Chapter: For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.
Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight
of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That
cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the
world.

"Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!"

"Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside,
his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished
features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face
bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and
cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had
contrived, with that catlike love of personal cleanliness which was one
of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen
as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

"I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I wrung him
by the hand.

"Or more astonished, eh?"

"Well, I must confess to it."

"The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that
you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it,
until I was within twenty paces of the door."

"My footprint, I presume?"

"No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire
to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub
of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend
Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path.
You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged
into the empty hut."

"Exactly."

"I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced
that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the
tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?"

"I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."

"Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on
the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the
moon to rise behind me?"

"Yes, I saw you then."

"And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?"

"No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to
look."

"The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out
when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and peeped
into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies.
What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?"

"Yes."

"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"

"Exactly."

"Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel
lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly
full knowledge of the case."

"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what have
you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that
case of blackmailing."

"That was what I wished you to think."

"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some
bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes."

"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other
cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a
trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it,
and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to
come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry
and you it is confident that my point of view would have been the
same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable
opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about
as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and
I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my
weight at a critical moment."

"But why keep me in the dark?"

"For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have led
to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your
kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an
unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me--you
remember the little chap at the express office--and he has seen after
my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want
more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of
feet, and both have been invaluable."

"Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I recalled
the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure
you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day
upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and
the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult
case."

I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon
me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. I
felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was
really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was
upon the moor.

"That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And
now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not
difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for
I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might
be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone today it
is exceedingly probable that I should have gone tomorrow."

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned
chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together
in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So
interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was
satisfied.

"This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up a
gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You
are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and
the man Stapleton?"

"I did not know of a close intimacy."

"There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there
is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful
weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife--"

"His wife?"

"I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have
given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality
his wife."

"Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have
permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"

"Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir
Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her,
as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and
not his sister."

"But why this elaborate deception?"

"Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in
the character of a free woman."

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and
centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive colourless man, with his
straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible--a
creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a
murderous heart.

"It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?"

"So I read the riddle."

"And the warning--it must have come from her!"

"Exactly."

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed
through the darkness which had girt me so long.

"But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his
wife?"

"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say
he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in
the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a
schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify
any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed me
that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that
the man who had owned it--the name was different--had disappeared with
his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man
was devoted to entomology the identification was complete."

The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.

"If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come
in?" I asked.

"That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a
light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very
much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and her
husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she
counted no doubt upon becoming his wife."

"And when she is undeceived?"

"Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty
to see her--both of us--tomorrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you are
away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville
Hall."

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled
upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.

"One last question, Holmes," I said as I rose. "Surely there is no need
of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he
after?"

Holmes's voice sank as he answered:

"It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not
ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his are
upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my mercy.
There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should
strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the most--and
I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge as closely
as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your mission today has
justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his
side. Hark!"

A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out of
the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in
my veins.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?"

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline at
the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward,
his face peering into the darkness.

"Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed out
from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our ears,
nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his voice
that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it, Watson?"

"There, I think." I pointed into the darkness.

"No, there!"

Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and much
nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, muttered
rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like the low,
constant murmur of the sea.

"The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are
too late!"

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his
heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately in
front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy
thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence
of the windless night.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He
stamped his feet upon the ground.

"He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late."

"No, no, surely not!"

"Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of
abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened we'll
avenge him!"

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders, forcing
our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down slopes,
heading always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come.
At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were
thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its dreary face.

"Can you see anything?"

"Nothing."

"But, hark, what is that?"

A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our left!
On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked
a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark,
irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into
a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground,
the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded
and the body hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault.
So grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize
that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a whisper, not a
rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid
his hand upon him and held it up again with an exclamation of horror.
The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers
and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull
of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts
sick and faint within us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed
suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had
seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and
then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out
of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the
darkness.

"The brute! The brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall
never forgive myself for having left him to his fate."

"I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well
rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is
the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I
know--how could I know--that he would risk his life alone upon the moor
in the face of all my warnings?"

"That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and yet
have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove
him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant.
And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed."

"He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered--the
one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought
to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to
escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the
man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the
existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from the
fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power
before another day is past!"

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought
all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then as the moon
rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had
fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half
silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen,
a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the
lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at
it as I gazed.

"Why should we not seize him at once?"

"Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last
degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one
false move the villain may escape us yet."

"What can we do?"

"There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only perform
the last offices to our poor friend."

Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the
body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those
contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with
tears.

"We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the
Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?"

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and
laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained
friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

"A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!"

"A beard?"

"It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!"

With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard
was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about
the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same
face which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the
rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet
had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore
had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt,
cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but
this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told
Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness
and joy.

"Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is
clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of
Sir Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing,
however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the hound was on
his trail?"

"He heard him."

"To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this
convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way
after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?"

"A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our
conjectures are correct--"

"I presume nothing."

"Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it
does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go
unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there."

"My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we
shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain
forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor
wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens."

"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate
with the police."

"Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa,
Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and
audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a word, or my plans
crumble to the ground."

A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow
of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper
shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and
then came on again.

"Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I
should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But,
dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it is our
friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I
heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers.

"Who--who's this?" he stammered.

"It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had
overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from
Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?"

"He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My
friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

"I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about
Sir Henry."

"Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.

"Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come
I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I
heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again from my
face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?"

"No," said Holmes; "did you?"

"No."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was
wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound tonight."

"We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

"And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head.
He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over
here and broken his neck."

"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a
sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said
he.

"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down.
You are in time to see a tragedy."

"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover
the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me
tomorrow."

"Oh, you return tomorrow?"

"That is my intention."

"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have
puzzled us?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator
needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory
case."

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton
still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would
give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it.
I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until
morning."

And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the
broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope
which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his
end.

 Surprise! The mysterious man on the hill is none other than Holmes. Watson gets upset when he realizes that Holmes has been deliberately keeping him in the dark. And what about all those reports, which he so carefully wrote up and sent off to London? Holmes tries to make nice. He says he trusts Watson completely. But he also worried that Watson wouldn't have been able to resist making contact with Holmes on the moors. And Holmes has been getting the reports--he arranged to have them delivered back to him on the moors from London. Holmes is fascinated by Watson's account of his conversation with Laura Lyons. Holmes knows that Stapleton and Laura Lyons have been hooking up. Holmes drops another bombshell: Beryl is actually Mrs. Stapleton. She's his wife, not his sister! Stapleton is the one who followed Sir Henry in London, and Beryl's the one who sent that warning to Sir Henry at his hotel. Holmes knows that Stapleton's pose as an unmarried man helped him enlist Laura in his plotting. And Laura's desperate for divorce money now because she believes that she can marry him. Holmes is almost ready to charge Stapleton with murder. But he needs Watson to wait at Baskerville Hall with Sir Henry for at least another day or two. Just as Holmes says this, they hear a horrible scream over the moors, followed by the growling of a dog. Holmes fears that they may be too late. At the side of a cliff, they find a body with a crushed skull. It's Sir Henry Baskerville. Besides feeling guilty that they were on the moors and still failed to save Sir Henry, Holmes is deeply frustrated. Even though Holmes and Watson are both sure that Stapleton is involved with the Hound murders, there's no definite proof linking him to the Baskerville deaths. Holmes goes over to the body to carry it to the hall. But suddenly, he starts dancing around and shaking Watson's hand. It's not Sir Henry at all! The body has a beard! In fact, the body belongs to Selden. Watson remembers that Sir Henry gave some of his old clothes to Barrymore; Barrymore probably passed them on to Selden. Stapleton's dog has obviously been trained to react to Sir Henry's smell, which lead him to attack Selden in Sir Henry's clothes. They see someone smoking and strolling towards them: it's Stapleton. Stapleton turns pale when he sees the body, since he realizes that it's not Sir Henry. Stapleton claims he invited Sir Henry to walk over to Merripit House and then got worried when he never turned up. Stapleton asks suspiciously if anybody heard the sounds of a dog, since the moors are supposed to be haunted. Neither Holmes nor Watson gives any sign that they might know why Stapleton's so interested in this mysterious dog. Watson claims to believe that Selden died from madness and stress, which drove him over a cliff. Holmes also pretends that he plans to go back to London the next day, since this has "not been a satisfactory case" .

