prompt:
Chapter: One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans
to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it
came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and
surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional
caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however,
was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants.
I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long
drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we
were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,
and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves
thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we
were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every
turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired
wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our
nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me,
after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's
house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene
of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of
the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe
Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled. "As long as I have my trousers I have a
hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

"Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game
now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective
with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and
at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see the
lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request you
to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the house,
but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it.

"This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an admirable
screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you
tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this
end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward
quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let
them know that they are watched!"

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded
the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I
could look straight through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat
with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both
of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.
Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and
distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened
moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his
cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon
gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall
under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the
door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in
a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from
within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn
once more and he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to
tell them what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked when I had
finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room
except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white
fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a
wall on that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone
on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads
of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face
was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its
sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten
o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out
before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright,
while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light.
Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and
bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad
bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard
and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left
the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the
two men, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted
over their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of the moor
was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin
wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window.
The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees
were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the
fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and rolled
slowly into one dense bank on which the upper floor and the roof
floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand
passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his
impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In
half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were
half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the
moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his
being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our
ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the
ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among
the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us.
The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there
stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise
as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along
the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope
behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder,
like a man who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol.
"Look out! It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart
of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay,
and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break
from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an
instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly
in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed
stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade
gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground.
I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed
by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of
the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a
hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its
eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap
were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of
a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more
hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke
upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,
following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by
the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our
nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a
hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not
pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir
Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in
horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him
down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we
could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I
am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the
little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard
scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was
in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground,
and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five
barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of
agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting,
and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was
useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar,
and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was
no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our
friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade
thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and two frightened
eyes were looking up at us.

"My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family ghost
once and forever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying
stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure
mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt, savage,
and as large as a small lioness. Even now in the stillness of death,
the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small,
deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the
glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and
gleamed in the darkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal.
"There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent.
We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this
fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this.
And the fog gave us little time to receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?"

"To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures tonight. If
you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and
trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering
with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be
done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we
only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots
must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

"He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No,
no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the
passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught
up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we
see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of
the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open
this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in
hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange
and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of
this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an
upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the
old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a
figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been
used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it
was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of
the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a
dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off
the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in
front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear
red weal of a whiplash across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her
in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!"
She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that they
were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It is my
mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all,
ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could
still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in
this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate
sobbing as she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where we
shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now and so
atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There is
an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that
he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he
might have a refuge. That is where he would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the
lamp towards it.

"See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
tonight."

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with
fierce merriment.

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see the
guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the
pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out
today. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had
lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while
Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story
of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took
the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had
loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves,
and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of
Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the
world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he
had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in
which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague
surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a
manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted
and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found
a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this
woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us
on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of
firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the
end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path
zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits
and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and
lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic
vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once
thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft
undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as
we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was
tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was
the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone
had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass
which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes
sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we
not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot
upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers,
Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing
boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound
upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching
it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least
that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much
which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the
mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last
reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them.
But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a
true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards
which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in
the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the
huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his
savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish
showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling
remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul
reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with
a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined.
A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the
debris.

"A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer
will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place
contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide
his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries
which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he
could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a
risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end
of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no
doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was
suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the
desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of
a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves
might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the
darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart
from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would
venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight
of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson,
and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a
more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm
towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched
away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.

It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy
night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been
engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which
he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection
with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second
he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge
of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her
step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be
remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended
a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to
induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had
waited patiently for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not
be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir
Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that
long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his
shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that
it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion.

"The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of
the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although
to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of
his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared
exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with
Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I
am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us.
You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my
indexed list of cases."

"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from
memory."

"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my
mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out
what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers' ends and
is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds that a week
or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head once more. So
each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my
recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may
be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French
lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes,
however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and
you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.

"My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not
lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that
Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with
a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died
unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this
fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's. He married Beryl
Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a
considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and
fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.
His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had
struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage
home, and that he had used this man's ability to make the undertaking a
success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun
well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient
to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his
fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to
the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a
recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur
has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

"We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such
intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found
that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When
he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but
that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which
he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of
using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not
have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He
meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool
or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as
near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate
a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

"The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared
the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him,
knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill him.
So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir
Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously.
His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could
be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the
guilt to the real murderer.

"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content
to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the
creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he
bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It
was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it
down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor
so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his
insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a
safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited his
chance.

"But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed
outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about
with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless quests
that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend
of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife
might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly
independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in
a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.
Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She
would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a
deadlock.

"He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir
Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister
of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons.
By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence
over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her
obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were
suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about
to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he
himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might
get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to
write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on
the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious
argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he
had waited.

"Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get
his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast
round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find
the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over
the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming
down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a
dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws
and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end
of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the
grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track
but the man's was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had
probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned
away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually
observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to
its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled
the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and finally brought the case
within the scope of our observation.

"So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the
devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make
a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could
never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of
the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women
concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left
with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he
had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound.
Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the
death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only
known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had
nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully
accomplished but the more difficult still remained.

"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir
in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr.
Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of
Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger
from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming
down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had
refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not
leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence
over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him.
They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street,
which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search
of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while
he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and
afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had
some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband--a
fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn
the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into
Stapleton's hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would
form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It
reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger.

"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's
attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always
have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic
promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt
that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him
in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for
him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had
it returned and obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it
proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,
as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old
boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an
incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very
point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and
scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.

"Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always
by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think
that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited to this
single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three
years there have been four considerable burglaries in the west country,
for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at
Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling
of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot
doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and
that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.

"We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got
away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back
my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood
that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was
no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival
of the baronet."

"One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence
of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?"

"I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by
sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit
House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can
be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days,
so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really
husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the
country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England,
while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The
man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious
lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen
Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable,
therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the
hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast
was used.

"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon
followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at
that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined
the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close
inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches
of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as
white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very
necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each
other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended
upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a
lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus
I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before
ever we went to the west country.

"It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I
could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came
down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were
not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never
interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was
necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with
me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance
to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was
watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I
was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

"I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being
forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece
of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the identity of
the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case
had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped
convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you
cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the
same conclusions from my own observations.

"By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to
a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended
in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving
murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to
catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and
apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a
severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and
driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been
exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the
case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing
spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which
enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our
object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me
will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover
not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings.
His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part
of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her.

"It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout.
There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her
which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both,
since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least,
absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his
sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he
endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to
warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and
again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been
capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the
lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help
interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul
which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging
the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come
to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity
which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned
suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the
convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the outhouse on
the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband
with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed
her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity
turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray
him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning
Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put
down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, as they certainly
would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and
to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case
he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom
would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does
not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without
referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of
this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left
unexplained."

"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old
uncle with his bogie hound."

"The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance
which might be offered."

"No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the
succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been
living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How
could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?"

"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field
of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question
to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on
several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the
property from South America, establish his identity before the British
authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to
England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the
short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an
accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and
retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt
from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the
difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe
work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more
pleasant channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the
De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we
can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?"

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

completion: The Hound of the Baskervilles The men - Watson, Holmes, and Lestrade - take up position about 200 yards from Merripit House, each armed with a pistol. Filled with anticipation, Watson sneaks closer to the house, and sees Sir Henry and Stapleton drinking inside. Miss Stapleton is nowhere to be seen. After a few minutes, Stapleton leaves the house and enters a nearby out-house. While he is inside, Watson hears some sounds from within. After Stapleton returns to the main house, Watson reports back to the others. Meanwhile, a fog begins to roll in, upsetting Holmes since it will compromise their visibility. They retreat a bit, to find some higher ground. From that vantage, they soon see Sir Henry anxiously pass. A moment later, Holmes cries out that the hound is coming. As quickly as he registers Holmes's terror, Watson sees an enormous hound, which does not look mortal at all. Fire bursts from its mouth and its body sparkles in the night. All three men are paralyzed by the savage sight. Regaining their composure, Holmes and Watson shoot at the beast. Though the shots do not stop it, it does cry out in pain. Holmes chases after the beast, and finds it prepared to tear out Sir Henry's throat. Holmes shoots the animal five times, killing it. Sir Henry is unwounded, but paralyzed in fear. They examine the hound's corpse, to discover that it is cross-breed of mastiff and bloodhound. Phosphorus has been placed around its muzzle, which explains why it seemed to spew fire, and its fur was covered with a glittery substance. Holmes then leads the others towards Stapleton, whom he fears has fled after hearing gunshots. The culprit's house is empty, though they find there that Miss Stapleton has been tied up and gagged in a locked room full of collected butterflies and moths. Her first inquiry after being released is for Sir Henry. Crying, she claims she would have suffered Stapleton's abuse had he actually loved her, but she now knows she was only his pawn. She also tells them that he probably fled to an old tin mine on an island in the heart of Grimpen Mire. This was the place where he kept the hound locked away. They decide not to pursue Stapleton that night, since there are too many dangerous pitfalls in Grimpen Mire. Miss Stapleton adds that even Stapleton himself will have faced dangers attempting the perilous path at night. The next morning, Sir Henry falls into a delirious fever. Watson tells the reader that the man does not recover until after a year of world travels, taken with Dr. Mortimer as companion. Miss Stapleton leads Holmes and Watson out into the mire, where they find nothing but Stapleton's boot, and therefore assume that he was lost in the bog while trying to escape. They also find traces of Mortimer's dog, as well as gnawed bones which suggest that Stapleton fed the hound in this place. Lastly, Holmes finds some paste in a tin, which he believes holds a trace of the phosphorus used. The main story ends as Holmes admits that Stapleton is the most dangerous man he has ever tracked. Chapter XV: A Retrospection In this final chapter, Watson recounts everything Holmes later told him about the case. At the end of November, about a month after the events near Baskerville, Watson feels comfortable asking for more information, since Holmes has since solved two other cases. Holmes declares that the case was only difficult because they did not know Stapleton's motive, but that he has learned much from two long conversations with Miss Stapleton. Stapleton - as Holmes continues to call him - was the son of Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother. When he died in South America, Rodger left behind one son, also named Rodger. This boy, who would later be known as Stapleton, stole money and fled to England, where he set up a school and changed his name to Vandeleur. When the school failed, he made inquiries into the Baskerville estate, and then moved to Devonshire. Though he had not yet formed an exact plan, he cultivated a friendship with Sir Charles and passed Beryl off as his sister. It was there that he learned about the legend of the hound, as well as about Sir Charles's weak heart and innate fear of the legend. It was then that he concocted his plan: he bought a large dog in London, devised the artificial means of making the creature seem so fearsome, and intended to use his wife to lure Sir Charles out into the moor at night. However, when she refused, he struck up a relationship with Laura Lyons to accomplish that purpose. Laura lured Sir Charles out that night by appealing to his mercy; he was going to give her money to secure her divorce. Stapleton convinced her not to go, and set the hound out, which terrified poor Sir Charles to death. The hound then retreated, leaving the pawprint that Dr. Mortimer would later see. Both women at that point suspected Stapleton of the murder, but were too much under his influence to take any action. When Sir Henry was set to arrive to England, Stapleton took his wife with him to London, as he distrusted her. From that place, she sent the note of warning that Sir Henry received. Stapleton stole one of Sir Henry's boots from the hotel, in order to acquaint the hound with his scent. But when Stapleton discovered that the first boot was too new to carry any personal scent, he had to steal an older one. It was the robbery of this second boot that initially convinced Holmes that they were indeed dealing with a real hound. Partially because of how cleverly Stapleton eluded him while in London, Holmes believes that the man's criminal past was greater than they know. He cites four unsolved burglaries in the area around the moor, in one of which a page lost his life after surprising the burglar. Holmes suspects that Stapleton returned to Devonshire only after realizing that Holmes was on the case in London. Watson then inquires as to how Stapleton took care of the hound while he was away. Holmes speculates that an old manservant took care of it. This man, named Anthony, has since disappeared from Merripit House, and Holmes believes that this man was actually a South American named Antonio. Holmes then adds that he could smell white jessamine on the warning note that was sent to Sir Henry. From that detail, he immediately suspected the Stapletons, since Dr. Mortimer had not mentioned many other females who lived out on the moor. Knowing he needed to watch Stapleton, but that the culprit would be too cautious if Holmes were out on the moor, Holmes engineered the ruse of sending Watson alone. However, even from his hidden position, Holmes discovered that he could not collect enough evidence to convict Stapleton unless he caught the man red-handed. Finally, they discuss Miss Stapleton. Both men believe that Sir Henry's turmoil after the incident is due in large part to a broken heart; he actually did love Miss Stapleton. However, his world trip with Dr. Mortimer is proving an excellent salve to his pain. Though he has no proof of her true feelings for Sir Henry, Holmes does know that Miss Stapleton attempted to stop her husband on the night of the murder, which is why he tied her up. Watson asks two follow-up questions. First, how could Stapleton have known that the hound would kill Sir Henry, especially since the man had no known health problems? Holmes replies that the animal had been starved, and that its savage appearance would certainly have incapacitated Sir Henry's resistance, even if it did not immediately terrify him to death. Secondly, how was Stapleton going to explain that he was actually a Baskerville after Sir Henry's death, without raising suspicion? To this question, Holmes admits that he does not know the answer: "The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer" . He speculates that Stapleton might have returned to South America to establish his claim from there, or that he might have taken a disguise in London. Finally, he considers that Stapleton might have used someone else to claim the estate. Holmes then invites Watson to join him for dinner and a show.


prompt:
Chapter: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated
at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the
stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a
fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as
a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly
an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a
stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified,
solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of
my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back
of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of
me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's
stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no
notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance.
Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their
appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country
practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so
knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it.
The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a
great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess
that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small
presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his
chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the
accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small
achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may
be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of
light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of
stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your
debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave
me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my
admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to
his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his
system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took
the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked
eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette,
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust
that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that
in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth.
Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a
country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for
example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a
hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed
before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest
themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised
in town before going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it
in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a
presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him
a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer
withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice
for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has
been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then,
stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the
occasion of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the
hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could
hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country.
What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he
could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more
than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the
stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into
thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty,
amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite
dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and
smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and
blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but
at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the
man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I took
down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several
Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record
aloud.

        "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
        with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'  Corresponding
        member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of
        'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882).  'Do We Progress?'
        (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).  Medical Officer
        for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous
smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think
that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I
said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded.
It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who
receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London
career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his
stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a
heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of
his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space
between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not
broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a
curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess
of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I
glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very
door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you,
Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be
of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when
you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you
know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man
of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected
a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a
long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes,
set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly
fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though
young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward
thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he
entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran
towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he.
"I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I
would not lose that stick for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was
it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage,
you say?"

"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of
a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now,
Dr. James Mortimer--"

"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores
of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes
whom I am addressing and not--"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection
with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I
had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked
supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my
finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until
the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological
museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet
your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an
enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own
cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other
with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and
restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest
which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at
last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that
you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing
that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am
myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a
most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you
are the second highest expert in Europe--"

"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked
Holmes with some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon
must always appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man
of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I
have not inadvertently--"

"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do
wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance."

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

completion: An unknown visitor has come by the house that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson share, but they weren't home to meet him. Watson inspects a walking stick that the visitor mistakenly left behind. Watson notices that it's made of nice wood and it has a band of silver under the handle dedicated "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," dated 1884 . Watson guesses that the stick belongs to an older country doctor, and that it was a present from the local hunting organization. Holmes breaks the news to Watson: he's mostly wrong. But his dumb ideas have helped Holmes to get the right idea. Yeah, James Mortimer is a doctor , and he does live in the countryside. But the "H" in "C.C.H." probably means hospital rather than hunt. Holmes concludes that Mortimer must be a young man who did his medical residency at the Charing Cross Hospital before moving out to the countryside to start his own practice. Also, Holmes guesses from tooth marks on the stick that Dr. Mortimer owns a smallish dog. According to Holmes' records, there is a Dr. James Mortimer living in Dartmoor, in a town called Grimpen. Just then, Dr. Mortimer appears at their door, and it's all as Holmes says. He's young, he has a smallish dog, he left Charing Cross Hospital some time ago to set up his practice in the countryside . Dr. Mortimer is here because he has a most extraordinary problem .


prompt:
Chapter: "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

"It is an old manuscript."

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

"How can you say that, sir?"

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time
that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give
the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read
my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730."

"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket.
"This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much
excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as
well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd,
practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this
document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end
as did eventually overtake him."

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon
his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s
and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix
the date."

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At
the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling
figures: "1742."

"It appears to be a statement of some sort."

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."

"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
which you wish to consult me?"

"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided
within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately
connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following
curious, old-world narrative:

        "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
        have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct
        line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from
        my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down
        with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
        forth.  And I would have you believe, my sons, that the
        same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously
        forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer
        and repentance it may be removed.  Learn then from this
        story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to
        be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
        whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
        again be loosed to our undoing.

        "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
        history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
        earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
        Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
        gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
        man.  This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
        seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,
        but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour
        which made his name a by-word through the West.  It
        chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
        a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter
        of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.
        But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
        would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name.  So
        it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five
        or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon
        the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and
        brothers being from home, as he well knew.  When they had
        brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper
        chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
        carouse, as was their nightly custom.  Now, the poor lass
        upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing
        and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
        below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
        when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who
        said them.  At last in the stress of her fear she did that
        which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,
        for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and
        still covers) the south wall she came down from under the
        eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three
        leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

        "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
        guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things,
        perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty
        and the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became
        as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs
        into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
        flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried
        aloud before all the company that he would that very
        night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if
        he might but overtake the wench.  And while the revellers
        stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,
        it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that
        they should put the hounds upon her.  Whereat Hugo ran
        from the house, crying to his grooms that they should
        saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
        hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
        line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

        "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
        to understand all that had been done in such haste.  But
        anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed
        which was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything
        was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,
        some for their horses, and some for another flask of
        wine.  But at length some sense came back to their crazed
        minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took
        horse and started in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above
        them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
        which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach
        her own home.

        "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
        night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
        him to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as
        the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could
        scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen
        the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  'But
        I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville
        passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
        him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
        my heels.'  So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
        and rode onward.  But soon their skins turned cold, for
        there came a galloping across the moor, and the black
        mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing
        bridle and empty saddle.  Then the revellers rode close
        together, for a great fear was on them, but they still
        followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,
        would have been right glad to have turned his horse's
        head.  Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last
        upon the hounds.  These, though known for their valour
        and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the
        head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the
        moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles
        and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

        "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you
        may guess, than when they started.  The most of them
        would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
        or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.
        Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of
        those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
        set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.
        The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there
        in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,
        dead of fear and of fatigue.  But it was not the sight
        of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo
        Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon
        the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it
        was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,
        there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
        like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal
        eye has rested upon.  And even as they looked the thing
        tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it
        turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
        three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still
        screaming, across the moor.  One, it is said, died that
        very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
        but broken men for the rest of their days.

        "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
        which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
        since.  If I have set it down it is because that which
        is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
        hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many
        of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
        have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we
        shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,
        which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that
        third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy
        Writ.  To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend
        you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from
        crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of
        evil are exalted.

        "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
        with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
        sister Elizabeth.]"

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed
his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the
fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This
is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short
account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville
which occurred a few days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our
visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

        "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
        name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate
        for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over
        the county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville
        Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of
        character and extreme generosity had won the affection
        and respect of all who had been brought into contact with
        him.  In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing
        to find a case where the scion of an old county family
        which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own
        fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
        fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is well known,
        made large sums of money in South African speculation.
        More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
        against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
        with them.  It is only two years since he took up his
        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
        large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement
        which have been interrupted by his death.  Being himself
        childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the
        whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit
        by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons
        for bewailing his untimely end.  His generous donations
        to local and county charities have been frequently
        chronicled in these columns.

        "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
        cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
        inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
        those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
        There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
        imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
        Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
        have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
        In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
        personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
        Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
        husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.
        Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
        tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time
        been impaired, and points especially to some affection
        of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
        breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
        Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
        the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

        "The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville
        was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
        down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The evidence
        of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
        On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention
        of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore
        to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out as usual
        for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
        the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.  At
        twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,
        became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search
        of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's
        footmarks were easily traced down the alley.  Halfway down
        this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.
        There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some
        little time here.  He then proceeded down the alley, and
        it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.
        One fact which has not been explained is the statement
        of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
        character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and
        that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking
        upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on
        the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears
        by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.
        He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state
        from what direction they came.  No signs of violence were
        to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though
        the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible
        facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at
        first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient
        who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom
        which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
        cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne out by
        the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing
        organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a
        verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.  It is
        well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost
        importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the
        Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
        interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
        finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
        whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
        difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is
        understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
        if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's
        younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was
        in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a
        view to informing him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those
are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a
case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed
some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied
by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige
the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This
article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips
together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some
strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone.
My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of
science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming
to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that
Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted
if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation.
For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather
less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with
you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other
are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of
Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter
Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of
education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the
chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests
in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information
from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together
discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that
Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had
taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much
so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce
him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to
you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung
his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of
his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence
constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me
whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange
creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put
to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with
excitement.

"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three
weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had
descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw
his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an
expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just
time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black
calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he
that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been
and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared
to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the
evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he
had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to
you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes
some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was
convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his
excitement had no justification.

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His
heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived,
however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a
serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the
distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a
mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the
same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made
the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was
sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of
the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned
at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the
spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the
change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there
were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until
my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug
into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to
such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was
certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was
made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces
upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some
little distance off, but fresh and clear."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank
almost to a whisper as he answered.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

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

completion: Dr. Mortimer hands a manuscript to Holmes. It's old--it dates back to 1742, at least a hundred fifty years before the events of Hound of the Baskervilles. Dr. Mortimer got the manuscript from his friend, Sir Charles Baskerville. And even though the manuscript deals with an old family legend, Dr. Mortimer is here on very contemporary business. The manuscript tells the story of Hugo Baskerville and the family curse This Hugo Baskerville, gets into some bad trouble around the time of the "Great Rebellion" . He likes to drink, curse, and rough people up. One night, he kidnaps a neighboring woman with five or six of his friends and locks her up in his mansion while he parties with his buddies. She manages to climb down some ivy to escape his evil clutches. Hugo Baskerville swears that he will sell his soul for the power to catch her. Hugo Baskerville then has the bright idea of riding out after her with his pack of hounds. The drunken partygoers finally realize, hey, if Hugo Baskerville succeeds in catching her, something terrible is going to happen. Really? So they ride out after Hugo Baskerville and his pack of hounds. They find his lifeless body on the ground near the girl's. The girl has died of fear and exhaustion after running from Hugo Baskerville. But Hugo Baskerville's death is much more gruesome: the former partygoers watch a huge, ghostly-looking black hound tear his throat out. Holmes doesn't think much of this whole story--it's just a fairy tale. So Dr. Mortimer continues his story. Sir Charles Baskerville, the descendant of this nasty Hugo, has just died mysteriously. He had heart trouble, so it's not impossible that he died of natural causes. But his body was found lying at the end of his own driveway with such a grotesque expression that Dr. Mortimer had trouble recognizing him. Apparently, Sir Charles had become very afraid of this story of the black dog and Hugo Baskerville. And here's the kicker: near Sir Charles' body, Dr. Mortimer found footprints--the footprints of a giant dog.