prompt:
Chapter: The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from
our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of
us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat
at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows,
throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered
them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it
was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck
such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before.

"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!" said
the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive,
so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is
all cheerful once more."

"And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered.
"Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing
in the night?"

"That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard
something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of
it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."

"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a
woman."

"We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked
Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me
that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he
listened to his master's question.

"There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One is
the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife,
and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her."

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met
Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She
was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression
of mouth. But her telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from between
swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so
her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery
in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she
weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded
man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he
who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had
only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's
death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had
seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the
same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an
impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the
point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen
postmaster and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least
have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the
time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray
hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and
the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster,
who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the
telegram.

"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
Barrymore exactly as directed."

"Who delivered it?"

"My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the
Hall last week, did you not?"

"Yes, father, I delivered it."

"Into his own hands?" I asked.

"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it
into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she
promised to deliver it at once."

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake
it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear
that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not
been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose that the
same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first
to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the
agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest
could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the
strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was
that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon
counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which
had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away
a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores.
But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to
account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an
invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that
no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray,
lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations
and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from
my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet
behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to
see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing
me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired
and leanjawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray
suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung
over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his
hands.

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he as he
came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk
and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard
my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit
House."

"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that
Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"

"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from
the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I
thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir
Henry is none the worse for his journey?"

"He is very well, thank you."

"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the
new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy
man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need
not tell you that it means a very great deal to the countryside. Sir
Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?"

"I do not think that it is likely."

"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
family?"

"I have heard it."

"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any
number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature
upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes
that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great hold
upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to
his tragic end."

"But how?"

"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have
had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really
did see something of the kind upon that last night in the yew alley. I
feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old
man, and I knew that his heart was weak."

"How did you know that?"

"My friend Mortimer told me."

"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of
fright in consequence?"

"Have you any better explanation?"

"I have not come to any conclusion."

"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the placid
face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was
intended.

"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson,"
said he. "The records of your detective have reached us here, and you
could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told
me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it
follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter,
and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take."

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"

"He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
attention."

"What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us.
But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I
can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had
any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to
investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or
advice."

"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir
Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and
discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable
intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again."

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the
road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay
upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry.
The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and
brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a
gray plume of smoke.

"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,"
said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of
introducing you to my sister."

My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I
remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was
littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes
had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I
accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path.

"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the
undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You
cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and
so barren, and so mysterious."

"You know it well, then?"

"I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led
me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that
there are few men who know it better than I do."

"Is it hard to know?"

"Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here
with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
remarkable about that?"

"It would be a rare place for a gallop."

"You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their
lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly
over it?"

"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false
step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the
moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite
a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn
rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart
of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable
ponies!"

Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a
long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed
over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves
seemed to be stronger than mine.

"It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more,
perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather and
never know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It's
a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."

"And you say you can penetrate it?"

"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I
have found them out."

"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all
sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course
of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you
have the wit to reach them."

"I shall try my luck some day."

He looked at me with a surprised face. "For God's sake put such an idea
out of your mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I assure
you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive.
It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do
it."

"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the
whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a
dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a
melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a
curious expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.

"But what is it?"

"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its
prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud."

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling
plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over
the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor
behind us.

"You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?" said
I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?"

"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the water
rising, or something."

"No, no, that was a living voice."

"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"

"No, I never did."

"It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all
things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to
learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns."

"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life."

"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside
yonder. What do you make of those?"

The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a
score of them at least.

"What are they? Sheep-pens?"

"No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived
thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since,
we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are
his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his
couch if you have the curiosity to go inside.

"But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?"

"Neolithic man--no date."

"What did he do?"

"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin
when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the
great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find
some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an
instant! It is surely Cyclopides."

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant
Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of
it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my
acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft
behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky,
zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself.
I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his
extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the
treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round,
found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in
which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but
the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close.

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I
remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The
woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type.
There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister,
for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while
she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim,
elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it
might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress
she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her
eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace
towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make some explanatory
remark when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new channel.

"Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly."

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and
she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

"Why should I go back?" I asked.

"I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp
in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and
never set foot upon the moor again."

"But I have only just come."

"Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your own
good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from this place at all
costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would
you mind getting that orchid for me among the mare's-tails yonder? We
are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather
late to see the beauties of the place."

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and
flushed with his exertions.

"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his
greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

"Well, Jack, you are very hot."

"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in
the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke
unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the
girl to me.

"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the
true beauties of the moor."

"Why, who do you think this is?"

"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is
Dr. Watson."

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been
talking at cross purposes," said she.

"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with
the same questioning eyes.

"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a
visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early
or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see
Merripit House?"

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm
of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and
turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees,
as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of
the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange,
wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with
the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an
elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I
looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what
could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to
live in such a place.

"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my
thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not,
Beryl?"

"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her
words.

"I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The work
to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the
privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds,
and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals was very dear
to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out
in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the
blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet,
if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys,
I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my
sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been
brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out
of our window."

"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less for
you, perhaps, than for your sister."

"No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly.

"We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours.
Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was
also an admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than
I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this
afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?"

"I am sure that he would be delighted."

"Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in
our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he
becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr.
Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most
complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have
looked through them lunch will be almost ready."

But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor,
the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been
associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things
tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less
vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of
Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could
not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted
all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return
journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.

It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those
who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see
Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face
was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her
side.

"I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she.
"I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother
may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid
mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the
words I said, which have no application whatever to you."

"But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's
friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it
was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London."

"A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand
that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do."

"No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in
your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever
since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me.
Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches
everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track.
Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey
your warning to Sir Henry."

An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but
her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I
were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very
intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He
was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when
this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds
for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when
another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he
should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I
intended to convey.

"But what is the danger?"

"You know the story of the hound?"

"I do not believe in such nonsense."

"But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from
a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide.
Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?"

"Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear
that unless you can give me some more definite information than this it
would be impossible to get him to move."

"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite."

"I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no
more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your
brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or
anyone else, could object."

"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it
is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry
if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to
go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more. I must go
back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!"
She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered
boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to
Baskerville Hall.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next morning, the sun is shining and the house seems less, well, cursed. Even so, both Watson and Sir Henry agree that they heard a woman crying the night before. Watson suspects that the crying woman is Mrs. Barrymore, and that Barrymore's responsible. Watson's suspicions about Barrymore's character only increase when he walks into town and finds out that it wasn't Barrymore, but Barrymore's wife who received the telegram Holmes sent to check out his alibi while Sir Henry was in town. Could Barrymore have been in London spying on Sir Henry after all? A man runs up to Watson in the village and introduces himself: it's Stapleton, from nearby Merripit House. He's carrying a butterfly net. He announces that he is a "naturalist" . Stapleton asks if Sherlock Holmes has any theories behind the Hound of the Baskervilles to explain Sir Charles' death. Watson is like, whuh? Holmes? How did you know--? Stapleton promises him that everyone in the neighborhood knows why Watson is here. Stapleton invites Watson to Merripit House to meet his sister. As they walk through the moors, Stapleton tells Watson that the ground in this area is not stable: there are bogs and marshes all over the place. Stapleton warns that, if Watson went into the Mire on his own, he would probably drown in the swamp. The two men hear a long, low howl over the moor. Apparently, the local people believe that this howl belongs to the Hound of the Baskervilles. Stapleton thinks it's a bittern--a kind of bird that's nearly extinct in England. They walk past the remains of a prehistoric town. Stapleton suddenly spots a butterfly and goes running off into the Mire. Watson watches him anxiously, worried that he'll lose his footing and sink. As Watson stares after Stapleton, a woman suddenly approaches him. Watson assumes that she is Stapleton's sister, even though she doesn't look very much like him. She quickly warns him, "Go straight back to London, instantly" . When Stapleton returns to the path, she suddenly changes the subject and starts talking about the flowers on the moor. Stapleton addresses her as "Beryl" Beryl mentions that she has already introduced herself to "Sir Henry." Watson is like, ummm, no, I'm just Dr. Watson. Beryl blushes in embarrassment. When Watson walks off in the direction of Baskerville Hall, Beryl rushes over to speak to him. She apologizes for confusing him with Sir Henry but refuses to explain why it's so important for Sir Henry to leave.


prompt:
Chapter: From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me
on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly
as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more
accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can
possibly do.

Baskerville Hall, October 13th. MY DEAR HOLMES: My previous letters
and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has
occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one
stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul,
its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its
bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the
other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of
the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses
of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which
are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray
stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind
you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the
low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you
would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must
always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could
imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced
to accept that which none other would occupy.

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and
will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind.
I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun
moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore,
return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because
up to today there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course.
But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other
factors in the situation.

One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he
has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely
householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight,
during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It
is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during
all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is
no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a
hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and
slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone,
and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.

We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take
good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments
when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help.
There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the
latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a
desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he could once effect
an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and
it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there,
but Stapleton would not hear of it.

The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered
at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like
him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular contrast
to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea of
hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over her, for
I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if seeking
approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is
a dry glitter in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes
with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an
interesting study.

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very
next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the
wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of
some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might
have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors
which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton
grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at
the upper end until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some
monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old
tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more
than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the
interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke
lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton
was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less
than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of
consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar
cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left
us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there
that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first
moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and
I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her
again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed
that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine
here tonight, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One
would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and
yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation
in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister.
He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life
without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to
stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain
that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have
several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love
affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would
soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.

The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us.
He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric
skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a
single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and
the good doctor took us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry's request to
show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is
a long, dismal walk, the yew alley, between two high walls of clipped
hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is
an old tumble-down summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where
the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with
a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the
affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood
there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified
him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he died of sheer
horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which
he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound,
black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter?
Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was
all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind
it.

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us.
He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion
is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.
He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take
up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found
it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy
the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands
tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed
there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for
trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he
applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy
and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in
triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to
his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his
hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his
fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future.
Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I
only mention him because you were particular that I should send some
description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed
at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent
telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps
the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped
convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but
there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening
a grave without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the
Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives
from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly
needed.

And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on
that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and
especially about the surprising development of last night.

First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in
order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already
explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was
worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir
Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion,
had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram
himself. Barrymore said that he had.

"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought
it up to me."

"Did you answer it yourself?"

"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

"I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning,
Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done
anything to forfeit your confidence?"

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving
him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having
now all arrived.

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very
limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You
could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how,
on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then
I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep
sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty
memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a
domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular
and questionable in this man's character, but the adventure of last
night brings all my suspicions to a head.

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am
not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house
my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the
morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose,
opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down
the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage
with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no
covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height
told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly,
and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole
appearance.

I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs
round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited
until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came
round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and
I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he
had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and
unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The
light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down
the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the
door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the
glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be
rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor.
For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan
and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my
way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing
once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen
into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could
not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but
there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which
sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with
my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have
had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of
campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak
about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting
reading.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As the narrator of this story, Watson then describes the telegrams he's sent to Holmes so far. The first telegram reports that it looks like Selden has left the area. Anyway, no one's seen him, which is a big relief. Watson has also noticed signs that Sir Henry is totally falling for Beryl Stapleton. Weird, though--you'd think Stapleton would be happy to have his sister marry the local rich guy. But in fact, Stapleton seems to be trying to find ways to keep Beryl and Sir Henry apart. Watson also mentions another neighbor: Mr. Frankland of Lafter Hall. He's a litigious old man interested in astronomy who has a telescope on his roof. These days, Mr. Frankland spends a fair amount of his time scanning the moors with his telescope looking for Selden the murderer. And now, for the last bit of news: weird stuff has been happening with the Barrymores. Watson told Sir Henry that Barrymore may not have received the telegram Holmes sent from London himself. So Sir Henry asks Barrymore if he read the telegram and replied to it himself. He answers that, since he was busy, he let his wife answer. Later on in the day, Barrymore asks if Sir Henry suspects him of something. Sir Henry says no, and offers Barrymore some of his used clothes to prove his faith in him. Sir Henry's lost 75 lbs. on Jenny Craig, and anyway now that he's a baronet, he needs classier clothes. Watson can't forget that first night when he heard Mrs. Barrymore sobbing. He's seen signs of crying on her face several times since then. Watson's suspicions of Barrymore have only gotten worse since a strange incident the night before. At around two in the morning, Watson heard someone sneaking around outside his room. He woke up and looked out to see Barrymore creeping along the hallway to an empty room. Watson watched Barrymore standing in front of a window with a lamp in his hand. Barrymore stared out onto the moor for several minutes before groaning and putting out the light. Something is going on with that guy.


prompt:
Chapter: Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to
leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must
acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now
crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top
note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already
which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things
have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they
have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some
ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you
shall judge for yourself.

Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the
corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night
before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has,
I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it
commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between
two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down
upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse
which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since
only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for
something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I
can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck
me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would
have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness
of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped
to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to
have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard
after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep
some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning,
and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result
may have shown that they were unfounded.

But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be,
I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could
explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the
baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had
seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.

"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak
to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in
the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name."

"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I
suggested.

"Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what
it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he
were here."

"I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He
would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

"Then we shall do it together."

"But surely he would hear us."

"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of
that. We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir
Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed
the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor.

The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared
the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we
may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators
and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend
has large ideas and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the
grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all
that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves
there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady
is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman
than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the
course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under
the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was broken
by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable
perplexity and annoyance.

After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry
put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the
same.

"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious
way.

"That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.

"Yes, I am."

"Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but
you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and
especially that you should not go alone upon the moor."

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee
some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You
understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who
would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone."

It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or
what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and
was gone.

But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me
bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight.
I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to
confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your
instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It
might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in
the direction of Merripit House.

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything
of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches
off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after
all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill
which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on
the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side
who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already
an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They
were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what
she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his
head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much
puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their
intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was
never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a
friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to
observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to
him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had
threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that
you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that
there was nothing more which I could do.

Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were
standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly
aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of
green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me
that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken
ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer
to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction.
At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His
arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from
him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised
one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn
hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was
running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He
gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers.
What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that
Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became
more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in
haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in
a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir
Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry
gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The
baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly
back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of
dejection.

What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to
have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran
down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was
flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his
wit's ends what to do.

"Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean
to say that you came after me in spite of all?"

I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain
behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that
had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness
disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh.

"You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole
countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty
poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?"

"I was on that hill."

"Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front.
Did you see him come out on us?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?"

"I can't say that he ever did."

"I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you
can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket.
What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks,
Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me
from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?"

"I should say not."

"He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he
has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in
my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the
tips of her fingers."

"Did he say so?"

"That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these
few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me,
and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear.
There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he
has never let us get together and it was only today for the first time
that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad
to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about,
and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if she could have
stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger,
and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that
since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she
really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange
to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but
before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us
with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those
light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the
lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her?
Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he
had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him.
As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as
I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by
becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I
lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should
perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going
off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any
in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you
more than ever I can hope to pay."

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled
myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his
appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless
it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should
be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady's own wishes
and that the lady should accept the situation without protest is very
amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from
Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies
for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with
Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that the
breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next
Friday as a sign of it.

"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't
forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must
allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done."

"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

"His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough,
and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been
together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man
with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was
really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was
becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was
really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a
shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did.
He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish
and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a
beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she
had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to
anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him and it would take him
some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw
all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let
the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship
during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the
matter rests."

So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to
have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering.
We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's
suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And
now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the
tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained
face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the
western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me
that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret
the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these
things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared.

I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights'
work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry
in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of
any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was
a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our
chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try
again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes
without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours
crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of
patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into
which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had
almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we
both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on
the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in
pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was
all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other
wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded
figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he
passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle
framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the
gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every
plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the
precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards
snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible
that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is
fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which
he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we
found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent
face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights
before.

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom
the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room,
and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss
of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes,
glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and
astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

"Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak,
and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It
was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes, sir, all the windows."

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up our
minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell
it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at
that window?"

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."

"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

"Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it
is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but
myself I would not try to keep it from you."

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling
hand of the butler.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if
there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the
darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the
trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the
clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of
yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily
in the centre of the black square framed by the window.

"There it is!" I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I
assure you, sir--"

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See,
the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal?
Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this
conspiracy that is going on?"

The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours.
I will not tell."

"Then you leave my employment right away."

"Very good, sir. If I must I must."

"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under
this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me."

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs.
Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing
at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic
were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face.

"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things,"
said the butler.

"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I
asked him."

"Speak out, then! What does it mean?"

"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at
our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him,
and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it."

"Then your brother is--"

"The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."

"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my
secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it,
and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you."

This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night
and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in
amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of
the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country?

"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured
him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything
until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and
that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met
wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my
mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime
he sank lower and lower until it is only the mercy of God which has
snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little
curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister
would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and
that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one
night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what
could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you
returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than
anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there.
But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a
light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some
bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long
as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I
am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in
the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake
he has done all that he has."

The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
conviction with them.

"Is this true, Barrymore?"

"Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."

"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what
I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about
this matter in the morning."

When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had
flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away
in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow
light.

"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

"It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."

"Very likely. How far do you think it is?"

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

"Not more than a mile or two off."

"Hardly that."

"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it.
And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson,
I am going out to take that man!"

The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been
forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated
scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing
our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no
harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the
price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the
Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of
this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure.

"I will come," said I.

"Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the
better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off."

In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition.
We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the
autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was
heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped
out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky,
and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light
still burned steadily in front.

"Are you armed?" I asked.

"I have a hunting-crop."

"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before
he can resist."

"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How
about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?"

As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom
of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders
of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence
of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad
moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air
throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my
sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness.

"My God, what's that, Watson?"

"I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once
before."

It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
straining our ears, but nothing came.

"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."

My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which
told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

"What do they call this sound?" he asked.

"Who?"

"The folk on the countryside."

"Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?"

"Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"

I hesitated but could not escape the question.

"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

"A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles
away, over yonder, I think."

"It was hard to say whence it came."

"It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great
Grimpen Mire?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that
it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak
the truth."

"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be
the calling of a strange bird."

"No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these
stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause?
You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"

"No, no."

"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another
to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as
that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as
he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson,
but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!"

It was as cold as a block of marble.

"You'll be all right tomorrow."

"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that
we do now?"

"Shall we turn back?"

"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We
after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come
on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon
the moor."

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the
craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily
in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon
a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon
the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us.
But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were
indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the
rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it
and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of
Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and
crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange
to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with
no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the
gleam of the rock on each side of it.

"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.

"Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
glimpse of him."

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out
an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with
vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with
matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages
who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was
reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and
left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard
the steps of the hunters.

Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or
the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not
well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he
might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward
therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict
screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against
the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short,
squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run.
At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.
We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with
great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way
with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver
might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if
attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon
found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly
among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until
we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider.
Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him
disappearing in the distance.

And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go
home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the
right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony
statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the
tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that
I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could
judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs
a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay
before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place.
It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the
latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry
of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during
which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the
sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but
its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure.

I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some
distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry,
which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood
for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and
could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding
attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor
has been thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his
explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further
proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where
they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that
we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our
own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must
acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in
the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite
irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have
all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will
be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are
certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have
found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation
very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants
remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to
throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could
come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course
of the next few days.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next morning, Watson looks out Barrymore's secret window. He sees that this window gives the best view of the moor. Watson mentions Barrymore's late night activities to Sir Henry, who isn't surprised. In fact, Sir Henry has also heard Barrymore going around late at night. They decide to stay up that night and follow Barrymore. Sir Henry prepares to go out for a walk on the moor, and Watson gets ready to go with him. Sir Henry's like, three's company, man. Don't crowd me, I've got business on the moor. Watson is embarrassed to be a third wheel, since it's clear that Sir Henry's trying to go on a date. But Holmes did insist that Watson shouldn't let Sir Henry leave the house on his own. So Watson follows secretly, some distance behind him. He sees Sir Henry meeting with Beryl Stapleton. As Watson keeps a lookout, he sees the two lovebirds jump apart. He watches as Stapleton comes running up, enraged.. Stapleton gets all up in Sir Henry's face and then drags Beryl away. Watson appears from his hiding place on top of a nearby hill. Sir Henry's annoyed at Watson's spying. But he's more shocked at Stapleton's bizarre behavior. Why would Stapleton go nuts about Sir Henry proposing to Beryl? That afternoon, Stapleton comes to Baskerville Hall to apologize for his behavior. He invites Sir Henry and Watson to dinner at Merripit House to make up for it. Stapleton explains why he flipped out at the idea of Beryl and Sir Henry getting together. Apparently, he's just a lonely guy who's come to depend on his sister's company to keep him from getting too isolated. He hadn't noticed that Beryl and Sir Henry were growing close, and he was taken by surprise to hear of their potential engagement. He has no real objection, but he asks Sir Henry to give him three months to get used to the idea. Sir Henry agrees, and so he and Beryl are now engaged... to be engaged. Sir Henry and Watson now turn their attention back to Barrymore. Two nights later, they catch him again standing at the window with his lamp. Barrymore claims that it isn't his place to say why he's holding a candle to the window. As Barrymore speaks, they spot another light out on the moors. When Barrymore moves his candle, the other light also moves. A signal. Sir Henry fires Barrymore on the spot and accuses him of plotting against him. Suddenly, Mrs. Barrymore appears: she swears that they are not planning to harm Sir Henry. Barrymore tries to calm her, but she insists on explaining: the signal is for her brother. Mrs. Barrymore's brother is none other than--Selden, the insane escaped prisoner. Mrs. Barrymore explains that, even after everything that Selden's done, when he turned up at their doorstep shivering and alone, she couldn't leave him to die out on the moors. Sir Henry forgives Barrymore for standing by his wife, and rehires him as butler. He sends the Barrymores off to bed, and promises they'll talk over things in the morning. After the Barrymores leave, Watson and Sir Henry look out the window. They can still see Selden's candle burning out on the moor. Watson guesses that he's hiding about a mile or two away. Sir Henry and Watson decide to go out and capture Selden, since a psychotic murderer could be a danger to the community. Ya think? Watson brings his gun, and they set off in the direction of the light. Suddenly, they hear that low, moaning howl that Watson heard on the moor that afternoon with Stapleton. Sir Henry sounds frightened when he asks Watson what the local people say about that sound. Watson tries to play it off as no big deal, but finally he has to admit: it's the howl of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Sir Henry starts to sound very superstitious about this Hound business. They spot Selden just as he seems to realize that he's been found. He takes off across the moor. Sir Henry and Watson chase after him, but he's had too much of a head start. As they're standing on the moor, Watson sees a tall figure of another man outlined against the moon. A split second later, the man is gone.