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

Episode Date: May 13, 2026

Sir Charles Baskerville's movements on the night of his death are revealed... and a stake-out on the moor leads to a shocking encounter for Dr Watson.  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: Tom Pink  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

I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to the Hound of the Baskervilles Part 6. Last time, Dr. Watson and Sir Henry finally got to the bottom of the butler Barrymore's mysterious late-night wanderings. It turned out that the convict hiding out on the moor, the notorious Notting Hill murderer, is none other than Barrymore's brother-in-law. Barrymore and his wife have been helping to hide and feed him, hoping he will soon quit the country for good. But when Watson and Sir Henry went out in search of the dangerous criminal, they found Selden wasn't the only one living rough on the moor.

There's also a mysterious tall man who seems to be watching them from afar. From the Noiser podcast network, this is The Hound of the Baskervilles Part 6. So far, I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method, and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed then from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict, and are other strange experiences upon the moor.

October the 16th, a dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger, ever-present danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it. And have I not cause for such a feeling?

Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound.

It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footwork. marks, and fills the air with its howling, it's surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one quality upon earth, it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere fiend dog, but must needs describe him with hellfire shooting from his mouth and eyes.

Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent, but facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it. That would go far to explain everything, but where could such a hound lie concealed? Where did it get its food? Where did it come from? How was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real. But it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy.

Where is that friend or enemy now, as he remained in London? Or has he followed us down here? Could he... Could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tour? It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours.

The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Franklin. Barrymore, it might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A stranger, then, is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him off.

If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies. My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one is to play my... own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent and distray. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the more. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end. We had a small scene this morning after breakfast.

Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir Henry and they were closeted in his study some little time, Sitting in the billiard room, I more than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a time, the baronet opened his door and called for me. Barrymore considers that he has a grievance, he said. He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret. The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us. "'I may have spoken too warmly, sir,' said he, "'and if I have, I am sure that I beg your pardon.

At the same time I was very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been chasing seldom. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track. If you had told us of your own free will, it would have been a different thing, said the baronet. You only told us, or rather, your wife only told us when it was forced from you,

and you could not help yourself. I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry. Indeed, I didn't. The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example,

with no one but himself to defend it. There's no safety for anyone until he is under luck and key. You'll break into no-house, sir. I'll give you my solemn word upon that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements

will have been made, and he will be on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.

What do you say, Watson? I shrugged my shoulders. If he were safely out of the country, it would relieve the taxpayer of a burden. But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes? He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have to be able to. We have to be a provided him with all that he can want to commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding. That is true, said Sir Henry. Well, Barrymore, God bless you, sir. And thank you from my heart. It would have killed my poor wife, had he been taken again. I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson. But, after what we have heard, I don't feel as if I could give the man up. So there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.

With a few broken words of gratitude, the man turned, but he hesitated and then came back. You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death. The Baronet and I were both upon our feet. Do you know how he died?

No, sir, I don't know that. What, then? I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman. To meet a woman? He? Yes, sir. And the woman's name?

I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were L-L. "'How do you know this, Barrymore?' "'Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. "'He had usually a great many letters "'before he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, "'so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. "'But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter.

"'So I took the more notice of it. "'It was from Coom Tracy, and it was addressed in a woman's hand. "'Well?' "'Well, sir, I think. thought no more of the matter and never would have done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles's study. It had never been touched since his death, and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip. The end of a page hung together, and the writing

could still be read, though it was grey on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a post-script at the end of the letter, and it said, please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock. Beneath it were signed the initials, L.L. Have you got that slip? No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it. Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing? Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone. And you have no idea who L.L. is. No, sir, no more than you have.

But I expect if we could lay our hands upon that lady, we should know more about Sir Charles's death. I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important information. Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond. fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well to go carefully when there's a

lady in the case. Even the best of us, you thought it might injure his reputation. Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it, but now you have been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter. Very good, Barrymore. You can go. When the butler had left us, Sir Henry turned to me. Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light? It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before. So I think.

But if we can only trace L, L, L, it should clear up the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has the facts, if we can only find her. What do you think we should do? Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down. I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied, and hardly

any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here. October the 17th. All day to day the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. "'Poor devil. "'Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. "'And then I thought of that other one, "'the face in the cab, the figure against the moon.

"'Was he also out in that deluge? "'The unseen watcher, the man of darkness? "'In the evening I put on my waterproof "'and I walked far upon the sodden moor, "'full of dark imaginings, "'the rain beating upon my face "'and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into the great Maya now,

for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tour upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees.

They were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before. As I walked back, I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer, driving in his dog cart over a rough moorland track which led to him. from the outlying farmhouse of Falmyre. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed

that he has not called at the hall to see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered onto the moor, and had never come back.

I gave him such consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Meyer, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again. By the way, Mortimer, said I, as we jolted along the rough road. I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this, whom you do not know. Hardly any, I think. Can you then tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L-L? He thought for a few minutes.

No, said he. There are a few gypsies and labouring folk for whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit, though. There is Laura Lyons. Her initials are LL, but she lives in Coom Tracy. Who is she, I asked. She is Franklin's daughter.

What, old Franklin the Crank? Exactly. She married an artist named Lyme. who came sketching on the moor. He proved to be a blagged and deserted her. The fault, from what I hear, may not have been entirely on one side. Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent, and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one, the girl has had a pretty bad time. How does she live? I fancy old Franklin allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are considerate.

involved. Whatever she may have deserved, one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living. A Stapleton did, for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a typewriting business. He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much. For there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to Coom Tracy, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this

chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent, I asked him casually to what type Franklin's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time. Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played Ecatee afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee. into the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

"'Well,' said I, "'has this precious relation of yours departed, "'or is he still lurking out yonder?' "'I don't know, sir. "'I hope to heaven that he is gone, "'for he has brought nothing but trouble here. "'I've not heard of him since I left out food for him last, "'and that was three days ago.

"'Did you see him then?' "'No, sir, but the food was gone "'when next I went that way. Then he was certainly there. So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it. I sat with my coffee cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore. You know that there is another man, then? Yes, sir.

There is another man upon the moor. Have you seen him? No, sir. How do you know of him then? Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr. Watson. I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it.

He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness. Now listen to me, Barrymore. I have no interest in this matter but that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like. Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words. It's all these goings on, sir, he cried at last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window

which faced the moor. There's foul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing to that elsewhere. Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again. But what is it that alarms you? Look at Sir Charles' death. That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said, Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a man who would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder and watching and waiting. What's he waiting for?

What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville. I'm very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the hall. But about this stranger, said I, can you tell me anything about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid or what he was doing? He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own, a kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out.

And where did he say that he lived? Among the old houses on the hillside. Stone huts where the old folk used to live. But how about his food? Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coon Tracy for what he wants. Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.

When the butler had gone, I walked over to the black window and I looked through a blurred pain at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor? What passion of hatred can it be, which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time? And what deep and earnest purpose can he have

which calls for such a trial? There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that place, problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery. The extract from my private diary, which forms the last chapter, has brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, a time when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the notes made

of the time. I start them from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coom Tracy had written to Sir Charles Baskerville, and made an appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two facts in my possession, I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places. I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe. Tracy. At first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went

alone, the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit, the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some pricking of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest. When I reached Coom Tracy, I told Perkins to put up the horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well-appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony. And as I entered the sitting-room, a lady who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression, but the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness,

perhaps of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was. "'I have the pleasure,' said I, of knowing your father.' It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. "'There is nothing in common between my father and me,' she said.

"'I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts, I might have starved for all that my father cared. It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you. The freckles started out on the lady's face. What can I tell you about him, she asked, and her fingers played nervously over the stops of her typewriter. You knew him, did you not?

I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to support myself, it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation. Did you correspond with him? The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleeve, in her hazel eyes. What is the object of these questions? She asked sharply.

The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control. She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner. Well, I'll answer. she said.

What are your questions? Did you correspond with Sir Charles? I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity. Have you the dates of those letters? No. Have you ever met him? Yes, once or twice when he came into Coom Tracy.

He was a very retiring man and he preferred to do good by stealth. But if you saw him so seldom, and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done? She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness. There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles's.

He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs. I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almanor upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the impress of truth upon it. Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you? I continued. Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question. I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.

Then I answer, certainly not. Not on the very day of Sir Charles. Charles's death. The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak the no, which I saw rather than heard. Surely your memory deceives you, said I. I could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran, please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by

ten o'clock. I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort. Is there no such thing as a gentleman? She gasped. You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter, but sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it? Yes, I did write it, she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words.

I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview, I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me. But why at such an hour? Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier.

But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house? Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's house? Well, what happened when you did get there? I never went. Mrs. Lyons, no, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred, I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going. What was that? That is a private matter, I cannot tell it.

You acknowledge, then, that you made an appointment with Sir Charles of the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment. That is the truth. Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that. point. Mrs. Lyons, said I, as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police, you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance

deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date? Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it, and that I might find myself involved in a scandal. And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter? If you have read the letter you will know. I did not say that I had read all the letter. You quoted some of it? I quoted the post-script. The letter had, as I said, been burned. and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter,

which he received on the day of his death. The matter is a very private one. The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation. I will tell you, then, if you have heard anything of my unhappy history, you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it. I have heard so much.

My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles, I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom, if certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me, peace of mind, happiness, self-respect, everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips,

he would help me. Then how is it that you did not go? Because I received help in the interval from another source. Why then did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this? So I should have done. Had I not seen his death in the paper next morning? The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it.

I could only check it by finding if she had indeed instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy. It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not not been to Baskerville Hall, if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there and could not have returned to Coom Tracy until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or at least a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I

to get at the object of my mission. And yet, the more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner, the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. for the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other

clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor. And that was a most vague direction. I realised it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of them. the moor. But I had my own experience for a guide, since it had shown me the man himself, standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That then should be the centre of my search. From there, I should

explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it, I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver, if necessary, who he was, and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent's but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenants should not be within it, I must remain there, however longed the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid, and the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Franklin, who was standing, grey-whiskered and red-faced outside the gate of his garden, which opened onto the high road along which I travelled. Good day, Dr Watson, cried he with unwonted good humour. You must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine, and to congratulate me. My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly, after what I had heard of of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the Wagonet home, and the opportunity was a good one.

I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Franklin into his dining room. It is a great day for me, sir. One of the red-letter days of my life, he cried with many chuckles. I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of Old Middleton's Park. Slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door.

What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates so they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners. Confound them. And I've closed the wood, where the fernworthy folks used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass

because he shot in his own Warren. How on earth did you do that? Well, look it up in the book, sir. It will repay reading Franklin versus Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me £200, but I got my verdict. Did it do you any good? None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter.

I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the fern-worthy people will burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The county constabulary is in a scandalous stator, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of Franklin v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public.

I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true. How so? The old man put on a very knowing expression, because I could tell them what they are dying to know, but nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way. I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.

I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his confidences. Some poaching case, no doubt, said I, with an indifferent manner. Ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that. What about the convict? on the moor. I stared. You don't mean that you know where he is, said I. I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food, and so to trace it

to him? He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. No doubt, said I, but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor? I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes him his food. My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my mind. You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be going, except to the convict? Here was luck indeed, and yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A child? Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was on his track,

and not upon the convicts that Franklin had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge, it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference were evidently my strongest cards. I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of the Morland Shepherds taking out his father's dinner. The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his grey whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat. "'Indeed, sir,' said he, pointed. out over the wide-stretching moor. Do you see that black tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond with the thorn-bush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place

where a shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one. I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission pleased him, and led him to further confidences. You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day I've been able... But wait a moment, Dr. Watson.

Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside? It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small, dark dot against the dull green and gray. Come, sir, come, cried Franklin, rushing upstairs. You will see with your own eyes and judge for yourself. The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat

lads of the house. Franklin clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction. Ah, quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill. There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his shoulder. toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest, I saw the ragged, uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air as one who dreads pursuit.

Then he vanished over the hill. Well, am I right? Certainly there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand. And what the errand is, even a county constable could guess. But not one word shall they have from me. And I bind you to secrecy also, Dr. Watson. Not a word. You understand?

Just as you wish. They have treated me shamefully. Shamefully. When the facts come out in Franklin v. Regina, I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way. For all they cared, it might have been me instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake.

Oh, surely you are not going. You will help me to empty the decanter and honour of this great occasion. But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor

and made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way. The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden green on one side and grey shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest skyline,

out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belever and Vixen tore. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no moving. One great grey bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me, in a cleft of the hills, there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather.

My heart leapt within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place. His secret was within my grasp. As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when, with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within.

The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver, and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty. But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab

upon which Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the chequered light, a panicking and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut, a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle,

the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leapt to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil. Dr. Watson has gone to Coom Tracy. For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands, thinking out the meaning of this curt message.

It was I, then, and not Sir Henry who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent, the boy, perhaps, upon my track, and this was his report. possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so likely that it was only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report, there might be others, so I looked round the heart in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof, I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy? Or was he by chance our guardian angel?

I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew. Outside, the sun was sinking low, and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them, my soul shared none of the peace of nature, but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer.

With tingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant. And then, at last, I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to do. discover myself until I had opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more, the footsteps approached, and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson, said a well-known voice. I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in. Next time, Holmes fills Watson in on what he's been up to. in Dartmoor. The good doctor learns a shocking secret about the Stapletons. And in the dead of night, the hound of the Baskervilles strikes again. That's next time. Can't wait until the next episode?

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