"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave
a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about
it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My friend bowed his compliments.
"You are quick at identification," said he.
"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
down. You are in time to see a tragedy."
"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover
the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with
me to-morrow."
"Oh, you return to-morrow?"
"That is my intention."
"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which
have puzzled us?"
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. It has not been
a satisfactory case."
My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.
"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would
give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing
it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe
until morning."
And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over
the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered
slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly
to his end.
CHAPTER XIII
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 to-night, 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, to-night?"
"We are not much better off to-night. 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow,
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 to-morrow 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
