Chapter Chapter 13 · Fixing the Nets

. Fixing the Nets

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