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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

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

"Did you answer it yourself?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

