 CHAPTER XIV 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 fulfillment. 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 Franklin'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 Merripet House. Are you armed, Lestrade? A 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 Merripet 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 lustrod. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those lattice 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. Keep 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 distray. 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 the 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 outhouse 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 re-entered 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 tours as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes' face was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift. "'It's moving towards it, 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, wooly plane 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 vapor. As we watched it, the fog-greaves 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. From 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. Moving 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, star-lit 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. Heist! 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 smoldering glare, its muzzles and hackles and duelap 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. However 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 the 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 baronette'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 jaw 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 smoldered 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 man-servant who met us in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes called 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 center of this room there was an upright beam which had been placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten bulk 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 wheel of a whiplash across her neck. The brute cried Holmes, here Lestrade, your brandy bottle. Put her in the chair. She had 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 modelled 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 sow a tone. 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 to-night. 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 to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out to-day, 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 laid 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 hail-hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omand 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 odor of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapor 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. Mire's 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. Finally 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 the 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 outhouse at Merripet, 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 dobbed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the family hellhound, 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 now again, 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. CHAPTER XV A RETROSPECTION It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate Madame Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mademoiselle Carréry, the young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity, for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion. The whole course of events, said Holmes, from the point of view of the man who called himself Stapleton, was simple and direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of his actions, and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my indexed list of cases. Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from memory. Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my mind, intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out what is past. The barrister who has his case at his fingers ends, and is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject, finds that a week or two of the course will drive it all out of his head once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mademoiselle Carriere has blurred my recollection of Vaskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes, however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten. My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Vaskerville. He was a son of that Roger Vaskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and having perloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandalure and fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this man's ability to make the undertaking a success. Frazier, the tutor, died, however, and a school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandalures found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandalure has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been the first to describe. We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry, and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant Mischief from the first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him and the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbors. The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to the real murderer. Having conceived the idea, he proceeded to carry it out with considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it down by the North Devon line, and walked a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen mire, and so had found a safe hiding place for the creature. Here he kindled it and waited his chance. But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about with his hound, but without a veil. It was during these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavor to entangle the old gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy. Scents and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a deadlock. He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter imploring the old man to give her an interview on the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he had waited. Driving back in the evening from Cume Tracey he was in time to get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over the wicket gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming down the ewe alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the man's was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but fighting him dead had turned away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and finally brought the case within the scope of our observation. So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceived the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the grotesque inconceivable nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However both of them were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully accomplished, but the more difficult still remained. It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an air in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mechsborough Private Hotel in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room, while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street, and afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans, but she had such a fear of her husband, a fear founded upon brutal ill treatment, that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands, her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet and gave him the first warning of his danger. It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he said about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or chambermaid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another, a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more eutré and grotesque an incident is, the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it. Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, which was followed always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the West country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkstone Court in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistoling of the page, who surprised the Masked and Solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man. We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back my own name to me through the cab man. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the Baronet. One moment, said I, you have no doubt described the sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained, what became of the Hound when its master was in London. I have given some attention to this matter, and it is undoubtedly of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old man-servant at Mirapid House whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so an all-Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English but with a curious, lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimfin Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the Hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used. The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened, I made a close inspection for the watermark. In doing so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the Hound and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the West Country. It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I could not do this if I were with you since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was depended upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings. I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapletons. I was able to establish the identity of the man and the woman, and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the barremores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations. By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his destruction. What Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case. But we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves, but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her. It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he endeavored to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripet House, and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would nonetheless have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained. He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old uncle with his bogey hound. The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance which might be offered. No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. Miss Stapleton came into the succession. How could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry? It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry. But what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish his identity before the British authorities there, and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at all. Or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he need be in London. Or again he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for less Huguenots. Have you heard the Diresquise? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way. End of Chapter 15 This concludes The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle