Bab Bab 6 · Baskerville Hall

.”

“And when?”

“At the end of the week.”

“On the whole,” said Holmes, “I think that your decision is a

wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in

London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult

to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If

their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we

should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr.

Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?”

Dr. Mortimer started violently. “Followed! By whom?”

“That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among

your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a

black, full beard?”

“No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is

a man with a full, black beard.”

“Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

“He is in charge of the Hall.”

“We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any

possibility he might be in London.”

“How can you do that?”

“Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That

will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the

nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a

second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr.

Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please

return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That

should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his

post in Devonshire or not.”

“That’s so,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is

this Barrymore, anyhow?”

“He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have

looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know,

he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the

county.”

“At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so

long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people

have a mighty fine home and nothing to do.”

“That is true.”

“Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles’s will?” asked

Holmes.

“He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

“Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

“Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions

of his will.”

“That is very interesting.”

“I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with

suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir

Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me.”

“Indeed! And anyone else?”

“There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large

number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry.”

“And how much was the residue?”

“Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that so

gigantic a sum was involved,” said he.

“Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not

know how very rich he was until we came to examine his

securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a

million.”

“Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a

desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing

that anything happened to our young friend here—you will forgive

the unpleasant hypothesis!—who would inherit the estate?”

“Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother died

unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are

distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in

Westmoreland.”

“Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met

Mr. James Desmond?”

“Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of

venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he

refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he

pressed it upon him.”

“And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles’s

thousands.”

“He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He

would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed

otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he

likes with it.”

“And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I’ve had no time, for it was only

yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I

feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was

my poor uncle’s idea. How is the owner going to restore the

glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up

the property? House, land, and dollars must go together.”

“Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the

advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay.

There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must

not go alone.”

“Dr. Mortimer returns with me.”

“But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is

miles away from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may

be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you

someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side.”

“Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in

person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting

practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many

quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an

indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered

names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I

can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is

for me to go to Dartmoor.”

“Whom would you recommend, then?”

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. “If my friend would undertake

it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when

you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than

I.”

The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had

time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it

heartily.

“Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson,” said he. “You

see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter

as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me

through I’ll never forget it.”

The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I

was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with

which the baronet hailed me as a companion.

“I will come, with pleasure,” said I. “I do not know how I could

employ my time better.”

“And you will report very carefully to me,” said Holmes. “When a

crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I

suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?”

“Would that suit Dr. Watson?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet

at the ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph,

and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown

boot from under a cabinet.

“My missing boot!” he cried.

“May all our difficulties vanish as easily!” said Sherlock

Holmes.

“But it is a very singular thing,” Dr. Mortimer remarked. “I

searched this room carefully before lunch.”

“And so did I,” said Baskerville. “Every inch of it.”

“There was certainly no boot in it then.”

“In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were

lunching.”

The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the

matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been

added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small

mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting

aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles’s death, we had a line

of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days,

which included the receipt of the printed letter, the

black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot,

the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new

brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to

Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that

his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some

scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected

episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening

he sat lost in tobacco and thought.

Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

The second:

Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report

unable to trace cut sheet of _Times_. CARTWRIGHT.

“There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more

stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We

must cast round for another scent.”

“We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

“Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the

Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an

answer to my question.”

The ring at the bell proved to be something even more

satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a

rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.

“I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address

had been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab

this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here

straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had

against me.”

“I have nothing in the world against you, my good man,” said

Holmes. “On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you

will give me a clear answer to my questions.”

“Well, I’ve had a good day and no mistake,” said the cabman with

a grin. “What was it you wanted to ask, sir?”

“First of all your name and address, in case I want you again.”

“John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of

Shipley’s Yard, near Waterloo Station.”

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

“Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched

this house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed

the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. “Why, there’s

no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I

do already,” said he. “The truth is that the gentleman told me

that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him

to anyone.”

“My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may

find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide

anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a

detective?”

“Yes, he did.”

“When did he say this?”

“When he left me.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“He mentioned his name.”

Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. “Oh, he mentioned

his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he

mentioned?”

“His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by

the cabman’s reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement.

Then he burst into a hearty laugh.

“A touch, Watson—an undeniable touch!” said he. “I feel a foil as

quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily

that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?”

“Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

“Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that

occurred.”

“He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that

he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do

exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad

enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel

and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from

the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near

here.”

“This very door,” said Holmes.

“Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew

all about it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited an

hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and

we followed down Baker Street and along—”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my

gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive

right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped

up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid

up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the

station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said:

‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr.

Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I come to know the name.”

“I see. And you saw no more of him?”

“Not after he went into the station.”

“And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The cabman scratched his head. “Well, he wasn’t altogether such

an easy gentleman to describe. I’d put him at forty years of age,

and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than

you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard,

cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don’t know as I could

say more than that.”

“Colour of his eyes?”

“No, I can’t say that.”

“Nothing more that you can remember?”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There’s another one

waiting for you if you can bring any more information.

Good-night!”

“Good-night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a

shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile.

“Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,” said he.

“The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry

Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,

conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my

hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I

tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of

our steel. I’ve been checkmated in London. I can only wish you

better luck in Devonshire. But I’m not easy in my mind about it.”

“About what?”

“About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly

dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it.

Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I

shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker

Street once more.”

Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall

Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the

appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr.

Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last

parting injunctions and advice.

“I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,

Watson,” said he; “I wish you simply to report facts in the

fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the

theorizing.”

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon

the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville

and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death

of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few

days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only

appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is

the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable

disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I

really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our

calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround

Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.”

“Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this

Barrymore couple?”

“By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are

innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we

should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No,

no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there

is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two

moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I

believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we

know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is

his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There

is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor,

and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who

must be your very special study.”

“I will do my best.”

“You have arms, I suppose?”

“Yes, I thought it as well to take them.”

“Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and

never relax your precautions.”

Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were

waiting for us upon the platform.

“No, we have no news of any kind,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to

my friend’s questions. “I can swear to one thing, and that is

that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have

never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could

have escaped our notice.”

“You have always kept together, I presume?”

“Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure

amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the

College of Surgeons.”

“And I went to look at the folk in the park,” said Baskerville.

“But we had no trouble of any kind.”

“It was imprudent, all the same,” said Holmes, shaking his head

and looking very grave. “I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go

about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did

you get your other boot?”

“No, sir, it is gone forever.”

“Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,” he added as

the train began to glide down the platform. “Bear in mind, Sir

Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr.

Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of

darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.”

I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and

saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and

gazing after us.

The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in

making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in

playing with Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the

brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite,

and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses

and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper,

climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and

cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features

of the Devon scenery.

“I’ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.

Watson,” said he; “but I have never seen a place to compare with

it.”

“I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,” I

remarked.

“It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the

county,” said Dr. Mortimer. “A glance at our friend here reveals

the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic

enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles’s head was

of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its

characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw

Baskerville Hall, were you not?”

“I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had

never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the

South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I

tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m

as keen as possible to see the moor.”

“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your

first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the

carriage window.

Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood

there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a

strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some

fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time,

his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much

it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the

men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so

deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent,

in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked

at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a

descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and

masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his

thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If

on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should

lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might

venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely

share it.

The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all

descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with

a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great

event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry

out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was

surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly

men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and

glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced,

gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a

few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.

Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old

gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but

behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark

against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor,

broken by the jagged and sinister hills.

The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward

through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on

either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue

ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light

of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a

narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed

swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders. Both

road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak

and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of

delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless

questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of

melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the

mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and

fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels

died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad

gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the

carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”

A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor,

lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an

equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark

and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was

watching the road along which we travelled.

“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat. “There’s a convict escaped

from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the

warders watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no

sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir, and

that’s a fact.”

“Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give

information.”

“Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing

compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it

isn’t like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick

at nothing.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had

taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the

crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions

of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been

due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was

his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us

rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and

craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us

shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking

this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his

heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast

him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness

of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky.

Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely

around him.

We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked

back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the

streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new

turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The

road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and

olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we

passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no

creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into

a cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which

had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two

high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with

his whip.

“Baskerville Hall,” said he.

Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and

shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates,

a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten

pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by

the boars’ heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of

black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new

building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles’s

South African gold.

Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels

were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their

branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered

as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered

like a ghost at the farther end.

“Was it here?” he asked in a low voice.

“No, no, the yew alley is on the other side.”

The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

“It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in

such a place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man.

I’ll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months,

and you won’t know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan

and Edison right here in front of the hall door.”

The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay

before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a

heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole

front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there

where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil.

From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient,

crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of

the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light

shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys

which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single

black column of smoke.

“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the

door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted

against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the

man to hand down our bags.

“You don’t mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?” said Dr.

Mortimer. “My wife is expecting me.”

“Surely you will stay and have some dinner?”

“No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I

would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a

better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to

send for me if I can be of service.”

The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned

into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a

fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and

heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the

great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a

log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands

to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round

us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak

panelling, the stags’ heads, the coats of arms upon the walls,

all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Is it not the very

picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the

same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.

It strikes me solemn to think of it.”

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed

about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long

shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above

him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms.

He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a

well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall,

handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished

features.

“Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?”

“Is it ready?”

“In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your

rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you

until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will

understand that under the new conditions this house will require

a considerable staff.”

“What new conditions?”

“I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and

we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish

to have more company, and so you will need changes in your

household.”

“Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”

“Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir.”

“But your family have been with us for several generations, have

they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an

old family connection.”

I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler’s white

face.

“I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the

truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and

his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very

painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our

minds at Baskerville Hall.”

“But what do you intend to do?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing

ourselves in some business. Sir Charles’s generosity has given us

the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to

your rooms.”

A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,

approached by a double stair. From this central point two long

corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which

all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as

Baskerville’s and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to

be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the

bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the

sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.

But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of

shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating

the daïs where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for

their dependents. At one end a minstrel’s gallery overlooked it.

Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened

ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up,

and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might

have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in

the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one’s voice

became hushed and one’s spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors,

in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the

buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their

silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the

meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern

billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

“My word, it isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I

suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the

picture at present. I don’t wonder that my uncle got a little

jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if

it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things

may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from

my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of

the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a

rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing

clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe

of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I

closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in

keeping with the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet

wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the

sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out

the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay

upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the

night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and

unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling

gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in

bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away

and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with

every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the

chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.