Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Hound of the Baskervilles: Part Nine

Episode Date: May 24, 2026

Holmes and Watson come face to face with the mythical hound. But how long can Sir Charles’ murderer escape justice on the moor?  A Noiser podcast production.    Narrated by Hugh Bonneville   Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  Produced by Duncan Barrett  Sound Design and Audio Editing: Mirianna Pitman-Latham  Sound Supervisor: Matt Peaty  Compositions: Dorry Macaulay and Oliver Baines  Mix & Mastering: Josh Latham  Series Consultant: Dan Smith  Executive Producer: Katrina Hughes    For ad-free listening and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Just click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to the Hound of the Baskerville's Part 9. Last time, Holmes began to set his trap for Stapleton, with Sir Henry Baskerville as the bait. As night fell, the great detective camped out on the foggy moors with Watson and Lestrade in tow. But as the brave baronet approached their position, they found themselves face to face with the mythical beast that had struck fear into generations of the Baskervoir.

from the Noisor podcast network, this is the final part of the Hound of the Baskervilles. 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 pouring 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 mastive, "'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 horse. 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 man-servant 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 balk 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 wheel 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. 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. Oh, 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. 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 to-night. 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 ones 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 Before morning, he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together around the world before Sir Henry had become once more, the hail-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 realise 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 scumbed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water plants

sent an odor of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapor 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.

Myers, 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 mile, 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 Maya, 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 Boggirt 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 outhouse at Meripit, 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 Hellhound 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. Hey, y'all, it's Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. Ever order furniture online and wonder, what if? Like, what if it doesn't hold up? That sofa was four days old. You should have ordered from Wayfair. With Wayfair, there's no what if. Just style you love and quality you can trust. Visit Wayfair.ca. Wayfair, every style, every home. 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 Upward, in connection with the famous card scandal of the non-parale club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate Madame Montpensier from the charge of murder, which hung over her in connection with the death of her stepdaughter, Mamselle Carrere, 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 own... cases displaces the last, and Mamselle Carrere 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 upward. 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 Roger 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 von der Leur, 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 Vandilers 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 recognised authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandleur 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-Meyer, and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kenneled 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 the

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 Coom Tracy, 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 U 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 gregers. Grimpen Meyer, 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 uncanceled 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 of 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 warm 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 disguise. 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 utre 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 basketball 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 pistilling 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 man-servant at Meripit 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 watermark. 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 75 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 thought, 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 Coom Tracy,

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 Coom Tracy.

They were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapletons. 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 Barrymore's. 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 paralysing 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 seemed to have been.

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 he saw. 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. would nonetheless 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 bogey 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 air,

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 Lesuguno. Have you heard the Doreskis? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour,

and we can stop at Marcones for a little dinner on the way? Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, the game is afoot once again, as Holmes and Watson tackle the Park Lane mystery. An empty house on Baker Street provides the perfect spot for a stakeout. And one of Professor Moriarty's top henchman is caught in Sherlock's web. That's next time. Can't wait until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to NoisorPlus.

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