Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not

infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood

upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the

night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is

known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch

across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved

upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family

practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your

head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But,

tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so

unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir

becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that Dr.

Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know

him give him this mark of their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who

does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about

that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn

down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the

Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical

assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting

a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as

to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own

abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light.

Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I

confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen

pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the

attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think

that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval.

He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his *****

eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the

cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the

settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis

for several deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is

nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I

said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was

occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance.

The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a

presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and

that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross'

very naturally suggest themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we

have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what

further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before

going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what

occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When

would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the

moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a

practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been

a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference

too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since

only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a

one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and

yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician—

little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago—the date is on the stick. So

your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and

there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and

the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a

terrier and smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little

wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it is not

difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and professional career." From

my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name.

There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record

aloud.

"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.

House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.

Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,

with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding

member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of

'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?'

(Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer

for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a

country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my

inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and

absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who

receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the

country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card

after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the

dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible.

The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion

for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been—yes, by Jove, it is a

curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the

window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is

the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of

yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of

fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and

you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of

science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical

country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which

jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from

behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly

fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long

back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward ****** of his head and a general

air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand,

and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was

not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick

for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?"

"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting

practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James

Mortimer—"

"Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great

unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and

not—"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of

your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so

dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you

have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your

skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological

museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your

line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger

that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising

dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an

insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in

our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the

purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night

and again today?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I

came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and

because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem.

Recognising, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—"

"Indeed, sir! May I inquirer who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with

some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always

appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is

acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—"

"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more

ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which

you demand my assistance."

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"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

"It is an old manuscript."

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

"How can you say that, sir?"

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have

been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document

within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the

subject. I put that at 1730."

"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his ******-pocket. "This family

paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic

death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that

I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man,

sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document

very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually

overtake him."

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. "You

will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several

indications which enabled me to fix the date."

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was

written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742."

"It appears to be a statement of some sort."

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family."

"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish

to consult me?"

"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-

four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With

your permission I will read it to you."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes,

with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a

high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative

"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there

have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct

line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from

my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down

with all belief that it occurred even as is here set

forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the

same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously

forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer

and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this

story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to

be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions

whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not

again be loosed to our undoing.

"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the

history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most

earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of

Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be

gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless

man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,

seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,

but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour

which made his name a by-word through the West. It

chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark

a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter

of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.

But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,

would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So

it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five

or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon

the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and

brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had

brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper

chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long

carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass

upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing

and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from

below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,

when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who

said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that

which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,

for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and

still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three

leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his

guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things,

perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty

and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became

as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs

into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,

flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried

aloud before all the company that he would that very

night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if

he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers

stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,

it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that

they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran

from the house, crying to his grooms that they should

saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the

hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the

line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable

to understand all that had been done in such haste. But

anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed

which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything

was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,

some for their horses, and some for another flask of

wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed

minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took

horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above

them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course

which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach

her own home.

"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the

night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to

him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as

the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could

scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen

the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But

I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville

passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind

him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at

my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd

and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for

there came a galloping across the moor, and the black

mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing

bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close

together, for a great fear was on them, but they still

followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,

would have been right glad to have turned his horse's

head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last

upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour

and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the

head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the

moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles

and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

"The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you

may guess, than when they started. The most of them

would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.

Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of

those great stones, still to be seen there, which were

set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.

The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there

in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,

dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight

of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo

Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon

the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it

was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,

there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped

like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal

eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing

tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it

turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the

three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still

screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that

very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were

but broken men for the rest of their days.

"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound

which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever

since. If I have set it down it is because that which

is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but

hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many

of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which

have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we

shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,

which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that

third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy

Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend

you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from

crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of

evil are exalted.

"[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,

with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their

sister Elizabeth.]"

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles

up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and

tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon

County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at

the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor

readjusted his glasses and began:

"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose

name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate

for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over

the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville

Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of

character and extreme generosity had won the affection

and respect of all who had been brought into contact with

him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing

to find a case where the scion of an old county family

which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own

fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the

fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known,

made large sums of money in South African speculation.

More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns

against them, he realized his gains and returned to England

with them. It is only two years since he took up his

residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how

large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement

which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself

childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the

whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit

by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons

for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations

to local and county charities have been frequently

chronicled in these columns.

"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles

cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the

inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of

those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.

There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to

imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.

Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to

have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.

In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his

personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville

Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the

husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.

Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,

tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time

been impaired, and points especially to some affection

of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,

breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.

Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of

the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville

was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking

down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence

of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.

On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention

of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore

to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual

for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in

the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At

twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,

became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search

of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the alley. Halfway down

this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.

There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some

little time here. He then proceeded down the alley, and

it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.

One fact which has not been explained is the statement

of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their

character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and

that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking

upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on

the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears

by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.

He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state

from what direction they came. No signs of violence were

to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though

the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible

facial distortion—so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at

first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient

who lay before him—it was explained that that is a symptom

which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from

cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by

the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing

organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a

verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. It is

well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost

importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the

Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly

interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not

finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been

whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been

difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is

understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,

if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's

younger brother. The young man when last heard of was

in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a

view to informing him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those are the public

facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case which

certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at

the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos,

and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases.

This article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and

assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion,

"I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it

from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the

public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive

that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything

were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I

thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good

could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown

very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With

the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there

are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but

the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science

kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and

many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy

of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's

nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I

have read you exceedingly to heart—so much so that, although he would walk in his

own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as

it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate

overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his

ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted

him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical

journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The

latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with

excitement.

"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before

the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was

standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare

past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just

time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the

head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the

spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the

incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the

evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that

he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I

mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy

which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and

that his excitement had no justification.

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew,

affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it

might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few

months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton,

a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same

opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent

Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach

Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts

which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw

the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those

of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had

not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers

dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an

extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical

injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He

said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any.

But I did—some little distance off, but fresh and clear."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a

whisper as he answered.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

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I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's

voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us.

Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which

shot from them when he was keenly interested.

"You saw this?"

"As clearly as I see you."

"And you said nothing?"

"What was the use?"

"How was it that no one else saw it?"

"The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I

don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend."

"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"

"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."

"You say it was large?"

"Enormous."

"But it had not approached the body?"

"No."

"What sort of night was it?'

"Damp and raw."

"But not actually raining?"

"No."

"What is the alley like?"

"There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in

the centre is about eight feet across."

"Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"

"Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side."

"I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?"

"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."

"Is there any other opening?"

"None."

"So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to

enter it by the moor-gate?"

"There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."

"Had Sir Charles reached this?"

"No; he lay about fifty yards from it."

"Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—the marks which you saw were on

the path and not on the grass?"

"No marks could show on the grass."

"Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"

"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate."

"You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?"

"Closed and padlocked."

"How high was it?"

"About four feet high."

"Then anyone could have got over it?"

"Yes."

"And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"

"None in particular."

"Good heaven! Did no one examine?"

"Yes, I examined, myself."

"And found nothing?"

"It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."

"Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?"

"He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no

others."

Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.

"If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and

one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page

upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and

defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that

you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for."

"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I

have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides—"

"Why do you hesitate?"

"There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is

helpless."

"You mean that the thing is supernatural?"

"I did not positively say so."

"No, but you evidently think it."

"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are

hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature."

"For example?"

"I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon

the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly

be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous,

ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed

countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this

dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you

that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the

moor at night."

"And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?"

"I do not know what to believe."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this

world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil

himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark

is material."

"The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out, and yet he was

diabolical as well."

"I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell

me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me

in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire

me to do it."

"I did not say that I desired you to do it."

"Then, how can I assist you?"

"By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at

Waterloo Station"—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—"in exactly one hour and a

quarter."

"He being the heir?"

"Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that

he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an

excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and

executor of Sir Charles's will."

"There is no other claimant, I presume?"

"None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger

Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The

second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was

the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain and was

the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too

hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry

is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo

Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr.

Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?"

"Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"

"It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there

meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before

his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and

the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the

prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good

work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant

of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the

matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice."

Holmes considered for a little time.

"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical

agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville—that is your

opinion?"

"At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be

so."

"Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young

man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a

parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing."

"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you

were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand

it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty

minutes. What would you recommend?"

"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my

front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville."

"And then?"

"And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the

matter."

"How long will it take you to make up your mind?"

"Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to

you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future

if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you."

"I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried

off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of

the stair.

"Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's

death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?"

"Three people did."

"Did any see it after?"

"I have not heard of any."

"Thank you. Good-morning."

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that

he had a congenial task before him.

"Going out, Watson?"

"Unless I can help you."

"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is

splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley's, would you

ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as

well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very

glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been

submitted to us this morning."

I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of

intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence,

constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind

as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my

club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I

found myself in the sitting-room once more.

My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room

was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I

entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse

tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a

vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black

clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.

"Caught cold, Watson?" said he.

"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."

"I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it."

"Thick! It is intolerable."

"Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Am I right?"

"Certainly, but how?"

He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you,

Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your

expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in

the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore

all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not

obvious?"

"Well, it is rather obvious."

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where

do you think that I have been?"

"A fixture also."

"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."

"In spirit?"

"Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed

in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you

left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my

spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about."

"A large-scale map, I presume?"

"Very large."

He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district

which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle."

"With a wood round it?"

"Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along

this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of

buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his

headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few

scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is

a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and

Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between

and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the

stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it

again."

"It must be a wild place."

"Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of

men—"

"Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."

"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions

waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the

second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's

surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of

Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other

hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if

you don't mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a

concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think,

but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your

mind?"

"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."

"What do you make of it?"

"It is very bewildering."

"It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it. That

change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?"

"Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley."

"He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on

tiptoe down the alley?"

"What then?"

"He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his life, running until he

burst his heart—and fell dead upon his face."

"Running from what?"

"There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before

ever he began to run."

"How can you say that?"

"I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so,

and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the

house instead of towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with

cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was

he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in

his own house?"

"You think that he was waiting for someone?"

"The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but

the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five

or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him

credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?"

"But he went out every evening."

"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the

evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before

he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent.

Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon

this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry

Baskerville in the morning."

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