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!"

 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.

