"Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?"

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

"I dare say not.  I always thought him sane enough until today,
but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in
a straitjacket.  What's the matter with me, anyhow?  You've lived
near me for some weeks, Watson.  Tell me straight, now!  Is there
anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a
woman that I loved?"

"I should say not."

"He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself
that he has this down on.  What has he against me?  I never hurt
man or woman in my life that I know of.  And yet he would not so
much as let me touch the tips of her fingers."

"Did he say so?"

"That, and a deal more.  I tell you, Watson, I've only known her
these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made
for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that
I'll swear.  There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder
than words.  But he has never let us get together and it was only
today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words
with her alone.  She was glad to meet me, but when she did it
was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let
me talk about it either if she could have stopped it.  She kept
coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she
would never be happy until I had left it.  I told her that since
I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she
really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to
arrange to go with me.  With that I offered in as many words to
marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother
of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman.  He was
just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
with fury.  What was I doing with the lady?  How dared I offer
her attentions which were distasteful to her?  Did I think that
because I was a baronet I could do what I liked?  If he had not
been her brother I should have known better how to answer him.
As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were
such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might
honour me by becoming my wife.  That seemed to make the matter
no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him
rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she
was standing by.  So it ended by his going off with her, as you
saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county.
Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more
than ever I can hope to pay."

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
puzzled myself.  Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his
character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
family.  That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without
any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should
accept the situation without protest is very amazing.  However,
our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself
that very afternoon.  He had come to offer apologies for his
rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with
Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that
the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit
House next Friday as a sign of it.

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

"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

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

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

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

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
distance.  Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out
in pursuit.  Already our man had gone round the gallery and the
corridor was all in darkness.  Softly we stole along until we had
come into the other wing.  We were just in time to catch a glimpse
of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he
tiptoed down the passage.  Then he passed through the same door
as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness
and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor.
We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we
dared to put our whole weight upon it.  We had taken the precaution
of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped
and creaked beneath our tread.  Sometimes it seemed impossible
that he should fail to hear our approach.  However, the man is
fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that
which he was doing.  When at last we reached the door and peeped
through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his
white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen
him two nights before.

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to
whom the most direct way is always the most natural.  He walked
into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the
window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and
trembling, before us.  His dark eyes, glaring out of the white
mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed
from Sir Henry to me.

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

"Nothing, sir."  His agitation was so great that he could hardly
speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
candle.  "It was the window, sir.  I go round at night to see that
they are fastened."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes, sir, all the windows."

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up
our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble
to tell it sooner rather than later.  Come, now!  No lies!  What
were you doing at that window?"

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

"I was doing no harm, sir.  I was holding a candle to the window."

"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

"Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me!  I give you my word, sir,
that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it.  If it
concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
trembling hand of the butler.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I.  "Let us see
if there is any answer."  I held it as he had done, and stared
out into the darkness of the night.  Vaguely I could discern the
black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for
the moon was behind the clouds.  And then I gave a cry of exultation,
for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the
dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square
framed by the window.

"There it is!"  I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke
in; "I assure you, sir--"

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet.
"See, the other moves also!  Now, you rascal, do you deny that
it is a signal?  Come, speak up!  Who is your confederate out
yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?"

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

"Then you leave my employment right away."

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

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

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!"  It was a woman's voice, and
Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horrorstruck than her husband, was
standing at the door.  Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt
might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling
upon her face.

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

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

"Speak out, then!  What does it mean?"

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

"Then your brother is--"

"The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."

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

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

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

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

"Is this true, Barrymore?"

"Yes, Sir Henry.  Every word of it."

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

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

"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

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

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

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

"Not more than a mile or two off."

"Hardly that."

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

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

"I will come," said I.

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

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

"Are you armed?"  I asked.

"I have a hunting-crop."

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

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

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

"My God, what's that, Watson?"

"I don't know.  It's a sound they have on the moor.  I heard it
once before."

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

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

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

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

"Who?"

"The folk on the countryside."

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

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

I hesitated but could not escape the question.

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

He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

"A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from
miles away, over yonder, I think."

"It was hard to say whence it came."

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

"Yes, it is."

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

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

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

"No, no."

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

It was as cold as a block of marble.

"You'll be all right tomorrow."

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

"Shall we turn back?"

"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will
do it.  We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not,
after us.  Come on!  We'll see it through if all the fiends of
the pit were loose upon the moor."

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of
the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
steadily in front.  There is nothing so deceptive as the distance
of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer
seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might
have been within a few yards of us.  But at last we could see
whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close.
A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which
flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also
to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of
Baskerville Hall.  A boulder of granite concealed our approach,
and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light.
It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the
middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one
straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

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

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

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him.  Over
the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was
thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed
and scored with vile passions.  Foul with mire, with a bristling
beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to
one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides.
The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes
which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like
a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.

Something had evidently aroused his suspicions.  It may have been
that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to
give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking
that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked
face.  Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the
darkness.  I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.
At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and
hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had
sheltered us.  I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly
built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run.  At the
same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.
We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running
with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones
in his way with the activity of a mountain goat.  A lucky long
shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought
it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed
man who was running away.

We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we
soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him.  We saw him
for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck
moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill.
We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space
between us grew ever wider.  Finally we stopped and sat panting
on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance.

And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
unexpected thing.  We had risen from our rocks and were turning
to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase.  The moon was
low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor
stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc.  There,
outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background,
I saw the figure of a man upon the tor.  Do not think that it
was a delusion, Holmes.  I assure you that I have never in my
life seen anything more clearly.  As far as I could judge, the
figure was that of a tall, thin man.  He stood with his legs a
little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which
lay before him.  He might have been the very spirit of that
terrible place.  It was not the convict.  This man was far from
the place where the latter had disappeared.  Besides, he was a
much taller man.  With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to
the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to
grasp his arm the man was gone.  There was the sharp pinnacle of
granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak
bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure.

I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it
was some distance away.  The baronet's nerves were still quivering
from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and
he was not in the mood for fresh adventures.  He had not seen
this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which
his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me.
"A warder, no doubt," said he.  "The moor has been thick with
them since this fellow escaped."  Well, perhaps his explanation
may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof
of it.  Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people
where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines
that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back
as our own prisoner.  Such are the adventures of last night, and
you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very
well in the matter of a report.  Much of what I tell you is no
doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I
should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for
yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping
you to your conclusions.  We are certainly making some progress.
So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their
actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much.  But
the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains
as inscrutable as ever.  Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw
some light upon this also.  Best of all would it be if you could
come down to us.  In any case you will hear from me again in the
course of the next few days.




Chapter 10
Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson



So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes.  Now,
however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am
compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my
recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time.  A
few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes
which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory.  I
proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase
of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

October 16th.  A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain.  The
house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then
to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins
upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming
where the light strikes upon their wet faces.  It is melancholy
outside and in.  The baronet is in a black reaction after the
excitements of the night.  I am conscious myself of a weight at
my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger,
which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.

And have I not cause for such a feeling?  Consider the long
sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister
influence which is at work around us.  There is the death of the
last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions
of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from
peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor.
Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the
distant baying of a hound.  It is incredible, impossible, that it
should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature.  A spectral
hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its
howling is surely not to be thought of.  Stapleton may fall in
with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one
quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade
me to believe in such a thing.  To do so would be to descend to
the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere
fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from
his mouth and eyes.  Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and
I am his agent.  But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
crying upon the moor.  Suppose that there were really some huge
hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything.  But
where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food,
where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day?  It
must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as
many difficulties as the other.  And always, apart from the hound,
there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the
cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor.  This
at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting
friend as easily as of an enemy.  Where is that friend or enemy
now?  Has he remained in London, or has he followed us down here?
Could he--could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?

It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet
there are some things to which I am ready to swear.  He is no
one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the
neighbours.  The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton,
far thinner than that of Frankland.  Barrymore it might possibly
have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that
he could not have followed us.  A stranger then is still dogging
us, just as a stranger dogged us in London.  We have never shaken
him off.  If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we
might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties.  To this
one purpose I must now devote all my energies.

My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans.  My second
and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as
possible to anyone.  He is silent and distrait.  His nerves have
been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor.  I will say
nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to
attain my own end.

We had a small scene this morning after breakfast.  Barrymore
asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in
his study some little time.  Sitting in the billiard-room I more
than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty
good idea what the point was which was under discussion.  After
a time the baronet opened his door and called for me.
"Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said.  "He
thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law
down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret."

The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I
am sure that I beg your pardon.  At the same time, I was very
much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this
morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden.  The poor
fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon
his track."

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

"I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry--
indeed I didn't."

"The man is a public danger.  There are lonely houses scattered
over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing.
You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that.  Look at
Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to
defend it.  There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock
and key."

"He'll break into no house, sir.  I give you my solemn word upon
that.  But he will never trouble anyone in this country again.
I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary
arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to
South America.  For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the
police know that he is still on the moor.  They have given up the
chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him.
You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble.
I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police."

"What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "If he were safely out of the country
it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

"But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?"

"He would not do anything so mad, sir.  We have provided him with
all that he can want.  To commit a crime would be to show where
he was hiding."

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

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

"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson?  But, after
what we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so
there is an end of it.  All right, Barrymore, you can go."

With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he
hesitated and then came back.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the
best I can for you in return.  I know something, Sir Henry, and
perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the
inquest that I found it out.  I've never breathed a word about
it yet to mortal man.  It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

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

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

"What then?"

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

"To meet a woman!  He?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the woman's name?"

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

"How do you know this, Barrymore?"

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning.  He had
usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well
known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was
glad to turn to him.  But that morning, as it chanced, there was
only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it.  It was
from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
done had it not been for my wife.  Only a few weeks ago she was
cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since
his death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back
of the grate.  The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but
one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing
could still be read, though it was gray on a black ground.  It
seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the letter and it
said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter,
and be at the gate by ten o clock.  Beneath it were signed the
initials L. L."

"Have you got that slip?"

"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

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

"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters.  I should
not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone."

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

"No, sir.  No more than you have.  But I expect if we could lay
our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's
death."

"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this
important information."

"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came
to us.  And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir
Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for
us.  To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well
to go carefully when there's a lady in the case.  Even the best
of us--"

"You thought it might injure his reputation?"

"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it.  But now you have
been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly
not to tell you all that I know about the matter."

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

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

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

"Let Holmes know all about it at once.  It will give him the clue
for which he has been seeking.  I am much mistaken if it does not
bring him down."

I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's
conversation for Holmes.  It was evident to me that he had been
very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street
were few and short, with no comments upon the information which
I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission.  No doubt
his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties.  And yet
this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his
interest.  I wish that he were here.

October 17th.  All day today the rain poured down, rustling on
the ivy and dripping from the eaves.  I thought of the convict
out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor.  Poor devil!  Whatever
his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them.  And
then I thought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figure
against the moon.  Was he also out in that deluged--the unseen
watcher, the man of darkness?  In the evening I put on my
waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark
imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling
about my ears.  God help those who wander into the great mire now,
for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.  I found the
black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from
its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs.
Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy,
slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in
gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills.  In the
distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two
thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees.  They were
the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those
prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills.
Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen
on the same spot two nights before.

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
farmhouse of Foulmire.  He has been very attentive to us, and
hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to
see how we were getting on.  He insisted upon my climbing into
his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward.  I found him much
troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel.  It had
wandered on to the moor and had never come back.  I gave him such
consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen
Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

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

"Hardly any, I think."

"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are
L. L.?"

He thought for a few minutes.

"No," said he.  "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for
whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no
one whose initials are those.  Wait a bit though," he added after
a pause.  "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she
lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?"  I asked.

"She is Frankland's daughter."

"What!  Old Frankland the crank?"

"Exactly.  She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching
on the moor.  He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her.  The
fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.  Her
father refused to have anything to do with her because she had
married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other
reasons as well.  So, between the old sinner and the young one
the girl has had a pretty bad time."

"How does she live?"

"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be
more, for his own affairs are considerably involved.  Whatever
she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly
to the bad.  Her story got about, and several of the people here
did something to enable her to earn an honest living.  Stapleton
did for one, and Sir Charles for another.  I gave a trifle myself.
It was to set her up in a typewriting business."

He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is
no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence.  Tomorrow
morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see
this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will
have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of
mysteries.  I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,
for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent
I asked him casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and
so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive.  I have
not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
and melancholy day.  This was my conversation with Barrymore
just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play
in due time.

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

"Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed,
or is he still lurking out yonder?"

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

"Did you see him then?"

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

"Then he was certainly there?"

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

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

"You know that there is another man then?"

"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, sir."

"How do you know of him then?"

"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more.  He's in hiding,
too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out.  I don't
like it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like
it."  He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.

"Now, listen to me, Barrymore!  I have no interest in this matter
but that of your master.  I have come here with no object except to
help him.  Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like."

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst
or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

"It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand
towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor.  "There's foul
play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll
swear!  Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way
back to London again!"

"But what is it that alarms you?"

"Look at Sir Charles's death!  That was bad enough, for all that
the coroner said.  Look at the noises on the moor at night.  There's
not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it.  Look
at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting!
What's he waiting for?  What does it mean?  It means no good to
anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to
be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are
ready to take over the Hall."

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

"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing
away.  At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he
found that he had some lay of his own.  A kind of gentleman he
was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not
make out."

"And where did he say that he lived?"

"Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the
old folk used to live."

"But how about his food?"

"Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and
brings all he needs.  I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for
what he wants."

"Very good, Barrymore.  We may talk further of this some other
time."  When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window,
and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at
the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees.  It is a wild night
indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.  What
passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a
place at such a time!  And what deep and earnest purpose can he
have which calls for such a trial!  There, in that hut upon the
moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has
vexed me so sorely.  I swear that another day shall not have
passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
of the mystery.
Prev Next All
Printer Friendly Version | Send this page to a friend | Discuss this Book
Your email address is safe with us. View our Privacy policy.

The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan W.S. Gilbert Category: Plays Sections: 50 What's this? Table of Contents		Non Fiction Short Stories Poetry Plays Sci Fi Philosophy Religion Biography