moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm.
When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of
modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious
everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On
all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk,
with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have
marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against
the scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if you
were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door
fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would
feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must
always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I
could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were
forced to accept that which none other would occupy.
All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and
will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind.
I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun
moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore,
return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.
If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because
up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due
course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the
other factors in the situation.
One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he
has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely
householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his
flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard
of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon
the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment
goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would
give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were
to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore,
that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in
consequence.
We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take
good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments
when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help.
There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother,
the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands
of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal, if he could
once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their
situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over
to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.
The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered
at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like
him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular
contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the
idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over
her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as
if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to
her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and a firm set of his thin
lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You
would find him an interesting study.
He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very
next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of
the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an
excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal
that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley
between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over
with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great
stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end, until they looked like
the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it
corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much
interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really
believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in
the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was
very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it
was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would
not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings
of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had
suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression
that he shared the popular view upon the matter.
On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was
there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From
the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted
by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He
referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then
hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the
brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk
of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match
would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once
caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir
Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much
attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her,
but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in
the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that
he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have
several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
being t阾e-?t阾e. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity
would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.
The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with
us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down, and has got a
prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there
such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in
afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at Sir
Henry's request, to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that
fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between two
high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either
side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Half-way
down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It
is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I
remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that
had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming
across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his
wits, and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion.
There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what?
A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and
monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale,
watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and
vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.
One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of
us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His
passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in
litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is
equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no
wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will
shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At
others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and
declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying
the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old
manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes
in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them,
so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village
street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He
is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which
will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his
sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he
seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because
you were particular that I should send some description of the people
who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an
amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies
upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the
hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would
confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours
that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without
the consent of the next-of-kin, because he dug up the Neolithic skull
in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being
monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed.
And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end
on that which is most important and tell you more about the
Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last
night.
First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in
order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already
explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test
was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told
Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright
fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the
telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.
"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.
Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.
"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife
brought it up to me."
"Did you answer it yourself?"
"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."
In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.
"I could not quite understand the object of your questions this
morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I
have done anything to forfeit your confidence?"
Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by
giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit
having now all arrived.
Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person,
very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical.
You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told
you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and
since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her
face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if
she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect
Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there
was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but
the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.
And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am
not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this
house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two
in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I
rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was
trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly
down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and
trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the
outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very
slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably
guilty and furtive in his whole appearance.
I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs
round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I
waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When
I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther
corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open
door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are
unfurnished and unoccupied, so that his expedition became more
mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing
motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and
