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The Hound of the Baskervilles

Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter 13
Fixing the Nets



"We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together
across the moor.  "What a nerve the fellow has!  How he pulled
himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing
shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his
plot.  I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,
that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel."

"I am sorry that he has seen you."

"And so was I at first.  But there was no getting out of it."

"What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that
he knows you are here?"

"It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
desperate measures at once.  Like most clever criminals, he may
be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has
completely deceived us."

"Why should we not arrest him at once?"

"My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action.  Your
instinct is always to do something energetic.  But supposing,
for argument's sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on
earth the better off should we be for that?  We could prove
nothing against him.  There's the devilish cunning of it!  If he
were acting through a human agent we could get some evidence,
but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would
not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master."

"Surely we have a case."

"Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture.  We should be
laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence."

"There is Sir Charles's death."

"Found dead without a mark upon him.  You and I know that he died
of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how are
we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it?  What signs are there
of a hound?  Where are the marks of its fangs?  Of course we know
that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was
dead before ever the brute overtook him.  But we have to prove
all this, and we are not in a position to do it."

"Well, then, tonight?"

"We are not much better off tonight.  Again, there was no direct
connection between the hound and the man's death.  We never saw
the hound.  We heard it, but we could not prove that it was
running upon this man's trail.  There is a complete absence of
motive.  No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the
fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our
while to run any risk in order to establish one."

"And how do you propose to do so?"

"I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when
the position of affairs is made clear to her.  And I have my own
plan as well.  Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but
I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last."

I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

"Are you coming up?"

"Yes; I see no reason for further concealment.  But one last
word, Watson.  Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry.  Let him
think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe.
He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to
undergo tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report
aright, to dine with these people."

"And so am I."

"Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone.  That will
be easily arranged.  And now, if we are too late for dinner, I
think that we are both ready for our suppers."

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes,
for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would
bring him down from London.  He did raise his eyebrows, however,
when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any
explanations for its absence.  Between us we soon supplied his
wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet
as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should
know.  But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news
to Barrymore and his wife.  To him it may have been an unmitigated
relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron.  To all the world he
was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her
he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the
child who had clung to her hand.  Evil indeed is the man who has
not one woman to mourn him.

"I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in
the morning," said the baronet.  "I guess I should have some
credit, for I have kept my promise.  If I hadn't sworn not to go
about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a
message from Stapleton asking me over there."

"I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,"
said Holmes drily.  "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate
that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?"

Sir Henry opened his eyes.  "How was that?"

"This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes.  I fear your servant
who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police."

"That is unlikely.  There was no mark on any of them, as far as
I know."

"That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since
you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter.  I am
not sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not
to arrest the whole household.  Watson's reports are most
incriminating documents."

"But how about the case?" asked the baronet.  "Have you made
anything out of the tangle?  I don't know that Watson and I are
much the wiser since we came down."

"I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather
more clear to you before long.  It has been an exceedingly difficult
and most complicated business.  There are several points upon which
we still want light--but it is coming all the same."

"We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you.  We
heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all
empty superstition.  I had something to do with dogs when I was
out West, and I know one when I hear one.  If you can muzzle that
one and put him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the
greatest detective of all time."

"I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will
give me your help."

"Whatever you tell me to do I will do."

"Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without
always asking the reason."

"Just as you like."

"If you will do this I think the chances are that our little
problem will soon be solved.  I have no doubt--"

He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the
air.  The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so
still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue,
a personification of alertness and expectation.

"What is it?" we both cried.

I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal
emotion.  His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with
amused exultation.

"Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved
his hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite
wall.  "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art but that
is mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ.  Now,
these are a really very fine series of portraits."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing
with some surprise at my friend.  "I don't pretend to know much
about these things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a
steer than of a picture.  I didn't know that you found time for
such things."

"I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now.  That's a
Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and
the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds.  They
are all family portraits, I presume?"

"Every one."

"Do you know the names?"

"Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say
my lessons fairly well."

"Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"

"That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
West Indies.  The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper
is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the
House of Commons under Pitt."

"And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet
and the lace?"

"Ah, you have a right to know about him.  That is the cause of
all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the
Baskervilles.  We're not likely to forget him."

I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

"Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man
enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes.
I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person."

"There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the
date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas."

Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer
seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually
fixed upon it during supper.  It was not until later, when Sir
Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend
of his thoughts.  He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his
bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it up against the time-
stained portrait on the wall.

"Do you see anything there?"

I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the
white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed
between them.  It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim,
hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly
intolerant eye.

"Is it like anyone you know?"

"There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw."

"Just a suggestion, perhaps.  But wait an instant!"  He stood upon
a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved
his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

"Good heavens!" I cried in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

"Ha, you see it now.  My eyes have been trained to examine faces
and not their trimmings.  It is the first quality of a criminal
investigator that he should see through a disguise."

"But this is marvellous.  It might be his portrait."

"Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears
to be both physical and spiritual.  A study of family portraits
is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation.  The
fellow is a Baskerville--that is evident."

"With designs upon the succession."

"Exactly.  This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of
our most obvious missing links.  We have him, Watson, we have him,
and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering
in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies.  A pin, a
cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!"
He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away
from the picture.  I have not heard him laugh often, and it has
always boded ill to somebody.

I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier
still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

"Yes, we should have a full day today," he remarked, and he rubbed
his hands with the joy of action.  "The nets are all in place,
and the drag is about to begin.  We'll know before the day is out
whether we have caught our big, leanjawed pike, or whether he
has got through the meshes."

"Have you been on the moor already?"

"I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death
of Selden.  I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled
in the matter.  And I have also communicated with my faithful
Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the door of
my hut, as a dog does at his master's grave, if I had not set
his mind at rest about my safety."

"What is the next move?"

"To see Sir Henry.  Ah, here he is!"

"Good-morning, Holmes," said the baronet.  "You look like a general
who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."

"That is the exact situation.  Watson was asking for orders."

"And so do I."

"Very good.  You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
friends the Stapletons tonight."

"I hope that you will come also.  They are very hospitable people,
and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you."

"I fear that Watson and I must go to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
juncture."

The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened.

"I hoped that you were going to see me through this business.
The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is
alone."

"My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what
I tell you.  You can tell your friends that we should have been
happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required
us to be in town.  We hope very soon to return to Devonshire.
Will you remember to give them that message?"

"If you insist upon it."

"There is no alternative, I assure you."

I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by
what he regarded as our desertion.

"When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly.

"Immediately after breakfast.  We will drive in to Coombe Tracey,
but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come
back to you.  Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell
him that you regret that you cannot come."

"I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet.
"Why should I stay here alone?"

"Because it is your post of duty.  Because you gave me your word
that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay."

"All right, then, I'll stay."

"One more direction!  I wish you to drive to Merripit House.  Send
back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to
walk home."

"To walk across the moor?"

"Yes."

"But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me
not to do."

"This time you may do it with safety.  If I had not every confidence
in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential
that you should do it."

"Then I will do it."

"And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home."

"I will do just what you say."

"Very good.  I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast
as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon."

I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit
would terminate next day.  It had not crossed my mind however,
that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how
we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to
be critical.  There was nothing for it, however, but implicit
obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple
of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and
had dispatched the trap upon its return journey.  A small boy was
waiting upon the platform.

"Any orders, sir?"

"You will take this train to town, Cartwright.  The moment you
arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name,
to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he
is to send it by registered post to Baker Street."

"Yes, sir."

"And ask at the station office if there is a message for me."

The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me.  It
ran:

Wire received.  Coming down with unsigned warrant.  Arrive five-
forty.  Lestrade.

"That is in answer to mine of this morning.  He is the best of
the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance.  Now,
Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by
calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident.  He would use
the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really
gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were
likely to be needed.  That telegram from London, if mentioned by
Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from
their minds.  Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer
around that leanjawed pike.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened
his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably
amazed her.

"I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death
of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he.  "My friend here,
Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and
also of what you have withheld in connection with that matter."

"What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly.

"You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate
at ten o'clock.  We know that that was the place and hour of his
death.  You have withheld what the connection is between these
events."

"There is no connection."

"In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one.
But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection,
after all.  I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons.
We regard this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate
not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his wife as well."

The lady sprang from her chair.

"His wife!" she cried.

"The fact is no longer a secret.  The person who has passed for
his sister is really his wife."

Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat.  Her hands were grasping the arms
of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with
the pressure of her grip.

"His wife!" she said again.  "His wife!  He is not a married man."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Prove it to me!  Prove it to me!  And if you can do so--!"

The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

"I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers
from his pocket.  "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in
York four years ago.  It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,'
but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also,
if you know her by sight.  Here are three written descriptions
by trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that
time kept St. Oliver's private school.  Read them and see if you
can doubt the identity of these people."

She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
face of a desperate woman.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on
condition that I could get a divorce from my husband.  He has
lied to me, the villain, in every conceivable way.  Not one word
of truth has he ever told me.  And why--why?  I imagined that all
was for my own sake.  But now I see that I was never anything
but a tool in his hands.  Why should I preserve faith with him
who never kept any with me?  Why should I try to shield him from
the consequences of his own wicked acts?  Ask me what you like,
and there is nothing which I shall hold back.  One thing I swear
to you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed
of any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend."

"I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes.  "The
recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps
it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can
check me if I make any material mistake.  The sending of this
letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?"

"He dictated it."

"I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive
help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with
your divorce?"

"Exactly."

"And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from
keeping the appointment?"

"He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other
man should find the money for such an object, and that though
he was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to
removing the obstacles which divided us."

"He appears to be a very consistent character.  And then you heard
nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?"

"No."

"And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with
Sir Charles?"

"He did.  He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and
that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out.  He
frightened me into remaining silent."

"Quite so.  But you had your suspicions?"

She hesitated and looked down.

"I knew him," she said.  "But if he had kept faith with me I should
always have done so with him."

"I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said
Sherlock Holmes.  "You have had him in your power and he knew it,
and yet you are alive.  You have been walking for some months very
near to the edge of a precipice.  We must wish you good-morning
now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly
hear from us again."

"Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty
thins away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for
the arrival of the express from town.  "I shall soon be in the
position of being able to put into a single connected narrative
one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times.
Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in
Godno, in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are
the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses
some features which are entirely its own.  Even now we have no
clear case against this very wily man.  But I shall be very much
surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this night."

The London express came roaring into the station, and a small,
wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage.
We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential
way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned
a good deal since the days when they had first worked together.
I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner
used then to excite in the practical man.

"Anything good?" he asked.

"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes.  "We have two hours
before we need think of starting.  I think we might employ it in
getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London
fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night
air of Dartmoor.  Never been there?  Ah, well, I don't suppose
you will forget your first visit."




Chapter 14
The Hound of the Baskervilles



One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full
plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved
to dominate and surprise those who were around him.  Partly also
from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any
chances.  The result, however, was very trying for those who were
acting as his agents and assistants.  I had often suffered under
it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness.
The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about to make
our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only
surmise what his course of action would be.  My nerves thrilled
with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me
that we were back upon the moor once again.  Every stride of the
horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our
supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of
the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial
matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.
It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at
last passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near
to the Hall and to the scene of action.  We did not drive up to
the door but got down near the gate of the avenue.  The wagonette
was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,
while we started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled.  "As long as I have my trousers I
have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have
something in it."

"Good!  My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes.  What's the
game now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the
detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes
of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen
Mire.  "I see the lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey.  I must
request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the
house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards
from it.

"This will do," said he.  "These rocks upon the right make an
admirable screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here.  Get into this hollow,
Lestrade.  You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson?
Can you tell the position of the rooms?  What are those latticed
windows at this end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up.  You know the lie of the land best.  Creep
forward quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's
sake don't let them know that they are watched!"

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which
surrounded the stunted orchard.  Creeping in its shadow I reached
a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.
They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the
round table.  Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and
wine were in front of them.  Stapleton was talking with animation,
but the baronet looked pale and distrait.  Perhaps the thought
of that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily
upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at
his cigar.  I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of
boots upon gravel.  The steps passed along the path on the other
side of the wall under which I crouched.  Looking over, I saw the
naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of the
orchard.  A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was
a curious scuffling noise from within.  He was only a minute or
so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed
me and reentered the house.  I saw him rejoin his guest, and I
crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell
them what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?"  Holmes asked when
I had finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other
room except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,
white fog.  It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked
itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well
defined.  The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great
shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks
borne upon its surface.  Holmes's face was turned towards it, and
he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
disarranged my plans.  He can't be very long, now.  It is already
ten o'clock.  Our success and even his life may depend upon his
coming out before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us.  The stars shone cold and
bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,
uncertain light.  Before us lay the dark bulk of the house,
its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against
the silver-spangled sky.  Broad bars of golden light from the
lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor.  One
of them was suddenly shut off.  The servants had left the kitchen.
There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men,
the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over
their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of
the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house.  Already
the first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square
of the lighted window.  The farther wall of the orchard was already
invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white
vapour.  As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both
corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank on
which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship
upon a shadowy sea.  Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the
rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered.
In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we
were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea,
with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably
on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes.  "We dare not take the chance
of his being overtaken before he can reach us.  At all costs we
must hold our ground where we are."  He dropped on his knees and
clapped his ear to the ground.  "Thank God, I think that I hear
him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor.  Crouching
among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in
front of us.  The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as
through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.
He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear,
starlit night.  Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close
to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us.  As he
walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man
who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking
pistol.  "Look out!  It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the
heart of that crawling bank.  The cloud was within fifty yards
of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what
horror was about to break from the heart of it.  I was at Holmes's
elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face.  It was pale and
exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight.  But suddenly
they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted
in amazement.  At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror
and threw himself face downward upon the ground.  I sprang to my
feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the
dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of
the fog.  A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not
such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen.  Fire burst from its
open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle
and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame.  Never
in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more
savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark
form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the
track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend.  So
paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass
before we had recovered our nerve.  Then Holmes and I both fired
together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that
one at least had hit him.  He did not pause, however, but bounded
onward.  Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his
face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring
helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down.
But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to
the winds.  If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could
wound him we could kill him.  Never have I seen a man run as Holmes
ran that night.  I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me
as much as I outpaced the little professional.  In front of us as
we flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry
and the deep roar of the hound.  I was in time to see the beast
spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his
throat.  But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of
his revolver into the creature's flank.  With a last howl of agony
and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side.  I stooped,
panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head,
but it was useless to press the trigger.  The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen.  We tore away his
collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw
that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been
in time.  Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a
feeble effort to move.  Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between
the baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

"My God!" he whispered.  "What was it?  What, in heaven's name,
was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes.  "We've laid the family
ghost once and forever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was
lying stretched before us.  It was not a pure bloodhound and it
was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of
the two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness.  Even
now in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping
with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed
with fire.  I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I
held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead
animal.  "There is no smell which might have interfered with his
power of scent.  We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having
exposed you to this fright.  I was prepared for a hound, but not
for such a creature as this.  And the fog gave us little time to
receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it.  Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready
for anything.  So!  Now, if you will help me up.  What do you
propose to do?"

"To leave you here.  You are not fit for further adventures
tonight.  If you will wait, one or other of us will go back
with you to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale
and trembling in every limb.  We helped him to a rock, where he
sat shivering with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes.  "The rest of our work must
be done, and every moment is of importance.  We have our case,
and now we only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path.  "Those
shots must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

"He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain.
No, no, he's gone by this time!  But we'll search the house and
make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room
to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met
us in the passage.  There was no light save in the dining-room,
but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house
unexplored.  No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing.
On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade.  "I can hear a movement.
Open this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within.  Holmes struck the
door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open.
Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant
villain whom we expected to see.  Instead we were faced by an
object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment
staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection
of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the
relaxation of this complex and dangerous man.  In the centre of
this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at
some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber
which spanned the roof.  To this post a figure was tied, so
swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure
it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of
a man or a woman.  One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar.  Another covered the lower
part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief
and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at us.  In a
minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs.
Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us.  As her beautiful
head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes.  "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle!
Put her in the chair!  She has fainted from ill-usage and
exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked.  "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband.  Sir Henry?  Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God!  Thank God!  Oh, this villain!  See how he has treated
me!"  She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with
horror that they were all mottled with bruises.  "But this is
nothing--nothing!  It is my mind and soul that he has tortured
and defiled.  I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life
of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the
hope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have
been his dupe and his tool."  She broke into passionate sobbing
as she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes.  "Tell us then
where we shall find him.  If you have ever aided him in evil,
help us now and so atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered.
"There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire.
It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made
preparations so that he might have a refuge.  That is where he
would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window.  Holmes held
the lamp towards it.

"See," said he.  "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
tonight."

She laughed and clapped her hands.  Her eyes and teeth gleamed
with fierce merriment.

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried.  "How can he
see the guiding wands tonight?  We planted them together, he and
I, to mark the pathway through the mire.  Oh, if I could only
have plucked them out today.  Then indeed you would have had him
at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog
had lifted.  Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the
house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville
Hall.  The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld
from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth
about the woman whom he had loved.  But the shock of the night's
adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay
delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer.  The
two of them were destined to travel together round the world
before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that
he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative,
in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears
and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in
so tragic a manner.  On the morning after the death of the hound
the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the
point where they had found a pathway through the bog.  It helped
us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the
eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track.
We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil
which tapered out into the widespread bog.  From the end of it a
small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged
from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and
foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger.  Rank reeds
and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy
miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us
more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which
shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet.  Its tenacious
grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it
it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those
obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which
it held us.  Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that
perilous way before us.  From amid a tuft of cotton grass which
bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting.  Holmes
sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and
had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his
foot upon firm land again.  He held an old black boot in the air.
"Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he.  "It is our friend Sir Henry's
missing boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly.  He retained it in his hand after using it to set the
hound upon the track.  He fled when he knew the game was up,
still clutching it.  And he hurled it away at this point of his
flight.  We know at least that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, though there
was much which we might surmise.  There was no chance of finding
footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon
them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass
we all looked eagerly for them.  But no slightest sign of them
ever met our eyes.  If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton
never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled
through the fog upon that last night.  Somewhere in the heart of
the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass
which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had
hid his savage ally.  A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled
with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine.  Beside
it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners,
driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp.
In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones
showed where the animal had been confined.  A skeleton with a
tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris.

"A dog!" said Holmes.  "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel.  Poor
Mortimer will never see his pet again.  Well, I do not know that
this place contains any secret which we have not already fathomed.
He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence
came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear.
On an emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at
Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme
day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared
do it.  This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with
which the creature was daubed.  It was suggested, of course, by
the story of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten
old Sir Charles to death.  No wonder the poor devil of a convict
ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might
have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness
of the moor upon his track.  It was a cunning device, for, apart
from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant
would venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he
get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor?  I said it in
London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have we
helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying
yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse
of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into
the russet slopes of the moor.
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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