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The Hound of the Baskervilles Summary

The Hound of the Baskervilles. A novel about the famous figure from Arthur Conan Doyle's detective Sherlock Holmes. I am “The Voice that Tells You” Arthur Conan Doyle, Scottish doctor and tireless writer, achieved literary immortality with the creation of Sherlock Holmes, the most famous detective of all time. Inspired by the deductive method of his university professor, Dr. Joseph Bell, Holmes became the emblem of reason, observation and logic in the face of the chaos of crime. However, The Hound of the Baskervilles, published in 1902, represents a singular work within the series: here, Holmes's sharp intelligence is confronted by something more diffuse, disturbing and almost supernatural. In this novel, Conan Doyle achieves a masterful balance between detective mystery and gothic atmosphere. Set in the lonely moors of southwest England, The work plays with our oldest fears—darkness, the unknown, what cannot be explained—and faces them with the firm gaze of reason. It speaks to us about fear, but also of intelligence as a guide. Holmes leaves his beloved London and enters along with Watson in an unknown setting to make us feel like we are inside a real mystery, walking through a landscape that breathes and holds secrets. It has the atmosphere of old legends, but at the same time the precision of meticulous research. It is a book that is not only read: It is read, breathed, listened to, and when it is finished, One does not easily forget either the fog of the moor, or the sound of footsteps in the darkness, nor the echo of a bark in the night, which I seem to be hearing right now… Chapter I Mr. Sherlock Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who generally got up quite late, except on those not so unusual occasions when he didn't go to bed all night, he was eating his breakfast. I, Standing by the fireplace, I bent down to pick up the walking stick that had been forgotten by the visitor from the previous night. Robust, made of well-made wood and with a protuberance in the shape of a of the handle, belonged to the type known as the "Penang lawyer"[1]. Just below the bulge, the cane had a wide silver band, more than two centimeters wide, which read: "To James Mortimer, MRCS[2], from his friends at CCH", with the year "1884". Was exactly the kind of cane that old-school doctors used to carry: respectable, firm and inspiring confidence. —Let's see, Watson, what deductions can you make? Holmes had his back to me, and I had not yet told him what I was doing. —How do you know what I'm doing? I'll end up believing that you have eyes in the back of your head. "What I have, rather, is a shiny silver coffee pot right in front of me," he replied. Come on, Watson, tell me what you think of our visitor's walking stick. Since we did not have the lucky to meet him and we don't know his intentions, this accidental memory takes on importance. Describe the owner based on what your examination of the cane revealed. "I think so," I said, trying to follow as much of the methods of My companion—that Dr. Mortimer is an elderly physician of good repute, esteemed by those around him, as they wanted to show their appreciation with this gift. -Very good! —said Holmes. Excellent observation! —I would also say that he is probably a doctor. from a rural area and who makes many of his visits on foot. —What makes you think that? —Because this cane, despite being of great quality, it is so worn that I find it difficult to imagine a doctor of city using it. The iron end is noticeably eroded, indicating that its owner has traveled great distances with it. —Impeccable reasoning! —said Holmes. —And we must not overlook the “friends of CCH.” It seems to me that this is an association local hunters[3], whose members he has treated in his medical practice and who have given him given this small gift in gratitude. "Frankly, you've outdone yourself," he said. Holmes, pushing his chair back from the breakfast table and lighting a cigarette. I am forced to admit that, usually, in the stories where you have been kind enough to collect my humble achievements, has underestimated his own ability. You may not be brilliant yourself, but you are certainly an excellent light reflector. There are people who, without being brilliant, have a unique gift for encourage others. I must confess, my dear friend, that I am sincerely grateful to you. Until that moment Holmes had never been so effusive, and I must say that his words gave me an intense feeling of satisfaction, because the coldness with which he used to receive my praise and my attempts to spread his methods had been wounded on more than one occasion. I was also flattered by the idea of ​​having assimilated his system. enough to apply it in a way that merited their approval. Holmes then took the cane and inspected it for a few minutes. Then, as if something had been grasped especially his attention, he put the cigarette aside and walked with his cane towards the window, where he examined it again with a convex lens. "Curious, though simple," he said, while He returned to his favorite corner on the sofa. There are no doubt one or two signs on the stick that allow several conclusions to be drawn. —Did I miss something? —I asked with some self-sufficiency. I hope I haven't omitted any essential details. —I fear, my dear Watson, that most of your deductions are erroneous. When I said that has stimulated me I meant, if I'm honest, that his mistakes have sometimes contributed to lead me to the truth. Although on this occasion you have not been completely wrong. There is no doubt that he is a rural doctor who walks often. —So, I got that right. —At that point, yes. —But only on that point. —Only so far, my dear Watson; because that's not everything, not even close. I would consider it more likely, for example, that a gift to a doctor came from a hospital rather than a hunting club, and that seeing the initials CC next to the word hospital, one immediately thinks of Charing Cross. —You may be right. —The odds point in that direction. And if we take this as a starting hypothesis, we have a basis new from which to begin to draw the profile of our unknown visitor. -OK; Suppose “CCH” stands for “Charing Cross Hospital”; What deductions can we make from this? —Can't you think of anything immediately? You know my methods. Put them into practice! —The only obvious deduction that occurs to me is that this man practiced his profession in London before moving to the countryside. —I think we can go a little further. See it from another perspective. When is it most logical to make a gift of this nature? When could your friends have agreed to give him this token of affection? Clearly, the instant Dr. Mortimer left the hospital to open his own practice. We know you received a gift. We assume that there was a transition and that Dr. Mortimer moved from an urban hospital to a rural practice. Do you think we are exaggerating our inferences if we claim that the present commemorates that change? —That seems reasonable enough. —You will also notice, that he could not be part of the hospital's permanent staff, since these positions were only They assign experienced professionals, who have an established clientele in London, and such a doctor would not leave the city for a village. What position did you occupy then? If he worked in the hospital without being part of the permanent staff, he could only be a surgeon. young or a resident physician: little more than a postgraduate student. And he left five years ago years; the date appears on the cane. So your respectable, middle-aged, veteran doctor disappears, my dear Watson, and in his place emerges a young man who has not yet turned thirty, friendly, without great ambitions, somewhat distracted, and owner of a dog that he deeply appreciates and which I will describe as intermediate in size, larger than a terrier, but smaller than a mastiff. I burst out laughing in disbelief as Sherlock Holmes leaned back on the sofa, sending slow rings of smoke towards the ceiling. —With regard to your last remarks, I have no way of refuting them, I said, but at least it won't be difficult for us. find out some facts about the age and career of the gentleman in question. From the modest shelf where he stored books related to medicine, I pulled out the medical directory and, searching by last name, found several Mortimers, but only one which corresponded to our visitor, so I proceeded to read his biographical note aloud. «Mortimer, James, MRCS, 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devonshire. From 1882 to 1884 internal surgeon at the Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson Prize in Comparative Pathology, thanks to his work entitled “Is illness a form of regression?” Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of “Some Cases of Atavism” (Lancet, 1882), “Are we making progress?” (Journal of Psychology, March 1883). Doctor of the municipalities of Grimpen, Thorsley and High Barrow. —There is no mention of a hunters' association,' Holmes commented with a sarcastic smile; but our visitor does He is a rural doctor, as you correctly guessed. I think my deductions are still valid. As for adjectives, I said, if my memory serves me right, affable, unambitious and distracted. According to What I have observed, only a kind man receives gifts from his colleagues, only a man without great aspirations abandons a career in London to retire to a village, and only one person careless leaves a walking stick instead of a business card after waiting for an hour. —And the dog? —He is used to bringing the cane to its owner. As it is a heavy object, you need to grip it firmly by the center, and the marks on your teeth are perfectly visible. The jaw of the animal, as evidenced by the distance between the signs, is, in my opinion, too wide for a terrier and not wide enough for a mastiff. It could be…, yes, of course: it is a curly-coated spaniel. Holmes had risen and was pacing the room as he spoke. Finally he stopped next to the window opening. His voice had such a tone of certainty that I looked up in surprise. —How can you be so sure? —For the simple reason that I am seeing the dog in front of our house, and we just heard his owner knocking on the door. Do not move, I beg you. He is one of your colleagues in the profession, and his presence could be of benefit to me. useful. This is the dramatic moment of destiny, Watson: we hear the footsteps of someone who is about to burst into our existence, and we don't know if it will be for good or for evil. evil. What will Dr. James Mortimer, the scientist, look for in Sherlock Holmes, the detective? Forward! The appearance of our visitor surprised me. I was surprised, because I was expecting the typical rural doctor and instead a very tall and thin man appeared, with a long, curved nose, which stood out between intense, gray eyes, quite close together, that shone from behind gold-framed glasses. He dressed according to his profession, although somewhat negligently, as his frock coat was stained and his trousers worn. With His back was bent, although he was still young, he walked with his head forward and showed a general air of somewhat short-sighted benevolence. As he entered, his eyes fell upon the walking stick Holmes was holding, and rushed towards him with a gasp of relief. —What a joy! -said-. I didn't know if I had it. left here or at the shipping agency. I would be very sorry to lose this cane. "A gift, I gather," said Holmes. -That's how it is. —From Charing Cross Hospital? —From one or two colleagues I had there, on the occasion of my wedding. —Well, well! What a disappointment! —said Holmes, shaking his head. —And why the disappointment? —Simply because it has debunked our humble conjectures. Did you say it was for your wedding? -Yes sir. When I got married I left the hospital, and with it any hope of opening a clinic. I needed a home. —Good, good; "We weren't so far off the mark after all," said Holmes. And now, Dr. James Mortimer… —I'm not a doctor; only a modest MRCS. —And a man who loves precision, as far as I can see. —A mere amateur scientist, Mr. Holmes, a shell collector in the vast shore of the ocean of knowledge. I suppose I'm talking to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not to... —You are not wrong; I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend, Dr. Watson. —Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. I've heard your name mentioned alongside your colleague's. You I am very interested, Mr. Holmes. I did not expect to find such a dolichocephalic skull nor such a pronounced supraorbital arch. Would you mind if I ran my finger along your parietal suture? A cast of your skull, gentleman, until the original can be obtained, would be the jewel of any anthropological museum. I don't want to sound like a flatterer, but I admit that I covet his skull. Sherlock Holmes made a slight gesture with his hand to invite our peculiar visitor to sit down. “I see you are as passionate about your ideas as I am about mine,” he said. And I notice with your index finger that you roll your own cigarettes. If you wish, feel free to light one. Dr. Mortimer took out paper and tobacco and rolled a cigarette with surprising agility. His fingers, long and somewhat trembling, were as lively and nervous as the antennae of an insect. Holmes remained silent, but the intensity with which he watched me made his interest clear to me. that our unusual visitor awakened in him. "I suppose," he said at last, "that we do not owe the honor from his night visit and this morning's visit solely to the desire to examine my skull. —Of course not; though I am also glad that I did, I have come to see you, Mr. Holmes, because I am fully aware that I am not a practical man, and because I am faced suddenly to a matter as serious as it is unusual. And recognizing, as I recognize, that you are the second most qualified European expert… —Ah. May I know who you give the credit to? to be the first? —interrupted Holmes with some displeasure. —For someone who values ​​accuracy and science, the work of Monsieur Bertillon exerts a formidable appeal. —And wouldn't it have been preferable? go to him, then? —I have spoken of those who appreciate accuracy and science. But as far as practicality is concerned, everyone admits that you have no equal. I hope, sir, that I have not—” “Only a little,” said Holmes. It won't hurt, Dr. Mortimer, without further delay, please explain to me In a few words, what exactly is the matter you wish to entrust to my discretion. Chapter II The Curse of the Baskervilles "I have a manuscript in my pocket," said Dr. James Mortimer. "I noticed it as soon as he entered the room," Holmes replied. —It's an ancient manuscript. —First half of the 18th century, unless it is a forgery. —How do you know? —The three or four visible centimeters allowed me to examine him while he spoke. Anyone who is unable to date a document to within ten years or so, cannot be called an expert. You may have heard of my modest monograph on that subject. I would date it around 1730. —The exact date is 1742 —said the doctor Mortimer, taking the manuscript from the inside pocket of his coat. Sir Charles Baskerville, whose unexpected and tragic death some three months ago caused great shock in Devonshire, entrusted this family document to my custody. Maybe I should clarify that I was his doctor and also his personal friend. Sir Charles, though a determined, perceptive, practical and so little fanciful as I was, I regarded this writing with great seriousness, and was prepared for it to what finally ended his life happened. Holmes reached out for the document. and smoothed it carefully onto his knee. —Note, Watson, the intermittent use of the long S and the short S. It's one of the details that helped me date it. Over his shoulder I noticed the yellowing paper and faded writing. The header read: "Baskerville Manor" and, just below, in large, irregular figures, "1742". —It seems like a formal statement. —Yes, it is a story about a certain legend linked to the Baskerville family. —But I suppose you want to consult me ​​about something more recent and specific. —Very topical. An extremely urgent and practical matter that must be resolved in within twenty-four hours. But the story is short and closely connected to the case. With your permission, I will proceed to read it. Holmes leaned back in his chair, He joined his fingertips together and closed his eyes with a resigned expression. Dr. Mortimer directed the manuscript towards the light and read, in a high-pitched voice that sometimes wavered, the following narrative, picturesque and at the same time disturbing: On the origin of the bloodhound of the Baskerville has had many versions, but as I am directly descended from Hugo Baskerville And this story was told to me by my father, who in turn heard it from my grandfather, I record it in writing, convinced that the events occurred exactly as described here. I would like, with this, to convince you, my children, that the same Justice that punishes sin can also absolve him without demanding compensation, and that every curse can finally be overcome by the power of repentance and prayer. Learn from this story not to fear the consequences of the past, but rather to act prudently in the future, so that the horrible passions that have tormented our race do not return to be unleashed to lead us to ruin. Know that in the times of the great rebellion (and I highly recommend that you read the chronicle that the wise Lord Clarendon wrote about it[4], The owner of this Baskerville mansion was a Hugo of the same surname, and it cannot be hidden that He was the most savage, irreverent, and blasphemous man imaginable. All this, in truth, His contemporaries could have forgiven him, given that the saints have never been abundant in these regions, if it were not for the fact that he also possessed an inclination towards lust and cruelty that became sadly notorious throughout the western part of the county. It happened that this Hugo became infatuated (if such a dark desire can be given such a luminous name) from the daughter of a small landowner who lived near the lands of the Baskervilles. But the young woman, sensible and of impeccable reputation, He always avoided Hugo because of the fear that his feared fame inspired in him. So it was that, On a feast of Saint Michael, this ancestor of ours, together with five or six of his cronies, As idle as they were ruthless, they sneaked to the farm and kidnapped the maiden, knowing that his father and brothers were absent. Once in the mansion, they locked the young woman in a room on the upper floor, while Hugo and his friends began a prolonged orgy, as they used to every night. The poor girl most likely lost her mind when she heard the singing, the screams and terrible oaths that resounded from below, for they say that the words that Hugo Baskerville said in his drunken stupor, they would be enough to kill whoever uttered them. Finally, driven by fear, the girl did something that perhaps not even the bravest man could have done. would have tried: using the vine that covered (and still covers) the south side of the house, He climbed down from the window to the ground and started walking home across the moor, determined to travel the three leagues that separated the mansion from her father's farm. »It happened that, shortly after, Hugo left his guests to take food and drink—and perhaps other less confessable things—to his prisoner, and found the cage empty and the bird flown away. From that moment on, it is said, he seemed possessed by the devil, because he lowered his stairs like a madman, burst into the dining room jumping on the large table, sending plates flying and jugs, and shouted at the top of his voice before everyone that that same night he would give body and soul to the hell if he managed to catch up with the girl. And although his fury frightened the drinkers, There was one more depraved or perhaps more drunk than the rest, who suggested sending the bloodhounds after the maid. Hearing this, Hugo ran out of the house and shouted to his servants to They would saddle the mare and release the pack; after giving the dogs a handkerchief from the young woman, She put them on her trail and set them out in the moonlight to chase her across the moor. For a few moments, the diners remained silent, unable to assimilate such dizzying events. But they soon came out of their stupor, understanding what was probably about to happen. The uproar was immediate: some They asked for their weapons, others for their horses, and there were those who required another glass of wine. Over time, However, their dull minds regained some lucidity, and all of them, thirteen in all, They mounted their horses and followed Hugo. The moon was shining high above and they galloped at full speed, following the path that the girl had to take in her escape to her parents' home. They had traveled about half a league when they met one of the shepherds. who watched over the cattle of the moorland during the night, and questioned him with shouts, asking him for news about the hunting party. And that man, as the story goes, Although he was so gripped by fear that he could hardly speak, he finally managed to tell who had seen the unfortunate maiden and the bloodhounds on her trail. “But I have "I've seen something else," he added, "because I also came across Hugo Baskerville riding his black mare, and behind him ran silently a hellish hound that God forbid ever follows my steps." So the drunken knights cursed the shepherd and moved on. But soon it will It made their blood run cold in their veins, because they heard the gallop of hooves, and immediately it passed in front of them. To them, dragging the reins and without a rider, Hugo's black mare, covered in foam. From that moment on, the revelers, gripped by terror, continued advancing across the moor, although each of them, had they been alone, would have turned around in genuine relief. After riding at a slower pace in this manner, they finally arrived at the place where the bloodhounds. The poor animals, although famous for their bravery and lineage, howled in groups the beginning of a snout, as we call it here, some fleeing and others with their hair standing on end and their eyes wide open, staring at the narrow valley that opened before them. The riders, much less drunk now, as is easy to imagine, than at the beginning of their adventure, they stopped. Most of them refused to continue, but three of them, the bravest or perhaps the most The most intoxicated continued until they reached the bottom of the ravine, which soon widened. and in the center of which stood two of those large stones that still remain today, work of ancient peoples now forgotten. The moon illuminated the clearing and, in the middle of it, lay the unfortunate maiden on the spot where she had fallen, dead of panic and exhaustion. But it wasn't the sight of his body, nor of the corpse of Hugo Baskerville, lying nearby, which made that made those intrepid people's hair stand on end, but the fact that, on top of Hugo and tearing at his throat was a hideous creature: a colossal black beast bloodhound-like, but larger than any ever seen by the human eye. Immediately afterward, and in his presence, that infernal creature tore off Hugo Baskerville's head, so that, turning his burning eyes and bloody jaws upon them, The three of them screamed in terror and fled desperately, shouting as they galloped across the moor. According to reports, one of them died that same night. as a result of what he had witnessed, and the other two never recovered health in the years that remained of their lives. That is the story, my children, of the emergence of the hound that, they say, has cruelly harassed our lineage ever since. I have written it down, because what is clearly known produces less fear than that which is barely hinted at or suspected. It cannot be denied that many of our relatives They have had tragic deaths, often sudden, bloody and shrouded in mystery. Perhaps we can, however, find refuge in the infinite goodness of Providence, which does not He will punish the innocent without cause beyond the third or fourth generation, which is as far as it goes. extends the warning of Holy Scripture. To that Providence, my children, I commend you, and I advise you, as a precautionary measure, to avoid crossing the moor during the hours nights in which the powers of evil prevail. (From Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, urging them not to share its contents with Elizabeth, her sister). When Dr. Mortimer finished reading that unusual story, He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and stared at Sherlock. Holmes. The latter yawned and threw the cigarette butt he had been smoking into the fire. —Well? -said. —Did you find it interesting? —For a collector of fantasy legends. Dr. Mortimer took from his pocket a folded newspaper. —Now, Mr. Holmes, I am going to read you a somewhat more recent news item, which appeared in the Devon County Chronicle of the 14th June of this year. This is a brief summary of the information gathered regarding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, which had occurred a few days earlier. My friend leaned forward slightly. and his expression became more concentrated. Our visitor adjusted his glasses and began to read: The sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name was mentioned as possible Liberal Party candidate in Mid-Devon for the next election, has plunged the county into deep sadness. Although Sir Charles had resided in the mansion of the Baskerville for a relatively short period, his cordiality and his remarkable generosity They won the sympathy and respect of all who knew him. In these times of new fortunes, It is encouraging to find an example in which the descendant of an ancient family came At least he managed to make a fortune abroad and then return to the land of his ancestors. to restore its lost splendor. Sir Charles, as is well known, enriched himself through investments in South Africa. More prudent than those who remain in business until fortune turned his back on them, Sir Charles withdrew in time and returned to England with his capital. Just a few days ago two years since he settled in the Baskerville mansion, and his well-known ambitious plans for restoration and improvement, tragically cut short by his death. Having no offspring, he publicly expressed his wish that the entire region would benefit, during his life, of his economic fortune, and there are many who have personal reasons for mourn his early passing. The columns of this newspaper have often reported on his generous contributions to both local and county charities." It cannot be stated that the investigation carried out has completely clarified the circumstances surrounding Sir Charles's death, but at least it has shed enough light to put an end to rumors fueled by local superstition. There is no basis for assuming that a crime has been committed, nor to think that the death was not due to causes natural. Sir Charles was a widower and perhaps somewhat eccentric in certain respects. Despite its great fortune, he led a very simple life and relied only on the personal service of the Barrymore marriage: the husband as butler and the wife as housekeeper. His statements, confirmed by those of several close associates, served to demonstrate that Sir Charles's health was had deteriorated for some time and, in particular, that he was suffering from a heart condition with symptoms such as pallor, breathing difficulties and acute attacks of nervous depression. The doctor James Mortimer, a close friend and family doctor of the deceased, gave concurring testimony. The facts are easily recounted. Sir Charles had the habit of walking every evening, before go to bed, along the famous Yew Lane of the Baskerville mansion. The testimony of The Barrymores confirm this habit. On June 4, Sir Charles expressed his intention to travel to London the next day and asked Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out, as usual, out for his evening walk, during which he would smoke a Havana cigar, but he never returned. At midnight, finding the main door still open, the butler alarmed and, after turning on a flashlight, went out in search of him. It had rained during the day, so it was not difficult for him to follow his master's footsteps along the Yew Tree Walk. About halfway along the route there is a gate that leads to the moor. Sir Charles, according to It seems, he stopped there for a while. Barrymore moved on and, at the far end of the path, found the body. According to his testimony, Sir Charles's footprints changed beyond the gate, as if he had walked on tiptoe. A certain Murphy, a gypsy and horse trader, He was nearby at the time, but, he confessed, he was drunk. He claims to have heard screams, but could not determine its origin. No sign of violence was found on the body, and although the medical report indicates an almost unbelievable distortion of the face —to the point that Dr. Mortimer initially refused to acknowledge his friend and patient—, This is known to be a not uncommon symptom in cases of dyspnea and death from cardiac collapse. This This explanation was confirmed by the autopsy, which revealed a chronic organic condition, and the jury, informed by the coroner[5], returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. We should be glad that this was the case, as it is crucial that Sir Charles's heir occupy the mansion and continue the praiseworthy work so tragically interrupted. If the prosaic The coroner's findings would not have silenced the romantic fantasies that arose around Given these facts, it would have been difficult to find a new tenant for the Baskerville house. Sir Charles's closest relative is reportedly Sir Henry Baskerville, son of his younger brother, if he is still alive. The last news we had of this young man placed him in the United States. United, and the necessary steps have already been taken to notify you of what happened. Dr. Mortimer folded the newspaper again and put it in his pocket. —These are, Mr. Holmes, the facts connected with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville that have transcended the public. "I am grateful to you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for having brought a case that, without a doubt, presents some aspects worthy of attention. I remember reading, at the time, some articles about the death of Sir Charles, but I was then absorbed with the matter of the Vatican cameos and, in my eagerness to please His Holiness, I neglected several very interesting cases from my country. You say that article contains everything that has it been made public? -Exactly. "Then I beg you to inform me now of the private particulars," said Holmes, as he leaned back. On the couch, he placed his fingertips together and adopted his most focused and serene expression. "In doing so," explained Dr. Mortimer, who was beginning to show visibly Moved—I am preparing to confide in you something that I have not revealed to anyone until now. During the coroner's investigation I decided to keep it secret for two reasons: First, a scientist cannot publicly support something that could fuel beliefs superstitious; The second, as the newspaper indicates, is that the Baskerville mansion would be certainly empty if we contributed to reinforcing its already grim reputation. For those reasons it seemed to me justifiable to keep silent about part of what he knew, given that nothing useful would be obtained by doing so public. But now, when it comes to you, I see no reason not to speak with complete frankness. The moor is very sparsely populated, and the few residents that are usually visited regularly. That's the reason why I often saw Sir Charles Baskerville. Apart from Mr. Frankland of the Lafter household and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no cultured people for many miles around. Sir Charles He was reserved, but his illness brought us closer, and our shared scientific interests strengthened our relationship. I had brought back a good amount of scientific information from southern Africa, and we spent many evenings in animated conversation about anatomy comparison of the Bushman and the Hottentot. As the months went by I noticed with increasing clarity that Sir Charles' nervous system was under unbearable strain. He had taken the legend I had read to him at the beginning so deeply to heart that, Although he strolled through its gardens, he would never have ventured onto the moor at night. For incredible It may seem to you, Mr. Holmes, that he firmly believed that a terrible fate hung over his family and, in In all honesty, the history of his ancestors offered him no comfort. I was obsessed with the idea of ​​a terrifying presence, and on more than one occasion he asked me if, during the night trips that I sometimes make for professional reasons, I had seen some strange creatures or heard the barking of a bloodhound. This last question was asked of me repeatedly, always with a tense and excited voice. I remember perfectly one night, about three weeks before the tragedy, when I arrived at his house after dark. Sir Charles se I happened to be next to the main entrance. I got out of my car and, As I approached, I noticed that his eyes were fixed on something beyond my shoulder, with an expression of absolute horror. When I turned around, I could only glimpse what seemed to me to be a large black calf crossing at the other end of the walkway. My host became so agitated that I was forced to go to the exact spot where he had seen the creature and record the surroundings, but I found no trace. Even so, the episode left a profound impression on him. I kept him company for the rest of the evening and it was then, to explain his agitation to me, who entrusted me with the manuscript that I shared with you this morning. I mention this fact seemingly trivial because it becomes relevant in light of the subsequent disaster, although in that moment seemed unimportant to me and I believed that my friend's concern had no real basis. Sir Charles was planning to travel to London on my recommendation. I knew his heart was sick and that the constant emotional tension he suffered, however unfounded its causes, had a detrimental effect on his condition. I considered that a season in the big city could restore him. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend, also concerned about his health, shared my opinion. And just at the last moment the disaster happened. On the night of her death, Barrymore, the butler, who found the body, sent Perkins, The stable boy rode to get me, and since I hadn't gone to bed yet, I was able to get to the mansion. in less than an hour. I personally verified all the details that were later mentioned in the investigation. I followed the footprints along the Yew walk, I saw the place next to the gate that It gives way to the moor where it seemed to have waited and I noticed the alteration in the pattern of the footsteps from that point, as well as the absence of any trace other than Barrymore's on the sand wet. I also thoroughly examined the body, which had not been touched before my arrival. Sir Charles lay face down, arms outstretched, fingers digging into the earth and his face so contorted by some extreme emotion that I would have found it difficult to swear who was the owner of the Baskerville house. There was no external injury. But Barrymore made a mistake during his statement. He assured that there were no signs on the ground next to to the corpse. He didn't see them, but I did. At some distance, but clearly visible and recent. —Footprints? —Footprints. —Of a man or a woman? Dr. Mortimer tells us He looked strangely for a moment, and his voice dropped to a murmur: —Mr. Holmes, those were the footprints of a gigantic hound! Chapter III The Problem I confess that I felt a shudder when I heard those words. The trembling in the voice of the The doctor showed that he was also deeply affected by what he had just told us. Excitement made Holmes lean forward and surged in his eyes. that cold and imperturbable glow that illuminated them when something keenly aroused their interest. —Did you see them? —As clearly as I see you. —And he didn't say anything? —Why would I do that? —How come no one else noticed them? —The footprints were about twenty meters away of the corpse and no one noticed them. I guess I would have done the same thing if I didn't know the legend. —Are there many sheepdogs on the moor? —Of course, but in this case it wasn't a shepherd. —Do you claim it was big? -Huge. —But you didn't approach the body? —He didn't. —What was the weather like that night? —Cold and wet. —But wasn't it raining? —No, not at all. —What's that walk like? —There are two rows of yew trees centuries-old trees that form a closed hedge about four meters high. The walk itself It is about three meters wide. —Is there anything between the hedges and the walk? —Yes, a strip of grass two meters wide on each side. —Is it correct to say that the yew hedge is interrupted by a gate? -Yeah; the gate that gives access to the moor. —Is there any other way out? —No more. -So that To access the Paseo de los Tejos, do you have to come from the house or enter through the moor gate? —There is another exit through the summer pavilion, at the far end of the house. —Had Sir Charles gotten there? -No; was about fifty meters away. —Tell me, Dr. Mortimer, and this is important: were the footprints you observed on the road and not on the grass? —There are no marks left on the grass. —Were they on the side of the walk where the gate is? -Yeah; at the edge of the path, on that same side. —What you're telling me interests me greatly. A Another question: was the gate closed? —Yes, closed and with the padlock on. —How tall is he? —A little over a meter. —So anyone could have jumped it. -Definitely. —And what signs did you find near the gate? —None worth mentioning. -Heavens! Nobody examined it? —I did it myself. —And you didn't find anything? —Everything was quite confusing. Sir Charles undoubtedly remained there for between five and ten minutes. —How do you know? —Because he dropped two times the ash of his cigarette. -Magnificent! Here, Watson, a colleague with affinities to our own inclinations. But what about the other footprints? —Sir Charles had repeatedly left his on a small stretch of road, and I couldn't find any other. Sherlock Holmes hit his head knee to palm, visibly impatient. —Oh, if only I had been there! —he exclaimed. It is a case of exceptional interest, which offered magnificent opportunities to the scientific researcher. That walk, from which so much could have been deduced, It has since been blurred by rain and disfigured by the footsteps of peasants curious. Why didn't you call me, Dr. Mortimer? He has committed a grave sin of omission. —I could not call you, Mr. Holmes, without making public the facts I have just confided to you, and now I have explained to him my reasons for avoiding it. Also… —Why are you hesitating? —There is an area that escapes even the most astute and experienced detective. —Are you suggesting that this is a supernatural matter? —I didn't say anything like that. —No, but it's obvious that he believes it. —Since the night of the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, I have known various events that are difficult to understand. to reconcile with natural laws. -For example? —I have heard that, before the terrible event, several people claimed to have seen a woman on the moor. creature that corresponds to the legend of the Baskerville demon, and cannot be treated of any animal known to science. Everyone describes it as a huge beast, luminous, monstrous and ghostly. I have personally questioned these people: a peasant with good judgment, a blacksmith and a farmer from the moor, and all three agree in recounting the appearance of a hideous creature that matches point by point with the hellhound of the tradition. I assure you that fear has taken hold of the district, and there is hardly anyone who dares to cross the moor after nightfall. —And you, as a man of science, do you really believe that we are facing something supernatural? —I'm not sure what to believe anymore. Holmes shrugged. —So far I have limited my investigations into this world, he said. I fight crime to the best of my ability, But facing the Prince of Evil in person may prove to be too much of an undertaking. However, he admits that the traces were material. —The first bloodhound was physical enough to tear a man's throat out, without this preventing him from being demonic. —I see you've completely gone over to occult side. But tell me one thing, Dr. Mortimer: if that is your conviction, Why have you come to consult me? You tell me that it is useless to investigate the death of Sir Charles and at the same time wishes that he would do it. —I didn't say I wanted him to investigate. —So how do you expect me to help you? —Guiding me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, arriving at Waterloo Station—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—within exactly one hour and a quarter. —Is he the heir? -Yeah. After Sir Charles' death we investigated the whereabouts of that young man, and we discovered that He had dedicated himself to agriculture in Canada. According to reports received, He is an exemplary subject from every point of view. I speak now not as a doctor, but in my capacity as a as executor and trustee of Sir Charles. —There are no other suitors, I imagine. -None. The only relative we were able to trace, apart from him, was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of the three brothers, Sir Charles being the eldest. The second died young, and he was the boy's father, Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came from the old ruling line of the Baskervilles and, I was told, was identical with the portrait of old Hugo. His situation became so bad that he had to flee England. and end his days in Central America, where he died of yellow fever in 1876. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In an hour and five minutes I will meet him at Waterloo. This morning I received a telegram announcing his arrival in Southampton. And that is my question, Mr. Holmes: What do you advise me to do with it? —Why would he deprive himself of return to the home of their ancestors? —That's reasonable, right? And yet, If we consider that all the Baskervilles who return end up victims of an ill fate, I am convinced that if Sir Charles had been able to speak to me before he died, He would have begged me not to take the last offspring of his lineage to that sinister place. Nevertheless, It is evident that the well-being of the entire region, poor and desolate, depends on its presence. All the good Sir Charles did will fall apart if the mansion remains. deserted. And since I don't want to be accused of acting out of personal interest, I decided to tell him the case and ask for his advice. Holmes was silent for a few seconds. —In short, the question is this: according to you, there is an evil force that turns Dartmoor into a dangerous place for a Baskerville. Am I right? —At least I'm willing to admit that there are indications in that direction. -OK. But if his theory about the supernatural is correct, The young man would be as exposed to that danger in London as in Devonshire. A demon to operate with a jurisdiction as limited as a parish would be too absurd. —You approach the subject, Mr. Holmes, with a lightness which perhaps I would abandon if I were to have direct contact with these phenomena. Your point of view, as I understand it, is that young Baskerville will run the same risks in Devonshire as in London. Get inside of fifty minutes. What would you suggest? —My advice, sir, is to take a car, call your spaniel, who is scratching at the front door, and head for Waterloo without delay. meet Sir Henry Baskerville. —And then? —Then don't tell him anything until I've made a decision about it. —How much time do you need? —Twenty-four hours. I should be very grateful if you would come and see me tomorrow at ten o'clock sharp, Dr. Mortimer. It will also be very convenient for my purposes if you bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you. —I will, Mr. Holmes. He wrote down the details of the appointment in the cuff of his shirt and, with that distracted and somewhat peculiar air of short-sighted people, he left the room hurriedly. Holmes, suddenly remembering something, managed to stop him on the landing. —One last question, Dr. Mortimer. Have you said that before Sir Charles's death several people saw that creature in the wasteland? —Three people, exactly. —And after the incident? Is anyone known to have seen her again? —I have no knowledge of that. -Thank you so much. Good morning. Holmes returned to his seat with a calm expression of inward satisfaction, which indicated that he had a task before him that was particularly attractive to him. —Are you going out, Watson? —Only if I can't be of any use to you here. —No, my dear friend, I come to you when the time for action comes. But what we have hearing is magnificent, truly unusual from more than one point of view. When you pass by Bradley's, Would you be so kind as to ask him to send me a pound of the strongest mixture you have? Many thank you. I would also appreciate it if you could arrange your schedule so that you do not return before dark. I would then be pleased to compare impressions about this fascinating problem that was raised to us this morning. He knew that Holmes desperately needed the solitude and contemplation during his hours of deep mental concentration, in which he analyzed the most subtle clues and developed various hypotheses, discarding some and keeping others according to their value. So I spent the day at my club and didn't return to Baker Street until late at night. It was almost nine o'clock when I opened the living room door again. My first impression was that there had been a fire, as there was so much smoke in the room where the light from the lamp placed on the table could barely be distinguished. As soon as you enter, However, my fears disappeared, because the burning sensation in my throat that forced me to The cough came from the acrid smoke of an intensely strong and harsh tobacco. Through In that haze I had a blurred vision of Holmes in his dressing gown, huddled in an armchair with his pipe. black clay between the lips. Around him, several rolls of paper were scattered. —Have you caught a cold, Watson? -No; This atmosphere is unbreathable. —I guess she's a bit loaded, now that you mention it. —Something loaded! It's unbearable. —Open the window then! From what I see, has spent the whole day at the club. —My dear Holmes! —Did I get it right? —Of course, but how did you know…? Holmes laughed at my surprised expression. —There is an endearing candor about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to test my limited powers of deduction at their expense. A gentleman leaves home on a rainy day, the streets full of mud, and returns at dusk impeccable, with his shoes and hat still shiny. That indicates that he has not been in the street. You don't have many close friends. Where could you have spent the day? Isn't it obvious? —Yes, quite clear. —The world is full of obvious things that almost no one stops to observe. Where do you think I've been? —You haven't gone out either. —On the contrary: I have been in Devonshire. —In body or in spirit? —In spirit, exactly. My body remained in this armchair and, during my absence, I regret to say, has consumed the contents of two very large coffee pots and a huge amount of tobacco. Once you left, I asked Stanford's to send me an official map of that part of the moor, and my mind has been flying over it all day. I think I could walk around it now without getting lost. —A detailed map, I suppose. —Very large scale —Holmes unrolled a section and held it on his knee. Here you have the area specific that concerns us. That is, with the Baskerville mansion in the center. —And a forest surrounding it? -Exactly. I imagine that The Tejos promenade, although it is not marked with that name, must extend along this line, with the moor, as you can see, on the right side. That small group of buildings It corresponds to the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer resides. Note that, Within a radius of eight kilometers, there are only a few scattered houses. Here is the Lafter Mansion, mentioned in the account read by Dr. Mortimer. This other brand indicates probably the residence of the naturalist…, if my memory serves me right, his surname was Stapleton. Here appear two farms located in the heart of the moor: High Tor and Foulmire. And further on, more than twenty kilometers away, Princetown prison. Among those scattered points stretches out the inhospitable and desolate wasteland. That is, then, the scene where the tragedy took place… and where perhaps we will contribute to another one taking place. —It must be a very unique place. —Yes, the environment justifies it. If the devil himself wishes to intervene in human affairs… —So you are leaning towards the supernatural hypothesis? —Agents of evil can take human form, don't you think? There are two issues that solve first of all. The first is whether there was a crime; the second, what it was and how it was committed. Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's theory were true and we were In the face of forces that exceed natural laws, our investigation would end before starting. But we must exhaust all other possibilities before go to that one. I think we can close the window now, if you don't mind. It's funny, but I find that a charged atmosphere favors intellectual concentration. I haven't yet reached the point of locking myself in a box to think, but that would be, logically, the next step according to my principles. Have you been reflecting on the case? -Yeah; I've been thinking about it a lot all day. —And have you come to any conclusion? —I find it very disconcerting. —It is certainly a matter with very unique characteristics. There are some very striking details. The change in the type of footprints, for example. What do you think about that? —Mortimer said the deceased tiptoed along that part of the walk. —The doctor simply repeated what some ignorant person said during the investigation. Why would anyone tiptoe along that walk? —What happened, then? —He was running, Watson… he was running desperate to save his life; He ran until his heart burst and he fell face down. —I was running… fleeing from what? —That's what we have to find out. There is signs that Sir Charles was already overcome by fear before setting out on the race. —How do you know? —I imagine that what you frightened advanced towards him from the moor. If that is true, and it seems most plausible, Only someone out of their mind would run away from the house instead of seeking refuge inside. If we believe the gypsy's testimony, he ran asking for help in the opposite direction. where I could receive her. On the other hand, who was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting in the Paseo de los Tejos and not inside? —Do you think he was expecting someone? —Sir Charles was an elderly man with ailments. It is reasonable that it came out for a walk before bed, but given the dampness of the ground and the harshness of the night, Does it make sense that he remained motionless for five or ten minutes, like Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I would have supposed, deduced from the cigarette ash? —But I used to go out every night. —I find it unlikely that he would stop. every night by the gate. We know, however, that he avoided the moor. That night he stopped over there. The next day I was going to travel to London. Things are beginning to take shape, Watson. Goes gaining coherence. If you don't mind, pass me the violin and let's not think about this again until that we may meet tomorrow morning with Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville. Chapter IV Sir Henry Baskerville We finished breakfast early and Holmes, still in his dressing gown, calmly awaited the arrival of the promised interview. Our visitors arrived punctually: the clock had just struck It was ten o'clock when Dr. Mortimer entered, followed by the young baronet, a man about thirty years old, rather short, lively look, dark eyes, robust build, thick black eyebrows and an energetic face that revealed a combative disposition. He was wearing a reddish tweed suit and the tanned complexion of someone who has spent long days outdoors, although there was something in the firmness of his expression and the natural certainty of his manner that revealed their aristocratic lineage. —Sir Henry Baskerville —announced Dr. Mortimer. "At your service," replied Sir Henry, And the curious thing, Mr. Holmes, is that if my friend here present had not proposed to me come see him this morning, I would have ended up coming on my own. I understand that you dedicate yourself to solving small enigmas, and today I came across one that It requires more brains than I can offer. —Take a seat, Sir Henry. If I'm not mistaken, You have already had some remarkable experiences since your arrival in London. —Nothing worth mentioning, Mr. Holmes. Just a joke, probably. This is a letter—if it can be called that—that I received this morning. Sir Henry placed an envelope on the table, and we all bent down to examine it. It was made of ordinary paper and gray tone. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was written in a rough. The postmark read "Charing Cross" and the letter had been sent the night before. —Who knew you were staying at the Northumberland Hotel? —asked Holmes, observing our visitor with keen interest. —Nobody knew. I made that decision after meet Dr. Mortimer. —But surely Dr. Mortimer had already stayed there before. "No," the doctor clarified. I was staying at a friend's house. There was no clue that we were going to choose that hotel. —Humm! Someone seems to be very attentive to his movements - Holmes took half a sheet out of the envelope folded it in four, unfolded it and spread it on the table. A single sentence, composed by cutting printed words and pasting them on the paper, occupied the center of the sheet: "If you give value to his life or his reason, he will move away from the wasteland. Only the word "páramo" was written by hand. "And now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "will you explain to me, Mr. Holmes, What the hell does all this mean and who is the person showing so much interest in my affairs? —What do you think, Dr. Mortimer? You will admit, at least, that there is nothing supernatural about this. —No, of course not. But it could come from someone who strongly believes in supernatural intervention. —What the hell are you talking about? —asked Sir Henry impatiently. I have the feeling that that you, gentlemen, know more about my situation than I do. —We will inform you of everything we know before you leave this room, Sir Henry, I guarantee you that,' Sherlock Holmes intervened. But for now, with your permission, Let's focus on this curious document, which must have been composed and sent last night. Has You read yesterday's Times, Watson? —It's there, in the corner. —Could you bring it to me…? The third page, please, the editorials page—Holmes scanned the articles. quickly, scanning the columns with his eyes. A relevant editorial on freedom commercial. Let me read you a fragment: "Perhaps they will convince you that your line of business or your particular industry will benefit from a protective tariff, but if you use reason will come to understand that, in the long run, such legislation will drive capital out of the country, will reduce the value of our imports and worsen living conditions in our land". What do you think, Watson? —exclaimed Holmes with evident satisfaction, rubbing himself hands—. Don't you think this is an excellent reflection? Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes curiously. professional, and Sir Henry gave me a look that was as penetrating as it was perplexed. "I don't know much about tariffs and economics," he said, "but I have the impression that we are getting a little off topic. —I would say, on the other hand, that we follow it very closely. up close, Sir Henry. Watson, who knows my methods, should have noticed by now. the importance of that phrase. —I must confess that I don't I find no relationship. —And yet, my dear Watson, There is a very clear connection, since the sentence in the clipping has been constructed with words taken from this same text. “You”, “your”, “life”, “reason”, “value”, “will move away”, “from”… Do you see now where they came from? —By heaven, you're right! That wit! —Sir Henry exclaimed. —And in case there was any doubt, Notice how the words “will move away” and “of the” belong to the same fragment. -Yes that's how it is! —Frankly, Mr. Holmes, this is beyond anything. "than I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, looking at my friend with amazement. I would accept that someone deduced that the words were taken from a newspaper, but identifying which and specify that it is an editorial, seems to me one of the most extraordinary things that I have never seen. How did you do it? —I imagine, doctor, that you can easily distinguish between the skull of a Bushman and that of an Eskimo. -Of course. —And how do you do it? —Because it's my favorite hobby. The differences are obvious. The superciliary arch, the facial angle, the shape of the jaw, the… —Well, this is also my favorite hobby, and the differences are equally evident. For me, the difference between the wide font and well-distributed from a Times editorial and the messy print of an evening paper halfpenny is as clear to you as the difference between a Bushman and an Eskimo is to you. The analysis of printed types is one of the most basic branches of knowledge for the crime expert. Although, I must admit, that on one occasion—when I was younger—I mistook the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times editorial is unmistakable, and those words could not have been taken from anywhere else. And being written yesterday, it was logical assume that we would find it precisely there. —As far as I can follow you, Mr. Holmes. "said Sir Henry Baskerville, you claim that someone cut that message with scissors…" “Nail scissors,” said Holmes. You can see that they were scissors with a very small blade, since whoever did it had to give two snips to "get it away from". -Indeed. Someone then cut out the message with very small scissors, He glued it with paste… —Glue, said Holmes. —With gum on the paper. But I would like to know why you had to write the word "páramo." —Because the author did not find it in print. The other words were simple and could be found in any copy of the newspaper, but “páramo” is less common. —Sure, that explains it. Have you discovered anything else in that message, Mr. Holmes? —There are one or two clues, although every effort has been made to eliminate any leads. The address, if you notice, is written in very rough handwriting. The Times, however, It is a newspaper that is practically only read by people with a higher education. Can deduce, therefore, that the person who composed the letter is an educated person who wanted to pretending to be uneducated and that her concern about hiding her handwriting suggests that perhaps some of you know her or may come to know her. Note, also, that the words are not glued precisely, but some much higher than others. "Life", for example, is is completely out of place. That may indicate carelessness or perhaps agitation and haste. Overall I lean towards the latter, as this is clearly an important issue. and it is not likely that the writer of the letter neglected his task voluntarily. If it is It is true that he was in a hurry, but the interesting question arises as to why he was in such a hurry, since Sir Henry would have received any letter that was posted before leaving the hotel to the post office early in the morning. Was its author afraid of interruption, and if so, from whom? "We're entering the realm of conjecture," said Dr. Mortimer. —Let's say, rather, in the field where we weigh up possibilities and choose the most likely one. It is the scientific use of imagination, but we always have a material basis on which to support our speculations. You can certainly call it conjecture, but I'm almost certain that these addresses were written in a hotel. —How the hell can you know? —If you examine them carefully you will discover that both the pen and the ink have caused problems to the person who wrote it. The pen has blurred the same word twice and has It has run dry three times in a very short time, which shows that there was very little ink in the inkwell. Now, a personal quill or inkwell is rarely allowed to reach that situation, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you all know the pens and inkwells of hotels, where it is rare to find anything else. Yeah: I say almost without a doubt that if we could examine the contents of the wastebaskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until they found the remains of the mutilated publishing house Times we could discover the person who sent this unique message. Wow, wow! What is this? Sherlock Holmes was carefully examining the half-sheet with the words pasted on it, placing it a few centimeters from the eyes. —Well? "Nothing," replied Holmes, dropping it. It is half of a completely blank sheet, without even filigree. I think we have extracted all the possible information from this very important letter. curious. Now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since your arrival in London? —No, Mr. Holmes, I don't think so. —Have you not noticed that no one follow him or watch him? —I have the impression that I have turned into a character in a cheap novel, said our visitor. Why the hell would there be to watch me or follow me? —We're getting there. Don't you have Do you have anything else to tell us before we talk about your trip? —Well, it depends on what you consider worth mentioning. —I think anything that falls outside the ordinary course of life is worth mentioning. Sir Henry smiled. —I don't know much about it yet. British life, because I have spent most of my existence in the United States and in Canada. But I guess losing a boot isn't part of the ordinary course of life here either. —Have you lost a boot? "My dear sir," he exclaimed. Dr. Mortimer—has merely gone astray. I'm sure you'll find it on your return. to the hotel. What's the point of bothering Mr. Holmes with such trifles? —He asked me about anything that was out of the ordinary. "That is so," Holmes chimed in, "though the incident may appear entirely idiot. You say you lost a boot? —Let's say, rather, that he has gone astray. Last night I left both out and there was only one in the morning. I haven't been able to get anything out clear of the subject who cleans them. And the worst of all is that I bought them just last night. at the Strand and I haven't even premiered them yet. —If she hadn't put them on, why did she left out to be cleaned? —They were leather boots and they were unpolished. That's why I took them out. —Do I have to understand then that Arriving in London yesterday, he immediately went out and bought a pair of boots? —I bought a lot of things. Dr. Mortimer, here present, accompanied me. Understand it yourself, If I am to be a prominent landowner, I must dress in accordance with my social status, and maybe I got a little careless in America. I bought, among other things, those boots brown ones (I paid six dollars for them) and I managed to get one stolen before I even wore them. "It seems a particularly pointless robbery," said Sherlock Holmes. I confess to sharing Dr. Mortimer's belief that the boot will soon appear. "And now, gentlemen," said the baronet decisively, "I think I have spoken." more than enough of what little I know. It's time for you to fulfill your promise and give me complete information on the matter that concerns us all. "Your request is very reasonable," Holmes replied. Doctor Mortimer, I think it's best Will you tell the story to Sir Henry just as you told it to us? Upon receiving that encouragement, our friend the scientist took out the papers that He carried it in his pocket and presented the case as he had done the day before. Sir Henry listened to him with the deepest attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise. "Well, it seems I've been blessed with more than just an inheritance," he commented. once the long narrative was over—. Of course, I've been hearing about the bloodhound. since my childhood. It's the family's favorite story, although until now I've never been told had occurred to take her seriously. But, as far as my uncle's death is concerned... well, everything seems to be swirling around in my head and I still can't see it clearly. I think you have not yet decided whether to go to the police or a clergyman. -Exactly. —And now it is added the matter of the letter that they sent me to the hotel. I guess that fits with the rest. —It seems to indicate that there is someone who knows more than us about what is happening in the moor,' said Dr. Mortimer. "And someone else," added Holmes. which is well disposed towards you, since it warns you of danger. —Or maybe he wants to scare me for his own benefit. —Yes, of course, that is also possible. I am greatly indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for having presented me with a problem that offers several interesting alternatives. But we have to solve a practical question, Sir Henry: Whether it is advisable for you to go to the Baskerville mansion. —Why would I have to give up on doing it? —It could be dangerous. —Are you referring to the danger of that familiar demon or to the actions of human beings? -Good; that's what we have to find out. —In either case, my answer is the same. There is no devil in hell nor man on the face of the earth who can prevent me from returning to my family's home, and rest assured that I will give you my answer definitive —he frowned as he spoke and his face turned bright red. There was no doubt about it that the fiery character of the Baskervilles was still alive in the last offspring of the lineage-. On the other hand, he continued, I have hardly had time to think about everything that you have told me. It is a lot to ask for a person to understand and decide at the same time. I would like have an hour of peace and quiet. Let's see, Mr. Holmes: it's now half past eleven and I'm going to go straight back to my hotel. How about you and your friend, Dr. Watson, meet us at two and have lunch together? By then I will be able to tell you more clearly how I see things. —Do you have any objection, Watson? -None. —In that case, count on us. Should I call a rental car? —I prefer to walk, because this matter has a little nervous. —And I will accompany you with “Nice to meet you,” said Dr. Mortimer. —In that case we will meet again. at two o'clock. See you later and good morning! We hear the footsteps of our visitors on the stairs and the sound of the street door closing. In an instant Holmes He had ceased to be the languid dreamer and had become a man of action. —At once, Watson, put on your hat and boots! Not a moment to lose! —Holmes hurried to his room to remove his robe and returned to the few seconds with the frock coat on. We hurried down the stairs and we went out into the street. Doctor Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two hundred meters ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street. —Do you want me to run and catch up with them? —Not in the least, my dear. Watson. Your company satisfies me completely, if you do not dislike mine. Our Friends have guessed right, because it is undoubtedly a very suitable morning for a walk. Sherlock Holmes quickened his pace until the distance that separated us was reduced to half. Then, always keeping about a hundred meters Behind us, we followed Baskerville and Mortimer down Oxford Street and then Regent Street. On one occasion our friends stopped to look in a shop window and Holmes did the same. A A moment later he let out a small cry of satisfaction and, following the direction of his glance, I saw that a rented cab had stopped across the street slowly resumed walking. —There's our man, Watson! Come on! At least we'll have a chance to see it, even if we can't do anything else. At that moment I realized that a thick black beard and two very piercing eyes had appeared. turned towards us through the window of the rental car. Immediately the roof hatch, the driver received a shouted order and the vehicle left shot down Regent Street ahead. Holmes looked anxiously for another unoccupied carriage, but there were none. Then he ran desperately through the stream of traffic, but the lead was too great and the cabriolet was soon lost from sight. —What a disappointment! "said Holmes bitterly, as he turned away, panting and pale with indignation, of the flow of vehicles. Has there ever been worse luck and also greater clumsiness? Watson, Watson, if you are honest, you will have to put this on the debit side, contrasting it with my successes! —Who was that individual? —I have no idea. —A spy? —From what we heard it was obvious that Baskerville has been closely followed since he arrived in London. Otherwise, how could it have been known so early that he was staying at the Northumberland Hotel? If they had followed him, first day, it was logical that the second would also follow. You may have noticed that I I came to the window twice while Dr. Mortimer read the text of the legend. —Yes, I remember. —I wanted to see if anyone was lurking on the street, but I have not been successful. We are faced with an intelligent man, Watson. This is a matter very serious and although I have not yet decided whether we are in contact with a benevolent or evil agent, I always note the presence of intelligence and determination. When our friends left I followed them. instantly hoping to locate his invisible companion, but our man has He had the precaution of not moving on foot but using a car, which allowed him to stay behind or overtake them at full speed and thus escape detection. This method has the advantage additionally that if they had taken a car he was already prepared to follow them. But it has, however, a disadvantage. —He puts him at the mercy of the coachman. -Exactly. —It's a shame we didn't take the number! —My dear Watson, however clumsy I may have acted, you do not seriously think that I have forgotten that little detail. Our man is 2704. But for the moment he is of no use to us. —I don't see what else you could have done. —Upon discovering the rental car I should to have turned around and walked away, and then calmly rented a second I cabrioleted and followed the first one at a safe distance or, better yet, moved to the hotel Northumberland and wait there. After the stranger had followed Baskerville to At his house we would have had the opportunity to play his game and see where he was going. But, due to an indiscreet impatience, which our opponent has been able to take advantage of With extraordinary speed and energy, we have betrayed ourselves and lost him. During this conversation we had continued to advance slowly along Regent Street and Dr. Mortimer and his companion had long since been out of sight. "There is no point in continuing," said Holmes. The person who was following them has left and no will reappear. We have to see if we have other triumphs and play them decisively. Would you recognize you the face of the man who was in the cabriolet? —I would only recognize the beard. —The same thing happens to me, so I deduce that, in all probability, it was a false beard. A An intelligent man carrying out such a delicate mission only uses a beard to make it difficult. ID. Come with me, Watson! Holmes entered one of the offices of district errand boys, where the manager received him very warmly. —I see, Wilson, that you have not forgotten the case in which I had the good fortune to be able to help you. —No, sir; I assure you that I have not forgotten it. You saved my reputation and maybe my life too. —You are exaggerating, my friend. If I remember correctly, you count among your employees a boy named Cartwright, who showed some talent during our investigation. -Yes sir; is still with us. —Could you call him? Many thank you! And I'd also like you to change this five pound note for me. A fourteen-year-old boy, with a bright face and an inquisitive look, appeared in response to the the manager's call and stared at the famous detective with a reverent air. "Let me see the hotel directory," said Holmes. Thank you so much. Let's see, Cartwright, here's one for you. list of twenty-three hotels, all located in the vicinity of Charing Cross. Can you read them? -Yes sir. —You're going to visit them all, one after the other. -Yes sir. —In each one you will start by handing over a shilling to the goalkeeper. Here's twenty-three shillings. -Yes sir. —You will tell him that you want to review the contents of the trash cans emptied yesterday. You will explain that An important telegram has been lost and you are trying to recover it. Do you understand? -Yes sir. —But, in reality, what you should find It's a copy of yesterday's Times with part of the center page cut out with scissors. Here is the newspaper. This is the page in question. You'll recognize it without difficulty, right? -Yes sir. —The goalkeeper will send you in every case to the caretaker, to whom you will also give a shilling. Here's another twenty-three shillings. Is It is likely that in twenty of those twenty-three hotels the papers from the previous day were burned or discarded. In the remaining three they will show you a pile of papers, and you will look for this in it. Times page. The odds against it are very high. Here's ten more shillings. for any eventuality. Send me a report by telegraph to Baker Street before dark. And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by means of the telegraph who was our coachman, number 2704; Then we'll stop by some Bond gallery Street and we will spend time looking at paintings until our meeting time at the hotel. Chapter V Three broken ends Sherlock Holmes possessed, in a particularly remarkable way, the ability to disconnect at will. For two hours he seemed to completely forget the strange matter. which occupied us to give ourselves over entirely to the paintings of modern Belgian painters. And from the moment we left the gallery until our arrival at the Northumberland Hotel, He spoke of nothing but art, a subject on which he had rather rudimentary opinions. “Sir Henry Baskerville awaits you in his room,” the receptionist informed him. Me He ordered that they be brought up as soon as they arrived. —Would you mind if I take a look at the register? —asked Holmes. -At all. The register contained two entries after Baskerville's: Theophilus Johnson and family, from Newcastle, and Mrs. Oldmore with her maid, from High Lodge, Alton. "I'm almost certain this Johnson is an old acquaintance," Holmes remarked. to the concierge. Isn't he a lawyer, with gray hair, and a slight limp? —No, sir; It is Mr. Johnson, owner of some coal mines, a very dynamic gentleman, no older than you. —Are you absolutely sure you're not mistaken? as for your profession? —Absolutely, sir: it's been years staying here and we know it well. —Then there's nothing more to add. But…, Mrs. Oldmore; That last name sounds familiar to me too. Excuse my curiosity, but often, When visiting an acquaintance, one bumps into another. —She is a delicate lady, sir. Her husband was, once mayor of Gloucester. He always stays with us when he comes to the capital. -Thank you so much; I'm afraid I don't have the pleasure of meeting her. With these questions we have obtained a "very valuable information, Watson," Holmes continued in a low voice as we climbed the stairs together. We already know that those who show so much interest in our friend are not staying in this hotel. This implies that, although as we have seen they want to keep a close eye on him, They are also worried that Sir Henry will see them. And that is a very revealing fact. —What does it suggest to you? —He suggests… wow! What's wrong, my dear friend? Upon reaching the last flight of stairs we meet Sir Henry Baskerville himself, with his face flushed with anger and brandishing an old, dusty boot. I was so irritated that at first he could hardly be understood, and when he finally managed to speak clearly, He did so with a much more pronounced American accent than that morning. —They seem to think I'm an idiot in this hotel! —he exclaimed. But if they are not careful, You're going to find out that I'm not so easily fooled. By all the saints, If that guy doesn't give me back the missing boot, this is going to get really bad. I can take a joke like anyone, Mr. Holmes, but this is bordering on the absurd. —Are you still looking for the boot? —That's right, and I'm not going to stop until I find her. —But didn't you mention it was a new, brown boot? —That's right, sir. But now it is another one, black and worn. —What do you say? Do you mean that…? —That's exactly what I mean. I only have three pairs: the new brown ones, these old black ones and some patent leather shoes, which are the ones that I'm wearing now. Last night a brown one disappeared and today I'm missing a black one. Let's see, have you found it? already? Speak up, for God's sake, and stop looking at me like that! A German waiter had appeared on the scene prey to great nervousness. —No, sir; I have asked for the whole hotel, but nobody knows anything. —Well, either the boot appears before the sun sets, or I will go see the manager and tell him that I am leaving the hotel immediately. —She will appear, sir… I promise you that if you have a little patience we will find her. —Don't forget it, because it's the last thing I'm going to lose in this den of thieves. Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, for bothering you about something so trivial… —I think there's cause for concern. —I see you think this is a serious matter. —How do you explain it? —I'm not trying to explain it. It seems to me the most absurd and strangest thing that has ever happened to me. "The strangest, perhaps," said Holmes thoughtfully. —What is your opinion? —I don't pretend to understand it. still. This case of yours is very complicated, Sir Henry. When I relate it to the death of his Uncle, I doubt that among the five hundred cases of capital importance that I have faced until now there has been one that presented more difficulties. We have several tracks and it is It is likely that one or the other will lead us to the truth. We may waste time following a false one, but, sooner or later, we'll find the right one. The lunch was very pleasant, although in its During the course of time, hardly anything was said about the matter that had brought us together. Only when we retire In a private sitting room Holmes asked Baskerville what his intentions were. —Move to the Baskerville mansion. —And when? —At the end of the week. "I think, on the whole," said Holmes, " your decision is correct. I have enough evidence that you are being followed in London. And among the millions of inhabitants of this great city it is difficult to discover who they are. those people and what their purpose may be. If your intention is to do evil, you may get upset. and we would not be in a position to prevent it. Did you know, Dr. Mortimer, that someone Were you following them this morning when I left my house? Dr. Mortimer gave a violent start. —Followed! For whom? —That's what, Unfortunately, I can't tell you. Among his neighbors or acquaintances on Dartmoor, Is there anyone with black hair who grows a beard? —No… wait, let me think… yes, of course, Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a very dark-skinned man with a beard. —Aha! Where is Barrymore? —He is in charge of the Baskerville mansion. —We'd better make sure he's still there, or if, on the contrary, has had the opportunity to move to London. —How can you find out? —Give me a form for telegrams. "Is everything ready for Sir Henry?" That will do. Addressed to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph office? Grimpen. Okay, we'll send a second cable to the postmaster at Grimpen: "Telegram to be delivered by hand to Mr. Barrymore. If absent, please return to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel. That should let us know before tonight. whether Barrymore is at his post or has been absent. "That's it," said Baskerville. By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyway? —He is the son of the former guard, who has already died. The Barrymores have been together for four years generations taking care of the mansion. As far as I can see, he and his wife are a a couple as respectable as any in the county. "At the same time," said Baskerville, "it is quite Of course, as long as there is no one from my family in the mansion, those people enjoy an excellent time. home and lack obligations. -That's true. —Did Sir Charles leave anything to the Barrymores in his will? —asked Holmes. —He and his wife received five hundred pounds each. —Ah! Were you aware that you were going to receive that amount? -Yeah; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will. —That's very interesting. "I hope," said the doctor, "not." You consider all persons who have received a legacy from Sir Charles to be suspicious, because he left me a thousand pounds too. -Oh! And anyone else? —There were many insignificant sums for other people and care was also taken of a large number of charitable works. Everything else is left to Sir Henry. —And how much did the rest cost? —Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds. Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. —I didn't know it was a such an enormous sum, he said. —It was taken for granted that Sir Charles was rich, but we only learned how rich by inventorying his assets. The inheritance totaled almost a million. —Good heavens! For that bet you can try a desperate move. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. If it happened to you something to our young friend here (forgive me for this unpleasant hypothesis), Who would inherit Sir Charles's fortune? —Since Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother, He died single, the inheritance would go to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is a elderly clergyman living in Westmorland. -Thank you so much. All these details are of great importance. interest. Do you know Mr. James Desmond? -Yeah; on one occasion he came to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and integrity of life. I remember that, despite Sir Charles' insistence, He refused to accept the assignment offered to him. —And that man of simple tastes, would he be the heir to the fortune? —I would inherit the property, because it is linked. And he would also inherit the money unless the current owner, who, Of course, he can do whatever he wants with it, as long as he gives it another purpose in his will. —Have you made a will, Sir Henry? —No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I have not I have had time, because I only became aware of everything since yesterday. But in any case, I believe that money should not be separated from either the title or the property. That was my poor uncle's idea. How would it be possible to restore the splendor of the Baskervilles if the necessary money to maintain the property is not available? The house, land and money must go together. -That's how it is. Well, Sir Henry: I am completely agree with you as to the convenience of moving without delay to Devonshire. But there is one step I must take. Under no circumstances can you go alone. —Dr. Mortimer is coming back with me. —But Dr. Mortimer has to care for their patients and their home is several miles away from yours. Even with the best will may not be available when you need it. No, Sir Henry; You need to take with you someone you trust completely who will remain at your side at all times. —Is there any possibility that you might come with me, Mr. Holmes? —If a critical situation were to arise, I would do everything possible to be there, But you will understand that, given the extent of my clientele and the incessant requests of the help I receive from all sides, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for a period indefinite. At this very moment, one of the most distinguished names in England is being blackmailed, and only I can prevent a scandal. Do you understand then? that I can't go to Dartmoor. —So, what would you recommend? Holmes put a hand on my arm. —If my good friend agrees to accompany you, You will not find a more useful person in a complex situation. No one can guarantee it better than I can. That suggestion took me completely by surprise, but before I could respond, Baskerville shook my hand enthusiastically. "Dr. Watson, that is very kind of you," he said. Already He knows what kind of person I am and is as aware of this matter as I am. If you agree to come with me to Baskerville Manor and help me out of this mess, I will be eternally grateful. I have always been attracted to the idea of ​​an adventure and I was also pleased by the words Holmes and the enthusiasm with which the baronet had accepted me as a companion. "I'll be happy to go," I replied. I don't think I could have made better use of my time. "And you will keep me fully informed," added Holmes. When something happens, As will undoubtedly happen, I will tell you the steps to follow. Will you be ready for Saturday? —Will it be suitable for Dr. Watson? —No problem. —In that case, if we don't hear any more, we'll meet at Paddington. to take the 10:30 train. We were already preparing to leave when Baskerville gave an exclamation of triumph, and, rushing into a corner of the room, He pulled a brown boot from under a cupboard. —Here's the boot I was missing! -shout. —I wish all our difficulties were resolved so easily! —Holmes commented. "It's very strange anyway," observed Dr. Mortimer. I checked the room carefully before lunch. "And so do I," Baskerville added. Inch by inch. —There was no trace of the boot. —So someone must have left it there while we ate. The waiter was called, who claimed to know nothing about the matter, and further inquiries resulted in equally unsuccessful. One more element was added to the chain of small, meaningless mysteries. It seemed that they were happening with disturbing rapidity. Leaving aside the tragedy of Sir Charles, We had accumulated a series of unexplained incidents in less than two days: The letter made with clippings, the black-bearded spy in the cabriolet, the disappearance of the boot new, the disappearance of the old and now, the reappearance of the new. Holmes traveled in silence back to Baker Street, his brow furrowed and his expression tense. His mind, Like mine, he worked tirelessly to give coherence to those scattered facts. Back home, he spent the afternoon and part of the night immersed in tobacco smoke and deep reflections. Shortly before dinner two telegrams arrived. The first one said: "I just found out Barrymore is at the mansion. BASKERVILLE». The second: "Twenty-three hotels visited following instructions. I regret to report that it was impossible to find any clipped page from the Times. CARTWRIGHT». —Two of our leads are going up in smoke, Watson. Nothing more stimulating than a case where everything seems play against. We must move forward. —We still have the spy's coachman. -Exactly. I sent a telegram to the official registry to obtain your name and address. This may be the answer. The doorbell rang and, to our amazement, A rough-looking man appeared who was, without a doubt, the coachman himself. —From the main office they told me that a gentleman from this house had asked about the 2704, he said. I've been in the business for seven years and I've never received a single complaint. I come directly from the deposit to find out what you have against me. "I have nothing against you, my friend," he said. Holmes—. On the contrary, I am willing to give you half a sovereign if you respond. sincerely to some questions. —Well, today has been a good day, "I don't deny it," the coachman replied with a smile. What do you want to know, sir? —First, your name and address, in case I need to reach you again. —John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, Borough. I leave my cabriolet at the Shipley depot, near Waterloo Station. Holmes took note. —Tell me everything you know about the gentleman who spied on this house at ten in the morning and continued two men on Regent Street. The coachman looked confused. —Honestly, I can't tell you much, since you seem to know as much as “Me,” he replied. That man told me he was a detective and that I shouldn't say anything about him. —This is a serious matter, my friend. You could get into trouble if you hide information. Did he tell you? the client who was a detective? —Yes, sir, that's what he said. —When did he tell you? —When leaving. -Anything else? —Yes, he told me his name. Holmes gave me a triumphant look. —Did he give you his name? That was a mistake. And what was it? —He said his name was Sherlock Holmes. I've never seen my friend so amazed. For a For a moment he was speechless, then burst out laughing: "Touch, Watson!" A nice touch! —he exclaimed. I have felt the stab of a mind as sharp as mine. An excellent hit. So he said his name was Sherlock Holmes, isn't he? —That's right, sir. -Perfect. Tell me where you picked it up from and what happened. —He stopped me at half past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said he was a detective and that he would give me two guineas. if I followed his instructions to the letter throughout the day and didn't ask questions. I accepted delighted. We first went to the Northumberland Hotel and waited until two gentlemen came out and they took a car from the line. We followed them until they stopped near here. "This very door," Holmes remarked. —I can't say for sure, but it seemed know the place well. We waited an hour and a half. Then the two of them walked past us, and we followed them down Baker Street and then down...' 'I know that,' Holmes interrupted. —We walked down a large part of Regent Street. Then my client lifted the trapdoor and shouted that I headed for Waterloo at full speed. I spurred the mare and we arrived in less than ten minutes. He paid me and entered the station. Just as he was leaving, he turned and said, "Perhaps I It is interesting to know that he has been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes. That's how I found out his name. -I understand. And you never saw him again? —No, sir. —And how would you describe it? The coachman scratched his head. —It wasn't easy to describe. About forty years old, average height, a little shorter than you. He wore elegantly, he had a trimmed black beard, and very pale skin. That's what I remember. —Eye color? —No, I didn't notice that. —Nothing else I can remember? —Nothing else, sir. —Well, here's your half-sovereign. There is another one if it gives us any news. Good night! —Good evening, sir. And thank you very much! John Clayton walked away smiling and Holmes turned to me with a mixture of resignation and smile. —Our third thread has been broken and we return to the starting point, he said. That cunning rascal knew our number, knew Sir Henry came to see me, He recognized me on Regent Street and deduced that he would find out the car number and locate me. to the coachman, and decided to send that ironic message. I tell you, Watson, that this time we have before us an enemy on our level. It has left me with no way out in London. I can only hope that you have more luck in Devonshire. But honestly, I'm not calm. —Aren’t you calm? —I don't like sending it. It's a murky case, Watson, dark and dangerous, and the further I get into him, the less I like him. Yes, my dear friend, laugh if you want, but I assure you that I will breathe a sigh of relief when you return safely to Baker Street. Chapter VI The Baskerville Hall On the appointed day Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready to undertake their journey, and As we had agreed, the three of us set off for Devonshire. Sherlock Holmes He accompanied me to the station and before leaving he gave me the last instructions and advice. —I do not wish to influence you by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson. Just tell me the facts as completely as possible and leave the theories to me. —What kind of facts? —I asked. —Anything that may be related to the case, however indirect, and above all the young Baskerville's relations with his neighbors, or any new elements relating to the death of Sir Charles. For my part I have done some investigations in recent days, but I am afraid that the results have been negative. Only one thing seems certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, the next heir, He is a virtuous gentleman of advanced age, so he cannot be considered responsible. from this persecution. I sincerely believe that we can eliminate it from our calculations. We are left with the people who currently live with Sir Henry on the moor. —Shouldn't we get rid of the Barrymore marriage first? -No no; that would be an unforgivable mistake. If they are innocent we would commit a great injustice. and if they are guilty we would be giving up any possibility of proving it. No no; we will keep them on our list of suspects. There is also a stable boy in the mansion, if I remember correctly. We must not forget the two farmers who cultivate the lands of the moor. Next comes our friend Dr. Mortimer, of whose honesty I am convinced, and his wife, about whom we know nothing. We must add Stapleton, the naturalist, and his sister who, She is said to be a very attractive young woman. Then there is Mr. Frankland of Lafter Manor, which is also an unknown factor, and one or two more neighbors. These are the people who have to be for you a very special object of study. —I'll do everything in my power. —Do you carry any weapons? —Yes, I thought it would be convenient. —Without a doubt. Don't leave your revolver alone during the day or night. at night and stay alert at all times. Our friends had already reserved seats in a first-class carriage and they were waiting for us on the platform —No; We do not have any new information —said Dr. Mortimer in reply to Holmes's questions. From a One thing I'm sure of is that we haven't been followed for the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a close watch and no one would have missed us. —I hope they've always been together. —Except yesterday afternoon. I usually reserve a day for recreation when I come to London, so I spent the afternoon in the museum of the College of Surgeons. —And I went out for a walk in the park and “People watching,” Baskerville said. But we had no setbacks of any kind. "It was foolhardy all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and adopting a a very serious air—. I beg you, Sir Henry, not to venture anywhere alone. A serious misfortune could happen to you if you do so. Did you find the other boot? —No, sir; has completely disappeared. —Well, well. That's very curious. Good, See you soon, he added as the train began to slide. Remember, Sir Henry, one of the phrases from that mysterious ancient legend that Dr. Mortimer read to us and stay away of the wasteland during the hours of darkness, when the powers of evil intensify. I turned my head towards the platform a few seconds later and saw that he was still there. There the tall, stern figure of Holmes, motionless, continuing to watch us. The journey was quick and pleasant and I took advantage of it to get to know my two companions better and to playing with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel. In a few hours the brown earth turned reddish, Brick gave way to granite and red cows grazed in well-defined fields. where abundant grass and thicker vegetation spoke of a more fertile climate, although also more humid. Young Baskerville looked excitedly out of the window and threw exclamations of joy as they recognized the familiar elements of the Devon landscape. —I've traveled a good part of the world since I left England, "Dr. Watson," he said, "but I have never found a place to compare with these lands." "I don't know any Devonshire native who speaks ill of his county," I observed. "It depends as much on the lineage as on the county," Dr. Mortimer chimed in. One is enough look at our friend to immediately notice the round head of the Celts, which manifests itself in Celtic fervor and in its capacity for affection. The poor man's head Sir Charles was of a rather unusual type, a mixture of Gaelic and Irish in his features. But you were still very young when you last saw the Baskerville house, weren't you? —I was just a teenager when my father died and I never got to see the mansion, because we lived in a small villa on the south coast. From there I went directly to live with an American friend. I assure you that all this is as new to me as it is to the doctor. Watson and I am eager to see the moor. -Really? Well, you already have it before your eyes, "Because you can see it from here," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out at the landscape. Above the green squares of the fields and the twist of a forest, a mountain rose in the distance a gray, desolate hill, with a strange, jagged peak, blurred and vague in the distance, similar to a dreamlike setting. Baskerville remained motionless for a long time, his gaze fixed on it, and I knew from the expression on his face how much it meant to him to behold for the first time once that unique place that men of his lineage had dominated for generations and where they had left such a deep mark. Despite his tweed suit, his pronunciation American and riding in an ordinary train car, I felt more than ever, when I looked at her face, tanned and expressive, who was a genuine heir to that long line of passionate men, as fiery as they are dominant. The bushy eyebrows, the thin nostrils and the wide eyes Hazelnut color spoke of her pride, her courage and her resilience. If in that hostile wasteland we A difficult and dangerous undertaking awaited me, at least I had a companion at my side for whom It was worth taking any risk with the certainty that I would share it wholeheartedly. The train stopped at a modest station next to the road and we got off. Outside, beyond Behind a low white fence, a cart pulled by two horses was waiting for us. Our arrival It was certainly a small event, because the stationmaster and the porters They gathered around us to take care of the luggage. It was a simple and cozy place, But my attention was drawn to the presence of two military-looking men next to the gate with dark uniforms who leaned on their rifles and watched us with great interest as we passed. The coachman, a small man with a rough face and bony hands, greeted Sir Henry and a few minutes later Then we advanced along the wide white road. Soft hills of grass rose up both sides and old gabled houses peeped out from the leafy vegetation, but behind the field peaceful and sunlit it always rose, dark against the twilight sky, the long, grim line of the moor, broken by jagged, threatening hills. The cart turned off onto a side road and we began to climb along well-worn paths, eroded by centuries of traffic, with high slopes on the sides, covered with wet moss and thick deer tongues. Copper ferns and brambles glowed in the setting sun. Without ceasing to ascend, we crossed a narrow granite bridge and skirted a fast-flowing, roaring stream, that foamed between large blocks. The path and watercourse then followed a valley populated by dwarf oaks and firs. At every bend in the path Baskerville let out a new exclamation with enthusiasm and looked around with lively curiosity asking many questions. Everything seemed beautiful to him, but for me there was an air of melancholy in the landscape, which clearly showed the proximity of winter. The paths were covered with yellow leaves that also fell on us. The rattling of the wheels He became deaf as he crossed over piles of rotting vegetation: sad offerings, In my opinion, to welcome the heir of the Baskervilles who was returning to his ancestral home. -Oh! "What is that?" cried Dr. Mortimer. Before us rose a steep slope covered with heather, a first glimpse of the paramo. At its summit, as prominent and as firm as an equestrian statue on its pedestal, We saw a rider, somber and grim, his rifle resting on his forearm. I was watching the road we were traveling on. —What's up, Perkins? —asked Dr. Mortimer. The coachman turned slightly in his seat. —A prisoner has escaped from Princetown, sir. He has been on the loose for three days and the guards are watching. all the roads and stations, but they still haven't managed to catch him. To the farmers of the area They don't like the situation at all, I can guarantee you that. —Well, I understand that they will be rewarded. with five pounds if they give any clues. —That's right, sir, but the possibility of Gaining five pounds is nothing compared to the fear of having your throat slit. Because We are not talking about just any prisoner. He's a guy who wouldn't stop at anything. —Who is it? —Selden, sir: the Notting Hill murderer. He remembered the case well, which had caught Holmes's interest because of the singular ferocity of the crime and the absurd brutality that marked all the murderer's acts. It had been commuted the death penalty due to certain doubts about the state of his mental health, precisely because the dreadfulness of his behavior. Our tartana crested a hill and opened up to us Suddenly the vast expanse of the moor, dotted with stone mounds, came into view. and rocks of unusual shapes. We were immediately enveloped in a freezing wind that made us shiver. In some corner of that deserted plain the monstrous murderer was hiding, hidden in a refuge like a wild beast and with his soul full of hatred towards humanity that had rejected him. Nothing more was needed to complete the gloomy influence of the moor, with the icy wind and the sky that was turning dark. Even Baskerville himself fell silent and pulled his coat closer around him. We had left the fertile lands behind and below. Looking back we contemplated the oblique rays of a sun already very low that turned the waterways into filaments golden and shining on the freshly plowed red earth and the vast tangle of forests. He The road ahead became increasingly inhospitable and rugged, rising above hills of reddish and olive green hues, dotted with gigantic rocks. Occasionally, we passed by next to one of the houses on the moor, with stone walls and roofs, without any climbing plants to soften its rigid profile. Suddenly we find ourselves in front of a cup-shaped hollow, dotted with dwarf oaks and firs, twisted and bent by the fury of years of storms. Two tall, very narrow towers stood out among the trees. The coachman pointed at them with his whip. “The Baskerville Hall,” he said. Its owner had stood up and watched her with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. A few minutes later we arrived at the gate of the guardhouse, a framework of fantastic iron forgings, with pillars on both sides weathered sides, covered in lichen and crowned by the heads of wild boars from the Baskerville coat of arms. The guard's dwelling was a ruin of dark granite and bare ribs of beams, but in front of it stood a new building, still half-built, first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold. We went through the gate and entered the avenue, where the wheels fell silent again on the fallen leaves and where the ancient trees intertwined their branches forming a shadowy tunnel above our heads. Baskerville He shuddered as he looked down the long, dark avenue, where the house It shone faintly like an apparition. —Was it in this place? —he asked in a subdued tone. -No no; the Tejos walk is on the opposite side. The young heir looked around with a grim expression. —I'm not surprised that my uncle had the feeling that something terrible was going to happen to him somewhere like this one, he said. It doesn't take much more to cause fear. I will have them place a row of electric lamps before half a year, and you won't recognize the place when We have at the very door of the mansion a power of a thousand Swan and Edison candles. The avenue led to a wide expanse of grass and the house was now in front of us. Despite the poor light I could see that the central part was a solid block of which a portico stood out. The entire front facade was covered with ivy, with some openings cut out here and there for a window or shield heraldic will emerge from the dark cloak. From the main block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated and pierced by numerous loopholes. To the left and right of the towers extended the most recent granite wings dark. A dim light shone from behind the thickly mullioned windows and from the tall chimneys rising from the steeply pitched roof was a single column of dark smoke. —Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Manor! A tall man had stepped out of the shadow of the portico to open the door of the tartan. The figure of a woman was outlined against the yellow light of the lobby. The latter also went ahead to help the man with our luggage. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Sir Henry, but I'm going straight home," he said. Dr. Mortimer. My wife is waiting for me. —Aren't you staying with us for dinner? -No; I must go. I'll probably have a job waiting for me. I would stay to show him the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. See you later and don't hesitate to send to come to me day or night if I can be of any use to you. The noise of the wheels faded down the avenue. as Sir Henry and I entered the house and the door slammed shut behind our backs. We find ourselves in a splendid room of noble proportions and thick beams of oak wood blackened by time that formed the ceiling beams. In the great fireplace of bygone times and behind the tall iron andirons crackled and a wood fire crackled. Sir Henry and I stretched out our hands towards him because we were frozen after the long journey in the tartana. Then we contemplate the tall and narrow windows with antique colored glass, oak wood wall paneling, The deer heads, the coats of arms on the walls, all blurred and shadowy in the distance. poor light from the central lamp. —Exactly as I imagined —said Sir Henry. Isn't it the very image of an old family home? To think that my people have lived in this room for five centuries! That simple The idea makes everything seem more solemn to me. I saw how his brown face lit up with youthful enthusiasm as he looks around. He was in a place where the light fell full on him, but very long shadows descended the walls and hung like a black canopy above his head; Barrymore had returned from carrying the luggage to our rooms and stopped before us with the discretion characteristic of a competent servant. He was a man remarkable for his appearance: tall, handsome, square black beard, pale complexion and distinguished features. —Do you want dinner to be served? immediately, Sir Henry? —Are you ready? —In a few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I, Sir Henry, will remain at your service with pleasure until you arrange otherwise, although It will not be hidden from you that with the new situation the easement of the house will have to be extended. —What new situation? —I only mean that Sir Charles He lived a very secluded life and we were enough to take care of his needs. You You will undoubtedly want to have more of a social life and will therefore have to make changes. —Does that mean you and your wife want to leave? —Only when it no longer causes you any inconvenience. —But your family has served us for several generations, hasn't it? I would regret starting my life here by breaking up an old family relationship. I thought I discerned signs of emotion in the butler's pale features. —My feelings are identical, Sir Henry, and my wife fully shares them. But, To tell the truth, we were both very attached to Sir Charles; his death has been a terrible blow and has filled this house with painful memories. I am afraid that we will never regain peace. spirit in the Baskerville mansion. —But what are they proposing to do? —I am convinced that we will be successful if we start a business. Generosity Sir Charles has provided us with the means to put it into operation. And now, sir, perhaps it would be appropriate if I escorted you to your rooms. A rectangular gallery with a balustrade, reached by a double staircase, ran around the large central room. From that point two long corridors extended to the entire length of the building and the bedrooms opened onto them. Mine was in the same wing as the of Baskerville and almost door to door. Those rooms looked much more modern than the central part of the mansion; The cheerful wallpaper and abundance of candles contributed somewhat to dispel the gloomy impression that had taken hold of my mind since our arrival. But the dining room, which was accessed from the large central room, was also a dark place. and melancholic. It was a long chamber with a step separating the lower part, reserved for subordinates, from the platform where the family members were placed. In a At one end was a box for the musicians. Black beams crossed by above our heads and, even higher, the roof blackened by smoke. With rows with flaming torches to illuminate it and with the colorful and rough revelry of a banquet of bygone times might have softened its appearance; but now, when only two gentlemen dressed in black sat inside the small circle of light that provided a lamp with a shade, the voices would be muffled and the spirits would be lowered. A blurred line of ancestors, dressed in the most diverse ways, from the knight Elizabethan to Regency fop, looked down on us and intimidated us with their silent company. We spoke little and, unusually, I was glad that dinner was over. and that we could retire to the modern billiard room for a cigarette. "It is not a very cheerful place, by my faith," cried Sir Henry. I guess that We'll get used to it, but for now I feel a bit displaced. I'm not surprised that My uncle would get a little nervous living alone in a house like this. If you don't mind, today we We'll be retiring soon and maybe things will look a little brighter tomorrow morning. I opened the curtains before going to bed and looked out my bedroom window. It overlooked an area of lawn located in front of the main door. Further on, two copses groaned and swayed, shaken by the increasingly intense wind. The moon broke through the raging clouds. Thanks to its cold light I saw beyond the trees an incomplete strip of rocks and the long, almost flat surface of the melancholic moor. I closed the curtains, convinced that my last impression coincided with the previous ones. Although it wasn't the last one actually. Soon I found I was tired but sleepless and tossed and turned, waiting for a dream. that was not coming. Far away a wall clock struck the quarter hour, but otherwise, A deathly silence reigned over the old house. And then, suddenly, in the stillness of the night, A clear, resonant, and unmistakable sound reached my ears. They were the sobs of a woman, the muffled gasps of a person torn apart by uncontrollable suffering. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise was undoubtedly coming from inside the house. For half an hour I waited, my nerves on edge, but once again silence reigned, except for the chimes of the clock and the brushing of the ivy against the wall. Chapter VII The Stapletons of House Merripit The next day, the clarity of the morning helped to dispel the gloomy impression from our minds. and grey that had left us both the first contact with the Baskerville mansion. While Sir Henry and I were having breakfast, the sunlight streamed generously through the windows. tall mullioned windows, projecting pale patches of color from the heraldic shields that adorned the crystals. The wood paneling gleamed like bronze under the golden rays, and it was hard to accept that we were in the same room as the night before had filled our souls with melancholy. —I suspect that we were the guilty ones and not the house! —exclaimed the baronet. We were carrying the exhaustion of the journey and the cold of the moor, so we look at this place with hostile eyes. Now that we have rested and we feel good, it feels cozy again. —But it wasn't just a matter of imagination —I replied. Didn't you hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing during the night? —It's funny, because while I was dozing, I thought I perceived something like that. I waited a moment, but the sound didn't come back, so I started to think it was a dream. —I heard it very clearly, and I am convinced that they were the sobs of a woman. —We must find out immediately. Sir Henry rang the bell and asked Barrymore if she could give us an explanation. It seemed to me that it was accentuated The butler's pallor faded slightly as he listened to his master's question. "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he replied. One is the mop, who sleeps in the another wing. The other is my wife, and I can personally assure you that those cries did not come from her. And yet I was lying, because after breakfast I happened to meet Mrs. Barrymore, when the sun shone brightly on his face, in the long corridor that connected the bedrooms. The butler's wife was a corpulent woman, with an imperturbable appearance and very marked features. and a firm rictus on the mouth. But his red eyes, which looked at me from eyelids swollen, they gave her away. It was she, no doubt, who cried at night and, although her husband knew it, had preferred to risk being discovered by claiming otherwise. Why did he do it? AND Why was his wife sobbing so painfully? Around that pale-faced man, handsome and with a black beard, an atmosphere of enigma and sadness was forming. Barrymore He was the one who found Sir Charles's body and we only had his word in everything related to the circumstances of his death. Could it be possible that, After all, Barrymore was the man we saw in the Regent Street cab? The beard could correspond. The coachman had described a somewhat shorter individual, but it was not impossible that he had been wrong. How could I clarify that point definitively? My first step would be to visit the postmaster in Grimpen to find out if Barrymore had personally received the test telegram. Whatever the answer was, I would have to less some information to communicate to Sherlock Holmes. Sir Henry had to review a large number of documents after breakfast, so that was the ideal time for my excursion, which turned out to be A pleasant six-kilometer walk along the moorland, which finally led me to a village gray, in which two larger buildings, which turned out to be the inn and the residence of Dr. Mortimer, stood out visibly from the rest. The postmaster, who was also the shopkeeper of the place, remembered the telegram perfectly. "That's right, sir," he said; I ordered that it be delivered to Mr. Barrymore, as directed. —Who took it? —My son, here present. James, you were You were the one who delivered the telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the mansion last week, weren't you? —Yes, father; It was me who handed it over. —In your own hand? —Well, Mr. Barrymore was in the attic at the time, so it wasn't by his own hand, but I gave it to his wife, who promised to deliver it to him immediately. —Did you see Mr. Barrymore? —No, sir; I already told you that was in the attic. —If you didn't see it, How do you know it was in the attic? —Surely his wife knew where he was. —the administrator replied reluctantly. Didn't you receive the telegram? If there was any mistake, that Mr. Barrymore filed the complaint himself. It seemed pointless to continue the investigation, but it was It is clear that, despite Holmes's ruse, we still had not confirmed whether Barrymore had traveled to London. Assuming that was the case, assuming that the same man who last saw him alive Sir Charles would also have been the one to follow the new heir upon his arrival in England, what could be deduced? Was he an emissary of others or was he acting on his own with some sinister purpose? What motive could he have for keeping an eye on the Baskerville family? I remembered the enigmatic warning snipped from the Times editorial. Was it your work or someone else's? who was trying to thwart his plans? The only reasonable reason was the one suggested by Sir Henry: If they managed to frighten the family to the point of not returning to the mansion, the Barrymores would enjoy a comfortable home permanently. But that reason seemed insufficient. to justify a plan as subtle and elaborate as the one that seemed to be woven around to the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that, among all his extraordinary investigations, This was the most complex. As I walked back along the gray, lonely path, I prayed that my friend would soon be freed from his occupations and would come to Devonshire to take off the heavy responsibility that weighed on my shoulders. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of quick footsteps and a voice who repeated my name. I turned around expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise, I saw that a stranger was following me. He was a short, thin, completely shaven man, with a neat, blond hair and narrow jaw, between thirty and forty years old, wearing a suit gray and wore a straw hat. A metal box for botanical samples hung from his shoulder. and in his hand he carried a green butterfly net. —I'm sure you'll excuse my "You dare me, Dr. Watson," he said to me upon arriving, panting slightly, to where I was. Here in the moor we are simple people and we do not usually wait for formal presentations. You may have heard my last name mentioned. by our mutual friend, Dr. Mortimer. I am Stapleton and I reside at Merripit House. "The butterfly net and the box would have been enough," I said, "because I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how do you know who I am? —I went to visit Mortimer and, as you were passing by on the street, we saw him from his office window. Since we were going in the same direction, I thought I'd catch up with him and introduce myself. I hope Sir Henry doesn't you feel too tired after the trip. —It's perfectly fine, I appreciate your attention. —We all feared that, after the unfortunate death of Sir Charles, the new baronet would decide not live here. It is too much to ask that a well-off gentleman come and isolate himself in a place like this, But I don't need to tell you how much your presence means to the whole region. Do I do it? wrong in supposing that Sir Henry does not entertain superstitious fears in this matter? —I don't think it's likely. —Of course, you know the legend of the hellish dog that harasses the family. —I've heard it. —It's amazing how gullible the peasants in this region are! Many of They claim to have seen an animal of that type on the moor - he spoke with a smile, although I thought I could see in his eyes that he was taking the story more seriously. That legend managed to take hold of Sir Charles's mind, and I am convinced that it contributed to its tragic end. —But how? —My nerves were so on edge that the appearance of any dog ​​could have having had a fatal effect on his diseased heart. I imagine he really saw something similar. that last night on the Yew Tree Walk. I was afraid that something would happen, I had to great esteem and knew the fragility of his heart. —How did you know? —My friend Mortimer confided it to me. —Do you believe, then, that a dog followed Sir Charles and that the old baronet therefore died of fright? —Do you have any better explanation? —I haven't come to any conclusion yet. —Not even your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Those words left me breathless. for a moment, but the tranquility of my interlocutor's face and his serene gaze They convinced me that he wasn't trying to surprise me. —It would be useless to pretend we don't know you, doctor. "Watson," he said. His stories about the exploits of the famous detective have come down to us, and I could not you celebrate your achievements without also making yourself known. When Mortimer told me his last name, I didn't was able to hide his identity. If you are here, it indicates that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interested. also for this case, and, naturally, I am somewhat curious to know your opinion. —I'm afraid I'm not in a position to answer that question. —Could you tell me if we will have the honor of receiving your visit in person? —At the moment, his obligations do not allow him to leave London. Has others matters that require your immediate attention. -What a pity! Maybe I could contribute something clarity to a matter that remains so obscure to us. But, as for their own Research, Dr. Watson, if I can be of any assistance to you, I trust you will not hesitate to count on me. And if you already have any clue about the nature of your suspicions or how you If you are thinking of taking up this case, perhaps I could, even now, offer you some help or suggestion. —I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm here solely as a visitor to my friend. Sir Henry and I don't need any help of any kind. -Excellent! —Stapleton said. Do you do good at being cautious and reserved. I consider myself justly rebuked for what has happened. This has undoubtedly been an undue intrusion, and I assure you that I will not return to the matter. We had reached a point where a narrow grassy path separated from the road and entered the moor. To the right rose a steep hill dotted with boulders that in ancient times had served as a granite quarry. The face facing us formed a steep cliff, whose cracks sheltered ferns and brambles. Above a distant hill rose a thin gray column of smoke. "A moderate walk along this moorland path will bring us to Merripit House," said my companion-. If you have an hour, I would be happy to introduce you to my sister. My first impulse was to think that I should stay with Sir Henry, But then I remembered the numerous papers and accounts that cluttered his office desk. Was Of course I couldn't help him with that task. Furthermore, Holmes had expressly commissioned me to observe the baronet's neighbors. I then accepted Stapleton's invitation, and together we set off along the path. "The moor is a fascinating place," he said. My interlocutor, scanning the rolling hills with his eyes, like enormous green waves, with crests of worn granite that formed with their foam whimsical figures—. It never gets boring. It is difficult to imagine the unusual secrets it hides. It is so immense, so arid, so enigmatic! —You know him well, don't you? —I've only been here two years. The locals still consider me a newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles moved into the mansion. But my hobby has taken me to explore the entire region, and I would dare to say that few know the moor better than I do. —Is it difficult to get familiar with it? -A lot. Look, for example, at that great plain which stretches to the north, with the curious hills rising from it. Do you perceive you something particular on its surface? —It must be an ideal place to gallop. —That's what anyone would think, but it has already cost the life of more than one person. Do you notice those deep green spots that dot the entire area? —Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest. Stapleton burst out laughing. "It's the great Grimpen Marsh," he said, "where One wrong step means death, for man as for any beast. Just yesterday I saw one of the horses from the moor fall into it. He didn't come out again. For a while his head continued visible, but the mud eventually swallowed it up. Even in dry seasons it is dangerous cross it, but in autumn, after the rains, it is even worse. And yet, I am capable of reach the center of the swamp and return unharmed. Wow, there I see another one of those poor horses! Something brown was stirring among the green reeds. Then a long desperate neck suddenly raised his head and a terrifying whinny echoed across the moor. Horror paralyzed me. blood in his veins, but my companion's nerves seemed firmer than mine. -Sunken! -said-. The swamp has devoured it. Two in forty-eight hours, and maybe there are There have been more, because they get used to going there when the ground is dry and they don't notice the difference until it is too late. The great Grimpen Bog is an extremely treacherous place. —And you claim that it enters your interior? —Yes, there are one or two paths that a person very agile can use, and I have discovered them. —But what do you find about attractive in such a terrible place? —Do you see those hills in the distance? In reality they are islands cut off from the rest by the impenetrable swamp, which over the years has been surrounding them. That's where the rare species of plants and butterflies are found, if one is skillful enough to reach them. —Someday I'll dare to try. Stapleton gave me a look of astonishment. —For God's sake, don't even think about it! —he exclaimed. Their blood would fall on my conscience. I assure you there is no the slightest chance of him returning alive. I achieve it only because I remember very complex orientation marks. -My God! —I exclaimed. What was that? A long wail, deep and indescribably sad, rose over the moor. Although it filled all the air, it was impossible to pinpoint its origin. From a muffled murmur it turned into a very deep roar, to return again to the melancholic moan. Stapleton looked at me with a strange expression. —What a peculiar place the moor is! —he commented. —But what was that? —The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles claiming his prey. I'd heard it once or twice before, but never so clearly. With a chill of fear in my breast, I gazed out at the vast plain studded with the green spots of the reeds. Nothing moved in that desolate expanse except a couple of crows, which cawed loudly from a rock behind us. "You are an educated man: don't tell me you believe in such superstitions," I said. What do you think? What could have caused such an unusual sound? —Swamps sometimes make strange noises. The mud moving, or the water rising, or something similar. -No no; It was clearly the voice of a living being. —Yes, perhaps it was. Have you ever heard moo at a bittern? -Never. —It is a rare bird; practically extinct in England today, but on the moor everything is possible. Yes, I wouldn't be surprised if we just heard the cry of the last of the bitterns. —It's the strangest and most mysterious sound I've ever heard in my life. —Yes, we are in a truly unique region. Look at the slope of that one hill. What do you think these formations are? The entire steep slope was covered with gray stone rings, at least twenty of them. —What are they? Shelters for sheep? -No; They were the homes of our respectable ancestors. To the man prehistoric liked to inhabit the wasteland, and as no one has done so since then, We found his small buildings just as he left them. It is the equivalent of a grocery store. homeless Indians. You can even see where they lit the fire and where they slept, if Curiosity leads him to enter one of them. —So it's a real one. village. When was it inhabited? —It dates back to the Neolithic era, although the exact dates are unknown. —What did its inhabitants do? —They had cattle grazing on these slopes, and they began digging for tin when The bronze sword began to replace the stone axe. Notice the large ditch on the hill of opposite. That's your footprint. Yeah; You will find some very remarkable things on the moor, Dr. Watson. Ah, allow me a moment. That specimen must be a Cyclopides. A fly or butterfly crossed our path and Stapleton immediately launched himself after it. she with surprising energy and speed. To my dismay, the insect flew straight towards me. the great swamp, but my companion did not hesitate for a second, chasing him by leaps and bounds between bushes, with the butterfly net held high. His grey clothing and his erratic way of moving forward, jumping and in a zigzag pattern, giving it the appearance of a large winged insect. I watched his career with a mixture of admiration for his amazing agility and fear that he would lose his balance in the treacherous swamp, when I heard footsteps behind me and, turning around, saw a woman coming along the path. It came from the direction in which, from the column of smoke, I knew the Merripit house to be located, but the slope of the terrain had kept it hidden until it was almost next to me. I had no doubt that it was Miss Stapleton, as on the moor there was no There are plenty of ladies, and he remembered someone describing her as very beautiful. The woman that was approaching in my direction was, without a doubt, and possessed an unusual beauty. There could not be a greater contrast between the brothers, since in the case of the naturalist The tones were muted, with light hair and grey eyes, while Miss Stapleton was more darker than any of the brunettes I've seen in England, and also slender, elegant and tall. His face, haughty and finely featured, was so well-proportioned that it might have seemed distant if it weren't for the mouth and the eyes, intense and dark. Given the perfection and the refinement of his attire, he was certainly an unusual appearance in the solitary moorland path. I was watching my brother's movements when I turned around, but immediately quickened his pace towards me. I had discovered myself and I was preparing to justify my presence with a few words, when his phrases diverted completely the direction of my thoughts. -Go away! -said-. Return to London as soon as possible. I couldn't help but stare at her, stunned. His eyes shone brightly as he his foot tapped impatiently on the ground. —Why would I leave? "I can't explain it to you," he replied in a low, hurried voice with a curious lisp as he spoke. But, For the love of God, do as I ask. Go away and never return to this wasteland. —But I just arrived. “Please,” he exclaimed. Don't you know how to recognize? a warning made for your own good? Come back to London! Start your journey tonight! Please get away from here! Silence, my brother is coming back! Not a word of what I have said to you. saying. Would you be so kind as to cut me that orchid between the ponytails? Orchids are common on the páramo, although, naturally, you arrive at an unusual time. conducive to appreciating the beauty of the surroundings. Stapleton had abandoned the chase and He approached us panting and with his face red from exertion. —Hello, Beryl! —he greeted, and I got the impression that the tone he used was not exactly affectionate. —You're very agitated, Jack. -Yeah. I was after a Cyclopides. It is a very rare butterfly and difficult to find at this time of autumn. What a pity I couldn't capture her! He spoke with apparent lightness, but his eyes clear ones kept watching us closely. —They've already introduced themselves, I see. -Yeah. I was explaining to the gentleman that autumn is not the best season to appreciate the splendor of the moor. -As? Who did you think you were talking to? —I assumed it was Sir Henry Baskerville. "No, not at all," I clarified. I'm just a simpleton citizen, although Baskerville honors me with his friendship. My name is Watson, Doctor Watson. Disappointment darkened the young woman's expressive face for a moment. "Our conversation was marked by a misunderstanding," said Miss Stapleton. "Actually, they've barely had time to talk," his wife commented. brother, with the same inquisitive eyes. —I spoke on the assumption that Dr. Watson resided here and not just a visitor,' Miss Stapleton added. In that case, I guess He will care little whether it is a good or bad time for orchids. But, since you've come this far, I hope you will join us to see the Merripit House. After a short walk we arrived at a modest moor house, former farm of some cattle rancher in the days of greatest prosperity, later adapted as a modern residence. It was surrounded by an orchard, although the trees, like It usually happens on the moor, they were lower than usual and showed traces of frost; The whole offered an image of a certain desolation and poverty. He opened the door for us an old servant, a strange, wrinkled, moldy-looking figure, very much in keeping with the appearance of the home. Inside, however, there were spacious rooms, furnished with elegant sobriety. in which I thought I discerned Miss Stapleton's taste. Looking out from its windows the vast expanse of granite-flecked moorland, stretching uninterrupted to the horizon further away, I couldn't help but wonder what had brought that cultured man and that such a distinguished woman to such a remote place. —A curious choice to live, isn't it? seems? "Stapleton said, as if he had guessed the course of my thoughts. And yet we manage to be reasonably happy, don't we, Beryl? "Very happy," she said, although her voice lacked conviction. "I ran a private school up north," Stapleton continued. For someone of me temperament, the work was repetitive and unstimulating, but the privilege of living together with young people, to help shape their ideas and to instill in them our own convictions, had enormous value for me. But fate was against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the students died. The institution failed to overcome the blow and much of my resources vanished. Even so, if it weren't for the loss of that pleasant company youth, I could say that my misfortune had its positive side, because with my deep fondness for Botany and zoology, I find here an inexhaustible field of study, and my sister shares with me that passion for nature. I'm telling you this, Dr. Watson, because I noticed your expression. looking at the moor from our window. —It's true that it crossed my mind the idea that this might be, perhaps, something less tedious for you than for your sister. "No, no," she replied immediately; I never get bored. —We have a good library and our studies, as well as some interesting neighbors. Dr. Mortimer is a true scholar in his field. The late Sir Charles was also charming company. We treated him well and I have no words to express how much we miss him. Do you think it would be inappropriate on my part? visit Sir Henry this afternoon to meet him? —I'm sure he'll be pleased to receive it. —So, if you don't mind, perhaps you'd like to mention that I have that intention. Within our limitations, we may be able to help you adapt to this new environment. Would you like to join me, Dr. Watson, to see my Lepidoptera collection? I think it's the most complete southwest England. By the time I've checked it, lunch will almost be served. But I felt the urgency to return to the person whose safety had been entrusted to me. Everything—the desolation of the moor, the death of the unfortunate nag, the mysterious sound linked to the dark legend of the Baskervilles—contributed to coloring my thoughts with unease. And just in case These vague impressions were not enough, he had to add the clear and vehement warning of the Miss Stapleton, whose intensity convinced me that it was no mere impression. I rejected the repeated invitations from the brothers to stay for lunch and I set off without delay way back, following the same grassy path we had come in on. However, it seems that there is some shortcut known to those who best master the region, for before reaching the road I had a great surprise to see Miss Stapleton sitting on a rock at the side of the road. The blush of effort further beautified her face as he brought his hand to his side. —I ran all the way to catch him, "Dr. Watson," he said, "and I haven't even had time to put on my hat." I can't stop because, Otherwise, my brother will notice my absence. I wanted to express to you how much I regret the absurd confusion of having taken you for Sir Henry. I beg you to forget my words, which make no sense in your case. —But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton. —I replied. I am a close friend of Sir Henry and his well-being matters deeply to me. You Please tell me why you so urgently wanted him to return to London. —A mere feminine whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I am not I can always justify what I say or do. -No no. I clearly remember the trembling of his voice. I remember the expression in his eyes. Please be honest with me, Miss Stapleton, Because since I arrived here I have the feeling of being surrounded by shadows. My life has become something similar to the great Grimpen swamp: there are green patches everywhere that give way to step on them and I have no guide to show me the way. Please tell me what you meant, and I promise you I will convey your warning to Sir Henry. For a moment his face showed hesitation, But when he answered, his expression had already hardened. "You worry too much, Dr. Watson," he said. My brother and I were shocked deeply saddened by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him well, as he used to cross the moor to come to our house. Sir Charles was deeply affected by the curse of his lineage, And when the tragedy happened, I thought, quite logically, that there must be some truth in his stories. fears. I am therefore concerned that another member of the family may decide to live here, and I think they should. be warned of the danger he is in. That was all I was trying to convey with my words. —But what is that danger? —Do you know the legend of the bloodhound? —I can't believe such nonsense. —Well, I do. If you can influence Sir Henry, Get him away from this place that has been so harmful to your family. The world is wide. Why would I? reside precisely where your life is at risk? —That's exactly why. This is Sir's character Henry. I am very afraid that unless you provide me with more concrete information, you won't be able to convince him to leave. —I can't say anything more precise because I don't know. —Let me ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If that was all I wanted communicate when we spoke for the first time, why the insistence that his brother not know anything? There is nothing in his words that he, or anyone else, could consider improper. —My brother wishes with all his might that the Baskerville mansion not be left uninhabited, because he believes that his occupation benefits the humble people of the moor. He would be upset if I knew that I had said anything that might induce Sir Henry to leave. But I've already done it which I considered my duty and I have nothing more to add. I must return, or Jack will notice my absence. and will suspect that I have been with you. Bye bye! He turned around and in a few minutes he was gone. among the scattered rocks of the moor, while I, with the spirit Full of indefinite presentiments, I continued on my way towards the Baskerville mansion. Chapter VIII First Report of Dr. Watson From now on I will follow the course of events by transcribing my letters to Sherlock Holmes, which I have right now on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise I reproduce them exactly as they were written, and they reflect my feelings more accurately. and you suspect at the moment that what my memory could do now, despite the clarity with which I still remember those tragic events. Baskerville Hall, October 13 My dear Holmes: My letters and telegrams Previous reports have kept you informed of everything that has happened in this remote corner of the world. How much The longer you stay here, the deeper the spirit of the wilderness penetrates your soul: its vastness and its disturbing grandeur. As soon as one enters it, every trace of England modern is left behind, and in its place the presence of the ancients is felt everywhere inhabitants and the works of prehistoric man. No matter where you look, there are always the homes of those forgotten peoples, with their tombs and the enormous monoliths that, apparently, marked the location of their temples. When contemplating their grey stone shelters in the middle of rugged slopes, it seems that we go back in time, and if we saw someone crawling out of one of those doors—like the mouth of a burrow—to a shaggy figure wrapped in furs, fitting a flint-tipped arrow to his bow, we would think that his presence here is more justified than ours. The amazing thing is that so many chose to live in a land that always must have been infertile. I am not knowledgeable about prehistory, but I suspect it was a a rather peaceful and harassed people, forced to accept lands that no one else wanted to occupy. All this, however, deviates from the mission you entrusted to me and probably does not may be of the slightest interest to him, given his eminently practical mind. I still remember his total indifference to the dilemma of whether the sun revolved around the earth or the earth in I return to the sun. Let me then return to the facts relating to Sir Henry Baskerville. The reason you have not received recent reports is that until today there was nothing real interest to communicate. However, a very unexpected event has occurred that I will pass on to report in due time, but first I must update you on other aspects of the situation. One of them, which I have barely mentioned so far, is the case of the escaped prisoner that wandered through the wasteland. There are now strong reasons to believe that he has left the area, which has provided considerable relief to the district's most isolated residents. They have It's been two weeks since his escape and, during those fifteen days, there has been no news about him. It is frankly implausible that he managed to survive in the wasteland for so long. time. He could certainly have hidden himself without difficulty: any stone shelter would have served as a hiding place. But there is nothing that could provide him with food, unless he has achieved hunt and kill some sheep. Consequently, we believe he has fled, and the farmers separated people sleep peacefully again. In this house we stayed four men in good physical condition, so we can take care of ourselves, but I confess I've been feeling uneasy thinking about the Stapletons, who are several miles away. from the nearest neighbor. In the Merripit house live only a maid, an elderly servant, Miss Stapleton and Stapleton himself, who is not exactly a man of great strength. If the fugitive managed to enter the house, they would be at the mercy of such a dangerous individual. like that criminal from Notting Hill. Both Sir Henry and I are genuinely concerned about your situation, and we suggested that Perkins, the stable boy, sleep there at night, But Stapleton categorically rejected the idea. The truth is that our friend the baronet has started to feel very attracted to his beautiful neighbor. There is nothing strange about it, because for A man as active as he is, life becomes long in such a lonely place, and Miss Stapleton is a lady of great beauty and charm. There is something exotic about it, almost tropical, that contrasts sharply with his brother, who is so contained and reserved. Although, to be fair, he too hints at a latent intensity. Stapleton undoubtedly exerts a notable influence on his sister, Because I have noticed that while he speaks, she constantly observes him, as if searching in his expression the approval of each word. I hope he is affectionate with her. The coldness of the Stapleton's eyes and the firmness of his thin-lipped mouth suggest a temperament dominant and perhaps authoritarian. I suspect that he will be a character worthy of study for you. He came to greet Baskerville the same day I met him, and the next morning, He led us both to the place where, according to tradition, the legend of Hugo the Elder originated. wicked. It was a walk of several kilometers across the moor to a place that, for It would be enough to inspire the story alone, so gloomy is it. We found a short valley, enclosed between rocks, which led to a green clearing covered with reeds. In the center They raised two enormous stones, very eroded and sharp at the top, so that looked like the corroded teeth of a colossal creature. The place fit perfectly with the scene of the ancient tragedy we know. Sir Henry showed great interest and asked repeatedly asked Stapleton if he sincerely believed in the possibility of the supernatural interfering in human affairs. He spoke in a light tone, but his curiosity was evident. Stapleton was cautious in his answers, although it was perceived that he was hiding some of his thinking. and who avoided speaking frankly, perhaps out of respect for the baronet's emotions. He spoke to us of similar cases in which certain families seemed marked by a malignant influence, and left us with the impression that, deep down, he shared the popular belief on the matter. On the way back we stopped at the Merripit house for lunch, and it was there that Sir Henry first met Miss Stapleton. From that moment on, Baskerville seemed to feel an intense attraction, and if I'm not mistaken, the feeling was reciprocated. Our baronet did not stop talking about her all the way back, and since then he has hardly A single day has passed without us having the opportunity to see the two brothers. They will have dinner here tonight, and now It is said that we will go to his house next week. Anyone would think that such a union should fill Stapleton with satisfaction, and yet on more than one occasion I have perceived in He gives her a look of clear disapproval when Sir Henry shows any attention to his sister. There is no doubt that he is very attached to her and that he would lead a very lonely existence if he were to arrive. to lose his company, but it would seem the height of selfishness to interfere in a marriage so appropriate. I am convinced, however, that Stapleton does not wish the friendship between both turn into love, and there have been many times when I have seen him maneuver to avoid that they remain alone. I will tell you in passing that your instructions regarding not allowing Sir Henry leave the mansion alone, they will be much more complicated to follow if a sentimental story comes to add to the other obstacles. My good relations with the baronet would suffer certainly if I were to prove inflexible in following to the letter the orders you gave me. The other day—Thursday, to be exact—Dr. Mortimer joined us for lunch. Ha has been excavating a burial mound at Long Down and is enchanted by having discovered a prehistoric skull. I have never seen such a passionate enthusiast as him! The Stapletons arrived later, and the good doctor took us all to the Yew Lane, at Sir Henry's request, to explain to us precisely how the events occurred that night fateful. The Yew Walk is a long, shady path, flanked by two high walls of a trimmed hedge, with a narrow strip of grass on either side. At its farthest end There is an old and ruined summer pavilion. Approximately halfway along the path He opens a gate that overlooks the moor, the same one where the old man dropped the ash from his cigar. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond, the immense wasteland stretches out. I had present your hypothesis and try to imagine everything that could happen. While Sir Charles was There he saw something approaching across the moor, something that frightened him so much that he lost sight of it. reason, running desperately until dying from terror and exhaustion. We had before we the long, melancholy tunnel of grass through which he fled. But what about? Of a shepherd dog wandering? Or a ghostly, huge, dark, silent hound? Was there participation? human? Could it be that Barrymore, always so pale and alert, knows more than she has told? Everything remains blurry and uncertain, but there is, behind it all, a persistent shadow of crime. Since I last wrote to you I have met another of the inhabitants of the wasteland. It is about from Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Manor, residing about six miles south of here. He is an elderly gentleman, with white hair, a ruddy face and a choleric character. He has a real passion for British law and has wasted a fortune on litigation. Enjoy from the simple fact of opposing someone and is always willing to defend both positions in a dispute, so it is not surprising that the lawsuits have been quite expensive. Sometimes he closes a right of way and challenges the city council to force him to reopen it. In Other times, he personally knocks down a neighbor's gate and claims that it has existed there since time immemorial a public footpath, inviting the owner to report it for invasion. He is an expert in manorial and communal law, and sometimes uses this knowledge for the benefit of the inhabitants. of Fernworthy and others to his detriment, so that sometimes they parade him in triumph through the street main character of the town, and others burn him in effigy, depending on his last feat. It is said that He currently has about seven legal proceedings in hand, which will possibly consume what It remains as heritage, thus being stingless and, therefore, harmless. Aside from his hobby legal, is a warm and affable person, and I only mention it because you insisted on receiving detailed descriptions of all neighbors. At the moment he is engaged in a curious task: An astronomy enthusiast, he owns an excellent telescope with which he spends hours lying in the roof of his house, scanning the moor from sunrise to sunset in the hope of spotting the prisoner fugitive. If he were to devote all his energies to that enterprise, the results would be promising, but it is rumored that he intends to sue Dr. Mortimer for having exhumed a Neolithic skull from the Long Down burial mound without the permission of the deceased's next of kin. Definitely, It helps break the monotony of our lives and provides us with occasional comic moments that are welcome here. And now, after having brought you up to date on the fugitive, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer and Mr. Frankland of Lafter Manor, Let me get back to basics and tell you about the Barrymores, and in particular, about the strange events of last night. First of all, I must refer to the telegram that you sent from London to check whether Barrymore was really here. I already mentioned to you that, According to the postmaster, his ingenious maneuver was rendered ineffective, so that we do not have firm evidence one way or the other. I explained the situation to Sir Henry and, True to his usual frankness, he immediately called Barrymore to ask if he had received hand the telegram. Barrymore said yes. —Did the boy deliver it to you personally? —inquired Sir Henry. Barrymore seemed bewildered and thought for a few moments. "No," he replied; At that time I was in the attic and it was my wife who brought it to me. —Did you answer yourself? -No; I told my wife the answer and she was the one who went downstairs to write it down. That same night, Barrymore brought up the subject again. —I don't quite understand the reason for your question this morning, Sir Henry, he said. I hope you didn't think that my attitude had aroused your distrust. Sir Henry assured him that this was not the case and calmed him down by giving him a good part of his previous wardrobe, since the new equipment brought from London had just arrived. Mrs. Barrymore intrigues me deeply. She is a robust woman, not especially perceptive, very respectful and with a certain puritanical inclination. It is hard to imagine someone less predisposed, at least in appearance, to outbursts of emotion. And yet, as I already told you, I heard her sobbing inconsolably the first night we spent here, and since then I have noticed more than once signs of tears on his face. Some deep sorrow torments him incessantly. Sometimes I think that the memory of some fault bothers her, and at other times I sometimes suspect that Barrymore can exert an authoritarian influence in the family sphere. I've always had the impression that there was something peculiar and opaque in his character, but what happened last night served to reinforce my suspicions. And yet, on closer inspection, it might seem a trifle. You know I've never slept soundly, but since I've been in constant vigilance in this house, my sleep has become even lighter. Last night, around two in the In the early morning, I was awakened by stealthy footsteps crossing in front of my room. I got up, opened the door and looked. A long shadow slid down the corridor, cast by a man who He walked silently, a candle in his hand. He was wearing only a shirt and trousers, and was barefoot. I couldn't make out more than his silhouette, but his height allowed me to identify him as Barrymore. He walked with great caution, and there was something vaguely guilty and furtive about his manner. As I already indicated, the corridor is interrupted at the gallery surrounding the great hall, but continues then on the other side. I waited for Barrymore to disappear from my sight and then followed him. When I reached the gallery, he was already at the end of the second corridor and, thanks to the glow of the candle through an open door, I noticed that I had entered one of the rooms. Now, those rooms are empty and unfurnished, which made their incursion even more enigmatic. The light remained fixed, as if Barrymore were not moving. I slipped down the hall, trying not to make any noise, and cautiously peered through the half-open door. Barrymore, crouching by the window, held the candle against the glass. His face, turned partially towards me, reflected great tension as he contemplated the darkness of the wasteland. For several minutes he maintained that silent watch. Then he left He let out a deep sigh and, with a gesture of annoyance, blew out the candle. I came back immediately to my room and, shortly after, I heard his furtive footsteps again as he returned. I was almost asleep when, much later, I heard a key turning in some lock, although I could not determine where exactly the sound was coming from. I don't know what it can be mean all this, but I am sure that in this gloomy mansion there is some secret hidden that, sooner or later, it will be discovered. I don't want to bother you with conjectures, Well, you asked me to stick to the facts. This morning I had a long conversation with Sir Henry and together we have drawn up an action plan based on what happened last night. I won't go into details yet, But I trust that you will find my next report particularly revealing. Chapter IX Second Report of Dr. Watson The Light on the Moor Baskerville Hall, October 15 My dear Holmes, Although I did not send him news very often during the first days of my mission, You will now recognize that I am making up for lost time, for events are happen without pause. In my last report I told you about the Barrymore episode at the window, and now I have in my hands an excellent sequel which, if I'm not mistaken, will surprise you. The situation has taken a turn that I could not foresee. In certain aspects much has been clarified things in the last forty-eight hours, but in others they have become even more confusing. I will tell you everything without omitting any detail, so that you can judge for yourself. The next morning, before going down to the dining room, I inspected the room that Barrymore had visited during the night. The west-facing window through which he was watching so intently, It has - as I have been able to verify - a particularity that distinguishes it from the others: allows a more direct view of the moor thanks to an opening between the trees, while from the other rooms it can only be seen with difficulty. From there I deduced that Barrymore, by choosing that particular window, was looking for someone or something that was in the moor. Since the night was quite dark, it was difficult to imagine what he expected to see. The possibility occurred to me that it was a sentimental matter. That would explain so much his stealth like his wife's anxiety. Barrymore is a man of remarkable presence, He might well have won the heart of some peasant girl, and that conjecture seemed have some foundation. The opening of the door I heard after returning to my bedroom could indicate that Barrymore was sneaking out to a secret meeting. Such was the direction of my thoughts in the morning, and I tell her, although our subsequent investigations proved to be completely wrong. However, whatever the true meaning, reason for Barrymore's movements, I considered the burden of maintaining that secret excessive without a satisfactory explanation, so after breakfast I joined the baronet in his study and I told him everything I had seen. Sir Henry seemed less surprised than I expected. —I knew Barrymore moves around the house at night and I was planning to talk to him about it. -said-. I have heard your footsteps in the corridor on several occasions, at the exact time you mention. “In that case, maybe you visit that same window every night,” I suggested. —It's possible. If so, we could follow him and find out what he's doing. I wonder what I would do your friend Holmes if he were in our place. —I think I would do exactly what you just said. to say, I replied. I would follow him and observe his behavior. —Then that's what we'll do. —Although he will surely hear us. —He's quite hard of hearing, and in any case, we'll have to take that risk. We will wait in my room until it passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands together excitedly, and it was obvious who welcomed that little adventure as a respite from the monotonous life of the moor. The baronet has been in contact with both the architect who designed the plans for Sir Charles as with the London contractor who executed the works, So major reforms will probably begin soon. They have also arrived From Plymouth decorators and cabinet makers: it's clear our friend has ambitious plans and does not wish to spare any effort in his efforts to return the house to the former splendor of its lineage. With the restored and fully furnished mansion, only a wife would be missing to complete the picture. I trust you, in parentheses, that there are very clear indications that this situation will soon be resolved. materialize, if the lady gives her consent, for I have seldom seen a man more enamored of a woman Sir Henry is in love with our attractive neighbor, Miss Stapleton. However, the course of true love does not always proceed as smoothly as it should. expect given the circumstances. Today, without going any further, that promising relationship has stumbled. with an unforeseen obstacle that has caused great confusion and annoyance to our friend. After the conversation about Barrymore, to which I have already referred, Sir Henry became the hat and prepared to leave. As a matter of course, I got up to accompany him. —Are you coming with me, Watson? —he asked me, giving me a rather meaningful look. "That depends on whether you plan to go to the moor," I replied. —Indeed, that's where I'm headed. —Then you will understand that I must accompany you. You know I have very precise instructions. I'm sorry to seem indiscreet, but Holmes was very emphatic. that he should not leave him alone and, especially, that he should not venture out into the wilderness unaccompanied. Sir Henry put a hand on my shoulder and accompanied the gesture with a friendly smile. "My dear Watson," he said; As much as Holmes knows, he could not foresee certain things that have happened since I arrived at this place. Do you understand me? I'm sure that You don't want to play the role of a killjoy. This time I need to go alone. His words put me in an extremely uncomfortable position. I didn't know what to answer, And before I could decide, Sir Henry took his cane and went out. But when I reflected on the matter, my conscience began to bitterly reproach me for having left it. march alone, whatever the reason. I imagined having to introduce myself to you. to confess that a misfortune had occurred due to not following his orders to the letter. I assure you my cheeks burned just thinking about it. Maybe it wasn't yet too late to catch up with him, so I left immediately in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried as fast as I could along the road, finding no trace of Sir Henry until I reached the place. where the moorland trail begins. Fearing then that he had taken a wrong turn, I climbed a hill—an old black granite quarry—from where you can see a wide expanse. From the top I immediately spotted Sir Henry. I was on the path, about four or five hundred meters, accompanied by a lady who could be none other than Miss Stapleton. It was clear that they had agreed to a meeting. They walked slowly, absorbed in her conversation, and I saw that she was gesticulating with energy, as if she were putting great intensity into her words, while he listened to her attentively and, on several occasions, shook his head with a gesture of disagreement. I stood among the rocks, undecided on how to proceed. Get closer and interrupting such an intimate conversation seemed unacceptable to me; However, my obligation was clear: He must not lose sight of Sir Henry. Spying on a friend was, of course, an unpleasant role. No I found a better solution than to continue watching them from the hill and then be honest with Sir Henry about what he had done. If any sudden danger threatened him, he was too far away to intervene, but I think you will agree with me that my situation was really compromised. The baronet and the lady had stopped on the road and were still deep in conversation, when I suddenly realized that I was not the only spectator of the scene. A stain green floating in the air caught my attention and when I looked closely I saw that it was hanging from a handle and which was held by a man who was advancing across the rough terrain. It was Stapleton, with his butterfly net. He was much closer to the couple than I was, and seemed to be heading towards them. At that moment, Sir Henry drew Miss Stapleton towards him. Yes, and he put his arm around her waist, but it seemed to me that she was trying to move away, turning his face. Our friend leaned towards her and she raised her hand, as in sign of protest. A moment later, they both abruptly separated. Stapleton, who ran towards them with the ridiculous butterfly net hanging on his back, was clearly the cause of the interruption. Upon arriving, he began to gesticulate and almost jump with excitement in front of the couple. I couldn't grasp the content of the scene, but I had the impression that Stapleton was rebuking Sir Henry despite his attempts to explain himself, and the baronet gradually becoming irritated in the face of the other's refusal to listen to him. Miss Stapleton stood aside, in silent pride. Finally, Stapleton turned and called imperatively to his sister, who, after looking uncertainly at Sir Henry, walked away with him. The angry gestures of the naturalist They revealed that she had also incurred his displeasure. Sir Henry watched them walk away for a while. a few moments and then slowly returned along the same path, with his head down, turned into a palpable image of dejection. I couldn't understand what it all meant. that, but I felt deeply ashamed of having witnessed such an intimate scene without that my friend knew. So I quickly went down the hill to meet with the. Sir Henry's face was flushed with indignation and he frowned like a who does not know at all what decision to make. —Good heavens, Watson! Where do you come from? —he asked me. Aren't you going to tell me that you followed me despite everything? I explained to him what had happened: how I found it unacceptable to stay behind, how I had followed and how he had witnessed the whole scene. For a moment his eyes sparkled with anger, But my sincerity disarmed him, and in the end he gave a rather bitter laugh. "Anyone would have thought the center of the moor a remote enough place," he said, But apparently all the inhabitants of the region have come out to see me court…, and without much luck! From which location did you have your seat reserved? —I was on that hill. —One of the last rows, right? But Stapleton was closer. Did you see him approaching? -That's how it is. —Has it ever crossed your mind that this man might be crazy? —No, I've never thought about it. -Me neither. I always considered it a balanced subject until today. But believe me when I tell you that one of the two would have to put him in a straitjacket. What's wrong with me, anyway? You have been with me for several weeks, Watson. Tell me frankly: is there anything that prevents me from being a good husband to the woman I love? —Of course, I would say no. —I don't think Stapleton has objections to my social position, so it's about me as a person. But what do you have against me? As far as I know, I have never caused him the slightest harm. And yet, it does not even allow that touch your sister's hand. —Is that what he told you? —That and much more. But I assure you, Watson, that from the first day I knew she was the woman indicated for me, and also…, that Miss Stapleton was happy in my company, I can swear to it. There is a sparkle in a woman's eyes that speaks more clearly than any words. But Stapleton has never allowed us to be alone, and today the first one was finally presented opportunity to speak to her without witnesses. She was glad to see me, but she didn't want to talk about love, and would have avoided the subject if I could have. He kept warning me that this place It's dangerous and she'd only be calm if I left. Then I told him that, since the I met, I'm in no hurry to leave and that if you really want me to leave, the only way to get it is to come with me. I immediately asked her, without hesitation, to marry me, But before he could answer, his brother appeared, running like crazy. He was pale with fury and even those clear eyes of his shone with rage. What was he doing with Beryl? How dare I? to make advances to a woman who found my presence so unpleasant? Did he think That because I was a baronet I could do whatever I wanted? If it hadn't been his brother, he would know how to respond to him. But given the circumstances, I told him that my feelings for his sister were perfectly respectable and that I hoped to have the honor of marrying her. That did not improve the things, so I too lost my patience and may have responded more vehemently than I due, considering that she was present. The scene ended, as you saw, with Stapleton leaving with her sister and leaving me confused like never before. Please tell me what all this means, Watson, and I shall be so grateful to you that I can never repay that debt. I was trying to find some reasonable explanation, but to be honest, I was also I was puzzled. Our friend's noble title, his fortune, his age, his character and His appearance is favorable to him, and I am not aware that there is anything against him, except the sad fate that seems to weigh on his family. That his marriage proposal was so abruptly rejected, without taking into account the wishes of the interested party, and that she herself accepted the decision without protest, was deeply disconcerting. However, the balance is restored thanks to the visit that Stapleton made to the baronet that same afternoon. He came to offer you apologizes for his behavior this morning and, after a long private conversation in the study, both left reconciled. As proof of this, we will be having dinner at Merripit House next Friday. "I wouldn't say he's completely sane now either," Sir Henry told me after the interview—because I can't forget how he looked at me as he ran towards me this morning, But I admit that no one could apologize more politely. —Has he given you any explanation for his attitude? —He told me that his sister is everything to him. life. And I think it's fair that he appreciates what he has. They have always lived together and, as he says, it has been a very lonely man, with no other company than her. That's why the idea of ​​losing her upsets him. He says he hadn't noticed my feelings until today, and that by understanding them suddenly, he felt overwhelmed. The intensity of his fear made him irresponsible for a few minutes. minutes. He sincerely regrets what happened and admits that it is absurd and selfish to think that he can retain all his life to a woman like his sister. If she has to leave, she prefers to do it with someone. close, like me, rather than with a stranger. However, it is a hard blow for him and he needs some time to accept it. He has agreed not to object if I agree to maintain everything as it is for three months and settle, during that time, with the sole friendship of his sister, without aspiring to more. That's what I promised him, and that's how it stayed. This clears up one of our little riddles. Something is something, and it feels like We finally hit rock bottom somewhere in this swamp we are immersed in. Now we know why Stapleton looked with suspicion at his sister's suitor, despite the fact that he was of a party as favorable as Sir Henry. I now turn to another of the threads I have managed to unravel: the mystery of the night sobs, of the tears on the face of the Mrs. Barrymore and the butler's furtive movements toward the latticed western window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me I have not disappointed you as your agent; who does not repent for having placed their trust in me. All these aspects have been fully clarified thanks to one night's work. I said “one night’s work,” but in In reality there were two, since the first one was unsuccessful. I was with Sir Henry in his room until about three in the morning, but we heard nothing but the chiming of the clock above from the stairs. It was a very tedious evening and we both ended up falling asleep in our beds. chairs. Fortunately, we were not discouraged and decided to try again. At night Next, we dim the lamp and smoke cigarettes in complete silence. It was amazing how slowly the minutes passed, but we were sustained by that patient attention that must feel the hunter as he watches his trap. The clock struck one, then two, and we were there. about to give up again when suddenly we froze, forgetting the tiredness, in absolute tension. A creak in the corridor made us hold our breath. We heard Barrymore cautiously pass by the door, then walk away into the distance. Then the baronet quietly opened the door and we followed him out. The butler I had already crossed the gallery and our side of the corridor was plunged into complete darkness. We slipped stealthily to the opposite wing. We caught a glimpse of his tall figure, with a black beard and rounded shoulders, walking on tiptoe until he entered through the same door where I had seen him two nights before. The candlelight made the frame glow in the darkness and projected a single golden beam into the gloom of the corridor. We approach with extreme caution, testing each floorboard before standing firmly on it. We had taken off our boots, But even so, the old floorboards creaked under our steps. At times it seemed impossible that Barrymore didn't notice our proximity, but fortunately her deafness and concentration made it so. kept it alien. When we finally got to the room and looked out, we found it. leaning by the window, candle in hand, and pale face, absorbed against the glass, exactly the same as that first night. We had designed an action plan, But for the baronet the most direct methods are always the most natural, so he entered without further delay in the room. Barrymore, startled, jumped up from his chair. place by the window and stood motionless, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, very prominent against the paleness of his face, looked from one to the other of us, filled with terror and bewilderment. —What are you doing here, Barrymore? "Nothing, sir," he replied, although his agitation was such that he could hardly utter a word and The candle she was holding was shaking so much that shadows flickered across the walls. It's the wind, Sir. At night I walk around the house to check that all the windows are properly closed. —The ones on the upper floor too? —Yes, sir, all of them. "Listen, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we are determined that you will tell us the truth, so you will save yourself trouble if you speak frankly. Come on, enough of that already. evasive! What were you doing in front of that window? The butler looked at us with a desolate look and left. He wrung his hands like someone caught between duty and suffering. —I didn't do anything wrong, sir. He was just standing by the window with a lit candle. —And why the candle lit in front of the window? —Don't ask me, Sir Henry, I beg you not to! I asked myself! I give you my word that the secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it. Yeah If it were up to me, I wouldn't try to hide it from him. Suddenly, an idea came to me and I picked up the candle. from the windowsill where Barrymore had left it. —He must be using it as a signal. -said-. Let's see if he gets a response. I held the candle as he had done and I turned my gaze to the darkness outside. The clouds covered the moon, so that only the moon could be seen vaguely the silhouette of the trees and the diffuse clarity of the moor. But suddenly I let out a scream of surprise, because a bright point suddenly appeared on the other side, crossing the dark veil, and remained shining steadily in the center of the black rectangle of the window. —There it is! —I exclaimed. —No, sir, no; it's nothing... nothing at all —the butler intervened. I assure you... —Wave the light from side to side, Watson! —cried the baronet. Do you see it? The other one moves too! What do you say now, you rascal? Do you still deny? what is a sign? Come on, talk! Who is his accomplice and what are they up to? Barrymore's expression turned defiant. —That's my business, not yours. I don't have anything what to tell them. —In that case, you are no longer in my service right now. —Very well, sir. If you wish it so, it shall be so. —And he leaves in disgrace. Good heavens, you have every reason to be ashamed! Your family has served mine for over a century under this roof, and now I find out involved in a secret plot against me. —No, sir, no! It's not against you! It was a female voice: Mrs. Barrymore, even paler and more frightened than her husband, was standing in the doorway. Her corpulent figure, wrapped in a shawl and a long skirt, It would have been comical if it weren't for the deep emotion reflected on her face. —We have to go, Eliza. This is over. Get our things ready, Barrymore said. —John, John! Am I going to be the cause of your downfall? This is all my fault, Sir Henry…, I am responsible. Everything he has done has been for me and at my request. —Then speak! What does all this mean? —My poor brother is dying of hunger in the moor. We couldn't allow him to perish just steps from our home. Light is a signal to indicate that he has food prepared, and he, with his own light, shows us the place where we must leave him the food. —So, your brother is… —The fugitive, sir... Selden, the criminal. "That's right, sir," Barrymore added. As you already I said, the secret did not belong to me and I could not reveal it. But now that you know, you will see that If there was something hidden, it was not against you. That was, then, the explanation for the furtive night outings and the candle lit in the window. Sir Henry and I contemplated to Mrs. Barrymore with evident astonishment. Who would have suspected that that woman of such respectable appearance shared the blood of one of the country's most infamous criminals? -Yes sir; My maiden name was Selden, and the prisoner is my younger brother. As a child she was He indulged too much and was allowed to do whatever he wanted, which led him to think that the world existed only to provide him with pleasures and that he could act as he pleased. Later on, As he grew older, he surrounded himself with bad company and the devil took hold of him, until he ended up for breaking our mother's heart and dragging our name through the mud. It was from fall to fall, committing increasingly serious crimes, and only divine mercy has saved him from the gallows; But for me, he has never stopped being that child with golden curls whom I cared for and played with, like any older sister does. That's the reason for your escape, sir. He knew I was alive in this house and that I would not deny him help. One night he came here, exhausted and hungry, with the guardians on his heels. What else could we do? We picked it up, we fed him and took care of him. Then you came, sir, and my brother thought you would be more safer on the moor than anywhere else, while the danger passed, and there he hid. But every two nights we communicate with him through that light in the window and, If he answers, my husband brings him some bread and meat. Every day we hope he's gone, But in the meantime we haven't had the heart to abandon him. I am a Christian, sir, and that's all I can tell you. If we have done wrong, understand that the blame It is not my husband's, but mine, because everything he has done he has done for love of me. The woman's words were so charged with vehemence that They were deeply persuasive. —Is that the truth, Barrymore? —Yes, Sir Henry. From beginning to end. -Good; I can't blame him for supporting to his wife. Forget what I told you before. You both go back to your room and tomorrow at night Tomorrow we will talk more calmly about this matter. When they left, we looked out again. the window. Sir Henry had opened it, and the cold night wind hit us in the face. In the distance, in the darkness, the tiny yellowish point of light continued to shine. "I'm surprised you'd take such a risk by being seen," Sir Henry commented. —Maybe place the candle so that it can only be seen from here. —Very likely. How far away do you think it is? —I think around Cleft Tor. —No more than two or three kilometers. —Maybe a little less. —It can't be far away if Barrymore must bring him food. And that rascal is waiting by the candle. I'll go out and catch him! The same idea had crossed my mind. It wasn't as if the Barrymores had made us a voluntary confession. We had forced his secret out of him. That guy represented a risk to the community, a dangerous criminal who had no justification and deserved no leniency. We were just doing our duty by taking the opportunity to return him to the place where he was. could not cause more damage. Given their wild and violent nature, others may suffer the consequences. consequences if we did not act. Any night, for example, he could attack our neighbors. Stapleton, and perhaps that possibility was what drove Sir Henry so much in this venture. "I'll go with you," I said. —Then take your revolver and put on your the boots. The sooner we leave, the better, before that guy blows out the candle and disappears. Five minutes later we were on our way. We walked briskly among the dark bushes, surrounded by the murmur of the autumn wind and the rustling of dry leaves underfoot. The night air carried a scent of dampness and decay. At intervals, the The moon managed to peek through the clouds, but the sky remained mostly overcast, and when we went out A light drizzle began to fall on the moor. The light kept flickering in front of us. —Are you armed? —I asked him. —I carry a whip. —We must rush at him without giving him time to react, since he is said to be extremely dangerous. You need to catch him by surprise and subdue him before he tries to resist. —Tell me, Watson, what would Holmes think of this situation? What would you say about This hour when the forces of evil seem most active? As if his words had been an invocation, suddenly arose, From the vastness of the moor, that same strange sound that I had already heard in the vicinity of the great Grimpen swamp. It reached us through the still air: first a deep murmur, then a rising howl, finally turning into a prolonged, plaintive wail. HE He repeated it several times, filling the space with its sharp, wild, and threatening echo. The Baronet He grabbed me by the sleeve and turned so pale that his face shone faintly in the darkness. —Good heavens! What was that, Watson? -Don't know. It is a sound that is heard in the paramo. This is the second time I've heard it. The howls ceased, and absolute silence took over the environment. We strained our ears, but got no response. "Watson," said the baronet, "that was the bellow of a hound." I felt my blood run cold, because his voice broke with a tremor that revealed the panic that had just taken hold of him. —What do they say about that sound? —he asked. -Who is it? —The locals. —Bah, they are superstitious peasants. What does it matter what they say? —Tell me, Watson. What are they claiming? I hesitated for a few seconds, but I couldn't dodge it. —They say it's the howl of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Sir Henry let out a sigh and remained silent for a few moments. "It was a bloodhound," he said at last, "though it seemed to come from several kilometers in that direction. —It is difficult to determine its exact origin. —The sound came and went with the wind. Isn't that the area of ​​the great Grimpen swamp? -Yes it is. —So I came from there. Tell me Honestly, didn't it sound like the bellow of a bloodhound to you? I'm not a child, don't be afraid of offending me. —Stapleton was with me when I first heard it. He claimed he could it may be the song of some rare bird. -No no; he was a bloodhound. My God, it will be Is it possible that there is some truth in these legends? Could I really be in danger from a cause? so strange? Tell me you don't believe it, Watson. —Of course not. —And yet, it's one thing to laugh about it in London and quite another to be here, in this solitude, and hear such a howl. And what about my uncle! They found traces of a bloodhound near where he fell dead. Everything fits. I don't consider myself a coward, Watson, but that sound has left frozen. Touch my hand! She was as cold as marble. —You'll feel better tomorrow. —I'm not sure that even May the light of day make me forget that howl. What do you suggest we do now? —Do you want us to go back? —No, for all the saints; We have come out to catch that man and that is what we will do. We may be after a fugitive. and that in turn a hellhound will come after us, but we will not take a step back. Forward. We will fulfill our mission, even if hell itself breaks loose on the wasteland. We moved slowly through the darkness, with the blurred silhouette of the hills covered of rocks around us and the point of golden light flickering in front. There is nothing as deceptive as the distance of a light on a dark night, and sometimes the glare It seemed as far away as the horizon, and other times, as if it were just a few steps away. But finally We distinguished its origin, and then we knew that we were already very close. A candle, almost consumed, It was wedged in a crevice between the rocks, protected from the wind by its stony sides and situated in such a way that it could only be seen from the Baskerville mansion. A large rock of Granite hid us as we approached, and allowed us to cautiously peer over to observe the sign. It was strange to see that solitary candle burning. in the middle of the wasteland, with no sign of life around him: only the flickering flame and the brightness of the stones that guarded it. —And now what do we do? —Sir Henry murmured. —Wait here. It must be close. Maybe we can see it. He had barely said those words when we both saw him. Above the rocks, along In the gap where the candle was, a malignant and yellowish face appeared, a vile face, marked by the traces of vice. Dirty with mud, with a wild beard and tangled hair, He could easily have been one of those ancient barbarians who lived in the shelters stone. The lower light was reflected in his shrewd little eyes, which peered into the darkness. to the right and left as if it were a beast stalked by invisible hunters. Something, no doubt, had aroused his suspicions. Maybe Barrymore used to offer him some a sign that we had missed, or perhaps some feeling indicated to him that things were not right. Be that as it may, fear was evident in his hideous countenance, and at any moment he could blow out the candle with a flick of his hand and run away. I lunged forward and Sir Henry followed me. At that very moment the fugitive cursed and threw a stone that exploded. against the rock behind which we were hiding. I could still make out, for a second, his silhouette. broad and stocky as she stood up and ran away. Fortunately, the moon then emerged from among the clouds. We hurriedly crowned the hill and watched him descend swiftly down the opposite slope, jumping with incredible agility between the rocks like a wild deer. Maybe there would be I was able to stop him with a shot, but my revolver was intended only for defense, not to shoot down an unarmed man who was fleeing. Both the baronet and I are brokers. competent and we keep ourselves in good shape, but we soon realized that we could not give it to him scope. We kept it in sight for a good while, illuminated by the moonlight, until It became a tiny dot moving swiftly among the boulders on a distant hillside. We ran and ran until we were exhausted, but the distance kept increasing. Finally, We gave up and sat down, panting, on some rocks, from where we could still see it which disappeared completely into the distance. And at that moment, just as we were getting ready Standing up to start back, already resigned to the loss of our prey, the most unusual and surprising of the night. The moon, very low over the right horizon, illuminated the jagged crest of a granite cliff, whose silhouette cut its silver disc. There, cut out clearly, the figure of a man stood motionless. Don't think it was an illusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have rarely seen anything more clearly in my life. As far as I could discern, it was a tall and thin man. She stood with her legs slightly open, arms crossed and head bowed, as if silently contemplating the vast expanse of peat and granite that stretched out before him. He could seem like the very spirit of the wasteland. From then, he was not the fugitive. That other man was very far from the place where the first one had disappeared, and was also much taller. With an exclamation of surprise I tried to point it out to the baronet, but just as I turned to grab his arm, the figure disappeared. The granite ridge was still outlined against the moon, but no longer There was no trace of the solitary observer. I wanted to head in that direction and inspect the surroundings of the cliff, but the distance was considerable. The nerves of Sir Henry was still disturbed by the howl that had reminded him of the sinister story of his family, and was not in the mood for new ventures. Besides, he hadn't seen the stranger. and, therefore, I did not feel the same uneasiness that that apparition had produced in me. A prison guard, without hesitation, would have said: “They are frequent on the moor since That man escaped." Perhaps that is the correct explanation, but I would like to have more evidence. solid. Today we plan to inform the authorities in Princetown about the approximate whereabouts of the fugitive, although we regret not having captured him ourselves. These have been the adventures of last night, and you cannot deny, my dear Holmes, that as far as information is concerned, refers, I'm not letting you down. Perhaps much of what I tell you is lacking in meaning. real importance, but I still think it's best to convey all the details to him and leave it to him hands the decision on which ones may be useful to you. There is no doubt that we are making progress. As soon as to the Barrymores, we have revealed the cause of their behavior, and that has clarified the situation considerably. situation. But the moor, with its secrets and its enigmatic figures, remains as impenetrable as before. I trust that my next letter may shed a little more light on these matters. riddles. Although, in truth, the ideal would be for you to come and meet us yourself. Chapter X Excerpt from Dr. Watson's Diary Up to this point I have been able to make use of the reports that I sent to Sherlock Holmes during the first days of my stay on the moor. But I have now reached a point in my narrative that I am forced to abandon that method and resort again to my memories, relying on in the diary he kept at the time. Some passages from this notebook will allow me to link with the scenes that remain indelibly engraved in my memory. I continue, therefore, On the morning following our failed pursuit of Selden and the disturbing experiences of the night in the moor. October 16th - Gray and foggy day, with light touches of drizzle. The house is enveloped by wandering clouds that from time to time as soon as they open, revealing the monotonous undulations of the moor, with fine silver veins on the slopes and distant rocks that sparkle as they reflect the light light on its wet surfaces. A constant melancholy reigns inside and out. The baronet has felt the emotional impact of the previous night. I myself perceive a weight in the chest and the disturbing feeling of danger always lurking, more frightening perhaps because it cannot be defined. And isn't this feeling justified? Just think of the chain of events that reveals the dark forces at work. around us. First, the death of the previous lord of the house, which occurred in circumstances that coincide with disturbing precision with the terms of the family legend. Then, the constant testimonies of the peasants about the presence of a creature strange in the wasteland. On two occasions I have already heard a sound similar to howling. far from a bloodhound. It cannot be something outside the ordinary laws of nature. A ghostly hound that leaves tangible traces and fills the night with its lament is, without a doubt, absurd. Perhaps Stapleton accepts this superstition, and perhaps Mortimer does too; but If I have one thing, it's common sense, and nothing will convince me of such nonsense. Do it It would be equivalent to lowering myself to the level of those poor peasants who are not content with a simple dog. wild, but they need to imagine him spitting fire from his eyes and snout. Holmes would never lend credit to such fantasies and I am their emissary. However, the facts are undeniable and I have already heard that howl twice. Let's suppose for a moment that there really was a bloodhound gigantic in freedom; that would go a long way to explaining everything. But where is it hidden? How does it feed? Where did it come from? How come no one has seen it during the day? It must be admitted that even the real dog hypothesis presents as many difficulties as the other. And then, leaving aside the bloodhound, there is the episode of the man in the London cab. and the anonymous letter warning Sir Henry of the danger. That, at least, is a proven fact, but it could just as easily have been the work of a protective friend or an enemy. Where is it located? now that ally or adversary? Have you stayed in London or have you followed our steps to the moor? Could it be… could it be the stranger I saw on the cliff? "It is true that I saw him only for a few moments, but I am absolutely sure of some things. Having already met all of our neighbors, I can say with certainty that it wasn't any of them. The man on the cliff was taller than Stapleton and thinner than Frankland. You might think Barrymore, but we left him at the house and I'm convinced he couldn't have gotten us. continued. So there is a stranger following us here in the same way that someone follows us. was still in London. We have not managed to shake off its shadow. If I could catch him, maybe all of these enigmas would begin to clear up. To that single goal I must devote all my energies from now on. My first inclination was to share my intentions with Sir Henry. But my second The more sensible impulse has been to keep my strategy silent and to speak as little as possible. indispensable. The baronet is taciturn and distracted. The night howl has affected him notably. I will not add anything to increase your uneasiness, but I will certainly take the steps necessary to achieve my goal. This morning there was a brief scene after breakfast. Barrymore asked to speak privately with Sir Henry and the two locked themselves in the study. baronet for a few minutes. From my seat in the pool room I heard on more than one occasion They raised their voices, and I must admit I had a pretty good idea of ​​what the argument was about. Finally Sir Henry opened the door and called me. —Barrymore believes he has reason to feel aggrieved, he said. He claims that we have not acted fairly in persecuting his brother-in-law when he, On his own initiative, he had entrusted us with his secret. The butler stood before us, very pale but with a serene demeanor. "Perhaps I was too vehement," he said, "and if so, I sincerely beg your pardon. But I was very surprised to learn that you guys They returned at dawn and spent the night on Selden's trail. The poor man already has enough. enemies without me needing to add more. —If he had revealed it to us voluntarily, "It would be different," the baronet replied. But he told us (or rather his wife did) only when We cornered him and he had no choice. —I never thought he would take advantage of that, Sir Henry; I didn't expect it. —That man represents a danger public. There are isolated dwellings throughout the moor and Selden would stop for no one. Just a moment of seeing his face is enough to understand him. Think, for example, about the house of the Stapletons, where there is no defense other than that of its owner. Everyone is at risk while that subject is not put in safekeeping. —Selden will never enter any house, Sir. I solemnly promise you. Nor will it bother anyone in these lands again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the preparations will have been made and you will be on your way. to South America. Please, sir, do not inform the police that my brother-in-law is still on the moor. They have ceased the search and the moor is a safe hiding place until the ship sails. And if you report it, will cause great harm to my wife and me. I beg you, sir, don't say anything. —What do you think, Watson? I shrugged slightly. —If Selden leaves the country without causing any damage, the taxpayer will be relieved of one more burden. —But what about the risk of him attacking someone before he leaves? —You won't do that madness, sir. We have given you everything you need. If he commits a crime, would report his whereabouts immediately. "That's true," said Sir Henry. All right, Barrymore… —God bless you! Thank you from the heart your generosity! My poor wife wouldn't stand it if he were arrested again. —I suppose this makes us accessories to a crime, does it not, Watson? But after what we just heard, I don't feel strong enough to hand it over. So matter settled. Okay, Barrymore, you can go. With a few broken words of thanks, The butler headed for the door, but then stopped and retraced his steps. —You have behaved so nobly towards us, sir, that I want to reciprocate in every way. is in my power. There is something, Sir Henry, that perhaps I should have told you before, although I only knew it long after the investigation was closed. I've never mentioned it to anyone. And it is related to the death of poor Sir Charles. Both the baronet and I stood up. —Do you know how he died? —No, sir, I don't know that. —So what's it about? —I know why he was by the gate at that time. I had a date with a lady. —A date with a woman? Sir Charles? -Yes sir. —And do you know who he was? —I can't tell you the name, sir, but the initials: L. L. —How did you come to know that, Barrymore? —You see, Sir Henry, your uncle received a letter that very morning. Normally many arrived daily, as he was a popular and generous man, and people with troubles came to him. But that day, by chance, only one letter arrived, which made me pay more attention. It came from Coombe Tracey and the handwriting on the envelope was clearly female. —Well? —Well, sir, there wouldn't be I would have thought about it again if it weren't for my wife, who just a few weeks ago, while cleaning the Sir Charles's study (which had not been touched since his death), found the charred remains from a letter on the fireplace. Although the leaves were almost reduced to ashes, a fragment, the end of a page, still remained intact and it was possible to read what was written, in gray on a background black. We believe it was a postscript and it said: “Please, please, as a gentleman, Burn this letter and come to the gate at ten o'clock sharp." Below, signed with the initials L. L. —Did you keep that piece of paper? —No, sir; It fell apart when I moved it. —Had Sir Charles received other letters with that same handwriting? —To tell the truth, I didn't pay attention to his correspondence. And I only noticed that one because she arrived alone. —And you don't have any idea who that L.L. might be? —No, sir. I'm as puzzled as you are. But I think if we could find that woman, we would learn more about Sir Charles's death. —What I don't understand, Barrymore, is how you could hide such important information. —Think, sir, that our own troubles began soon after, and besides, As you can understand, we had a great appreciation for Sir Charles for everything he did for us. Diving into that matter would not have helped our late employer, and when there is a lady involved, you have to be careful. Even the best men… —Were you afraid it would damage your reputation? —You see, sir: I thought nothing good would come of it. it. But after you've behaved so considerately, I don't want to treat you like that. unjustly keeping quiet about the little I know. —Very well, Barrymore; may withdraw. Once the butler left us, Sir Henry turned to me. —Well, Watson, what do you think of this new clue? —I think it only adds to the confusion. —I think so too. But if we managed to locate that L.L., maybe everything would become clearer. To the less we know that there is someone who knows the truth and we just need to find it. What do you think we should do? —Inform Holmes immediately. It may be just the sign you've been waiting for. And if I'm not mistaken, That will be enough to bring him here. I immediately returned to my room and I wrote Holmes the report of our morning conversation. It was obvious that my friend I had been very busy lately, as the notes that came to me from Baker Street were few and laconic, with no comments on the data I had sent and with barely a mention of the mission he had entrusted to me. There was no doubt that the blackmail case demanded all of his attention. And yet, this new element was bound to capture their interest and rekindle their involvement. How I wish he were here! October 17th - It has rained heavily all day, and the drops patter on the ivy and fall from the eaves. I've thought of the fugitive, out there in the frozen desert wasteland, with no place to take shelter. Unhappy! Whatever his crimes may have been, is paying dearly for them. And then I remembered the other one: the face seen from the cabriolet, the motionless silhouette cut out against the moon. Is he also the one who lurks in the shadows, The man in the shadows, is he now under this downpour, out in the open? As evening fell I put on my raincoat and set off into the soggy, shadowy moor. moving, with the rain lashing my face and the wind whistling in my ears. May God protect to those who venture near the great swamp in such conditions, because even the lands tall, normally firm, have been transformed into a veritable swamp. I reached the Black Cliff, from whose jagged summit I had spotted the solitary lookout, and from there I contemplated the dark undulations of the terrain. Curtains of rain furrowed its reddish slopes, while dense, steely-grey clouds hung low, drifting down in tatters fantastic earrings. In the distant hollow, partially hidden by the mist, The two slender towers of the Baskerville mansion rose up, barely visible. Were the only signs of human presence, apart from the ancient prehistoric shelters that abound on the flanks of the hills. No trace of the strange sentinel of the moor could be seen in any corner. On my way back to the house, I met Dr. Mortimer returning in his two-wheeled carriage. along a winding path after visiting the remote Foulmire farm. Always be He has been attentive to us and it is rare that a day goes by when he does not show up at the mansion. to take an interest in our well-being. He begged me to get into his carriage and accompany him to the house. I noticed he was worried about the disappearance of his little spaniel, who had wandered into the in the wasteland and had not returned. I offered him a few words of comfort, but as I remembered the pony Sunken in the Grimpen swamp, I feared that I would never see his pet again. "By the way, Mortimer," I said, as we skipped across the uneven ground, I suppose you know almost all the inhabitants of this region. —Almost everyone, I would say. —Could you tell me, then, if there is any lady in the area whose initials are L. L.? Dr. Mortimer thought for a few moments. "Not that I remember," he replied. There may be some gypsy or day laborer whose story I remember. escape, but among the farmers, the small nobility or the local bourgeoisie there is no one with those initials. “Wait a moment,” he added after a pause. There's Laura Lyons. Their initials match, although he resides in Coombe Tracey. —Who is she? —I asked. —She is Frankland's daughter. —Frankland? The old man of manias? -Himself. She married an artist named Lyons who came here to make some sketches of the moor. He turned out to be an unscrupulous individual and abandoned her. Although, as I have heard, perhaps the fault was not entirely the painter's. The father, outraged because his daughter had married Without her consent—and perhaps for some other reason—he refused to deal with her. Between the two, the old man and the young man, the girl has been through real hardships. —What do you live on? —I imagine your father passes you one. modest allowance, as Frankland's financial situation is not exactly buoyant. For very No matter how badly she behaved, no one could abandon her. His case became known and several neighbors collaborate to help her earn an honest living. Stapleton was one of them, Sir Charles another. I myself contributed to the extent of my possibilities. It was about that start a small typing business. Mortimer insistently asked me about the reason for my inquiries, but I managed to divert his attention without revealing too much, since I did not There is no reason to trust anyone blindly. Tomorrow morning I will leave for Coombe Tracey, and if I manage to interview Mrs. Laura Lyons—of uncertain reputation—we will have given an important step in solving one of the mysteries that surround us. I would dare to say that I'm getting a bit clever, because when Mortimer persisted with rather indiscreet questions, I turned the subject to Frankland's skull type and we talked about nothing else for the rest of the journey. I must have learned something after years of living with Sherlock Holmes. I only have one last event to record from this stormy day. This is a short conversation with Barrymore who has provided me with a valuable element for the future. Mortimer stayed to dinner, and then played écarté with the baronet. I took advantage that the butler brought me coffee to the library to ask him some questions. "Tell me," I asked, "has that valuable relative left yet?" yours or is it still hidden in the wasteland? —I don't know, sir. I pray to God that has disappeared, because it has only brought us complications. I haven't heard from you since I left him supplies three days ago. —Did you see it? —No, sir; but when I returned the food was gone. —So, is it likely that he is still hiding out there? —It seems so, unless it was the other one who took it. I stood still with the cup halfway to my lips and stared at him. —So you know there's another man? -Yes sir; there is someone else in the wasteland. —Have you seen it? —No, sir. —And how do you know it exists? —It was Selden who told me about him a while ago. a week or so. He is also hiding, although he does not appear to be a fugitive. I speak to you frankly, Dr. Watson: I have no confidence in that man, he added with sudden vehemence. —Listen to me, Barrymore. I'm only interested in protecting your lord. I would appreciate it if you could tell me. exactly what it is that worries you. The butler hesitated, as if regretting having been honest or not knowing how to express what he felt. "It's all these things that are happening," he said at last, pointing at the battered window. the rain—. Something shady is brewing here, I can feel it in my bones. I would give anything to see Sir Henry back in London! —What gives you that impression? —Look at Sir Charles's death. It was already horrible enough, no matter what the coroner said. Listen the sounds of the moor at night. No one wants to cross it after dark, not for all the gold. of the world. Look at that man who lurks, who watches and waits. Waiting? What does it mean all that? Nothing good for a Baskerville, I can assure you. And I will be happy the day there are new ones servants to take care of this house. —Regarding that stranger,—I said,— Don't you know anything else? What did Selden tell him? Did you ever find out where he was hiding or what he was doing? —I saw him once or twice, but he's slippery and doesn't let you see his cards. At first he thought that He was a police officer, but he soon deduced that he was acting on his own. He seemed like someone distinguished, by his appearance, but could not find out anything more. —And where did he say he lived? —In the ancient stone shelters in the hills, where the first men lived. —And how do you get food? —Selden discovered that he has a boy who brings her everything she needs. I guess he picks it up in Coombe Tracey. —Okay, Barrymore. Maybe we'll talk about this further later. After he left, I went to the window. Through the fogged glass I saw the clouds that They ran fast and the trembling silhouettes of the trees were shaken by the wind. The night It's bleak inside the house, but what will it be like in a stone shelter exposed to the elements? from the moor? What kind of hatred can make a man keep watch in such a place on a night like that? this? What could you possibly want so badly that you would submit to such a test? There, in that old shelter, In the middle of the wasteland, the core of the enigma that surrounds us seems to be found. I swear, Holmes, that I will not let another day go by without doing everything in my power to discover the truth. Chapter XI The man on the cliff The passage from my diary used in the previous chapter places the narrative on October 18, when the enigmatic events of the last few weeks were already moving rapidly towards its horrific outcome. The events of the following days have been recorded in a indelible in my memory, and I am able to recount them without having to resort to notes that I took then. I therefore resume the thread of the story just one day after having checked two fundamental facts: the first, that Mrs. Laura Lyons, resident in Coombe Tracey, had written to Sir Charles Baskerville, meeting him at the very time and place where the baronet met his death; The second, that the mysterious man lurking on the moor could be found in the ancient stone shelters in the hills. With such data in my possession, I came to the conclusion that if I still had any sense and courage left, I should be able to in order to shed some light on so many enigmas. I didn't find the opportunity to share with the baronet what he had found out the night before about Mrs. Lyons, since Dr. Mortimer had He stayed up playing cards with him until very late. At breakfast time, however, I told him about my discovery and asked if he would like to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. In At first he showed interest in doing so, but upon further reflection we both agreed that that I would get better results if I ran alone. The more formal our visit was, we would get less information. I therefore left Sir Henry at the mansion, not without some regret, and I undertook the new investigation alone. Upon arriving at Coombe Tracey I asked Perkins to I looked for accommodation for the horses and I made some inquiries to find the lady he wanted to question. He lived in a centrally located house, clearly visible. A servant showed me in with little ceremony and, upon entering the room, the lady, who was She was sitting in front of a Remington typewriter, and stood up with a friendly smile. However, his expression changed when he saw that it was a stranger; he sat down again and asked me the reason for my visit. The first thing that caught my attention about the lady Lyons was his singular beauty. He had eyes and hair of a warm shade of brown, and although her cheeks showed quite a few freckles, they retained that delicate tone that usually find yourself in the heart of a rose. Admiration was, without a doubt, the first impression. But after that initial impression, came the criticism. There was something indefinable about his face that was out of place: a certain vulgarity in expression, perhaps a hardness in the look or a gesture on the lips that broke the harmony of her beauty. These reflections, of course, are later. At that moment I only noticed that I had before me a very attractive woman, who He politely asked what the purpose of my presence was. And until then I had not understood how delicate my mission was. "I have the honor," I said, "of knowing your father." The sentence was rather clumsy and Mrs. Lyons did not fail to notice. "My father and I have no relationship," he replied. I owe him nothing and his acquaintances do not. are of interest to me. Had it not been for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and others With a good heart, I could have easily starved to death without my father making the slightest gesture. —I came to see you precisely in connection with the late Sir Charles. The freckles stood out even more on her face. —And what can I tell you about him? -asked, while his fingers played restlessly with the margins of the typewriter. —You knew him, didn't you? —I've already mentioned that I'm very grateful to you. for his generosity. If I can survive today, I owe it in large part to your interest in my situation. —Did you correspond with him? The lady looked up suddenly, and a flash of anger flickered in his hazel eyes. —What is your purpose in asking me these questions? —he replied harshly. —The purpose is to avoid a public scandal. It is preferable to treat the matter in private, and don't let it get out of hand. He remained silent, while a pallor spread by his face. Then he looked up again, now with a mixture of determination and defiance. "Okay, I'll answer," he said. What do you want to know? —Did you correspond with Sir Charles? —I wrote to him, yes, once or twice, to thank him for his help and attention. —Do you remember when those letters were? -No. —Did you ever meet him personally? —Yes, I saw him once or twice when he came to Coombe Tracey. He was very reserved and preferred to act discreetly. —If you barely saw him and you wrote to each other so little, what led you to help her so generously? Mrs. Lyons responded to my remark with remarkable ease. —There were several gentlemen who knew my situation and offered to help me. One of They, Mr. Stapleton, a neighbor and friend of Sir Charles, behaved very generously, and it was he who told him about me. I knew that Sir Charles had He has previously called on Stapleton to manage his charitable works, so the explanation seemed plausible. —Did you ever write to Sir Charles? asking her out? —I continued. Mrs. Lyons returned to blush, this time with anger. —To tell the truth, sir, It's a rather daring question. —I'm sorry to have to insist, madam, but I need a clear answer. —In that case, I answer: no, never. —Not even on the same day Sir Charles died? The blood drained from her face and a frozen pallor came over her. Her lips parted, but the The word he spoke was barely a whisper. "Your memory may be failing you," I said. so-. I could even quote you a fragment of that letter. It said: “Please, please, Since you are a gentleman, burn this letter and be by the gate at ten o'clock sharp." For a moment I thought he was going to faint, but he managed to control himself with enormous effort. —Are there no knights anymore? —he murmured in a trembling voice. —You are being unfair to Sir Charles, who did burn the letter. But sometimes, even after being burned, a letter leaves legible traces. Do you admit that you were the one who wrote it? “Yes, I wrote it,” he exclaimed, his words spilling out vehemently. I did it, why would I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed. I just wanted you to help me. I was convinced that if I could just talk to him, I could convince him. That's why I asked him out. —And why at that time? —Because I knew he was leaving to London the next day and might not return for a long time. I had reasons for not showing up at the house earlier. —Why did you prefer a date in the garden instead of a visit to the mansion? —Do you think a decent woman can go alone at that time? to the residence of a single gentleman? —And what happened when you arrived at the place? agreed? —I didn't go. —Mrs. Lyons! —No, I swear by everything that is mine. sacred. I didn't get to go. Something stopped me. —What prevented you? —It's personal. I can't tell you. —So you admit that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the time and place where he lost his life, but denies having attended it. -That's how it is. I continued the interrogation to check if he was telling the truth, but I was unable to obtain anything more conclusive. "Mrs. Lyons," I said as I stood up, having concluded that long and unpleasant interview. enlightening—, you incur a great responsibility and place yourself in a situation quite committed to not revealing everything she knows. If I find myself in need of resorting to the police, you will understand how committed they are. If he is innocent, why did he start denying it? that he had written to Sir Charles on that date? —Because I was afraid that conclusions would be drawn wrong and I would get involved in a scandal. —And why did you want so much that Sir Charles destroyed the letter? —If you have read its contents, you will know perfectly well why. —I didn't say I read the letter. —You have quoted a part. —I mentioned the postscript. As I indicated to you, The letter was burned and was no longer preserved in its entirety. I ask you again why you insisted so much on that Sir Charles destroy that letter. —It's a strictly private matter. —All the more reason to avoid a public inquiry. —I'll tell him, then. If you are aware of my unfortunate story, You will know that I entered into an unwise marriage and that I have had many reasons to regret it. —I'm aware. —My life has been a continuous persecution by a husband I detest. The law protects him, and every day I fear that he will force me to return. to live with him. At the time I wrote that letter to Sir Charles I was informed that that there was a legal possibility of regaining my freedom if I could meet certain expenses. That meant everything to me: peace, happiness, self-esteem... absolutely everything. I trusted in Sir Charles's generosity and I thought that if I explained my situation to him personally, he would help me. —So why didn't you keep the appointment? —Because in the meantime I received help from another source. —Why, then, did you not write to Sir Charles to inform him? —I was thinking of doing it, but that same morning I read the news of his death in the newspaper. Her version was coherent and I was unable to make her incur in contradictions, despite my insistent questions. I could only verify it by investigating whether there really was, at that time, initiated the process of obtaining a divorce. It didn't seem likely that he was lying when he said that He was not at the Baskerville mansion, as a hansom cab was needed to get there, and would have had to return to Coombe Tracey at dawn, making it almost impossible to get through. unnoticed. The most reasonable thing, therefore, was to think that he was telling the truth, or at least part of it. I left there confused and somewhat discouraged. Again I stumbled upon the same barrier insurmountable that arose every time I approached the bottom of the mystery. However, the more The more I meditated on that woman's face and her attitude, the more convinced I was that there was no been completely sincere. Why had he turned so pale? Why did he resist admitting the truth? until she was forced to do so? Why act so secretly at the very moment of the tragedy? His explanation was certainly not as innocent as he tried to make me believe. Not at the moment. I could go further along that path and decided to return to the trail of the stranger on the moor. But that was a very vague clue, as I discovered on the way back. observing that practically all the hills showed vestiges of ancient settlers. The only clue provided by Barrymore was that the stranger lived in one of the old stone shelters, but there were dozens of them scattered across the moor. It counted in my favor with an essential piece of information: I myself had seen the mysterious character at the top of the Black Cliff. That point was to be the beginning of my search. There he would begin to examine the shelters one by one. until you find the right one. If he was inside, he would finally discover—at gunpoint if it was necessary—his identity and why he was following us. Maybe it slipped through the net in the Regent crowd. Street, but here, in the vast solitude of the moor, he would not succeed. And if I wasn't there, I would stay there, patiently, until he returned. Holmes failed to catch him in London. It would be a real I achieved what he couldn't. Fortune, which had so often seemed turn against us, he finally smiled at me. And the instrument of that providential turn was the Mr. Frankland, whom I found standing with his gray whiskers and his flushed face, next to the fence of his garden that faced the road where I was passing. "Good morning, Dr. Watson," he exclaimed with unusual enthusiasm. Let your horses rest a bit little and come home with me for a glass of wine. Also, I want you to congratulate me. My opinion of Frankland was not exactly favorable, especially after what had happened. known about his conduct with Mrs. Lyons, but needed an excuse to send back to Perkins with the tartan, and it was perfect. I got out, sent Perkins with a message to Sir Henry informed him that he would be returning on foot for dinner, and I followed the old man to his dining room. —Today is a great day for me, one of those that are engraved in golden letters —he exclaimed, letting out several giggles between sentences. I have achieved a double victory. I wanted to show that Here lives a man who does not fear the law. I have just claimed a right of way that crosses in straight ahead through the gardens of old Middleton, less than a hundred steps from the main entrance. What do you think? We will teach those great lords that they cannot trample on the rights of others without consequences. And may God confound them! And I have also closed the forest where the Fernworthy people used to have a picnic. Those damn villagers think that everything is theirs and they fill it with filth. Both lawsuits won, Dr. Watson, and ruled in my favor. I can't remember another day like this since I got Sir fined John Morland for hunting on his own estate. —And how did you accomplish such a feat? —Consult the case law, sir. Frankland v. Morland case. We arrived to the Supreme Court. It cost me two hundred pounds, but I won the case. —Did it bring you any profit? —None, sir. I am pleased say that I did it only out of principle. I always act out of duty. I have no doubt that Tonight the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy again. Last time I warned the police about that such shows should be banned. The ineptitude of the county police is intolerable. My lawsuit against the Queen will bring the attention these abuses deserve. I warned you and you see that I was not wrong. —Why do you say that? —I asked. The old man winked at me knowingly. —Because I could give them the information that They're looking, but I won't do anything to help that gang of useless people. I had been looking for some excuse to escape from his endless chatter, but at that moment I wanted to know more. Although I had already found out that the best way to get him to do it something was showing little interest. —Some poaching issue, “Maybe,” I said, sounding nonchalant. -Ha ha! Something much more serious, my dear friend! What do you say about the fugitive? I froze. —Are you implying that you know where he is hiding? —Maybe I don't know the exact place, but I'm sure I could lead the police to him. Have you never been It turned out that the key to catching that guy is to find out how he feeds and follow that trail? Frankland was getting dangerously close to the truth. —Sure, sure, —I said. But how do you know he's still in the wasteland? —Because I've seen it with my own eyes. Or at least, I've seen the one who brings him food. My heart skipped a beat at the thought of Barrymore. We were in a very delicate situation, but his next sentence calmed me down. —What will surprise you is to know that it is a boy who brings you the food. I keep an eye on him daily from my telescope. He always goes the same way at the same time, and where to? could go, but to the fugitive's hiding place? Once again fortune smiled upon me! And without However, I pretended indifference. A boy! Barrymore had told the truth. Frankland had stumbled upon nothing wanting with the trail of the unknown, not with that of Selden. If I could find out what he knew, maybe it would save me a long search. But he had to continue acting disdainfully. —I think it's more likely that he's the son of a shepherd, taking food to his father. That little provocation was enough to make Frankland go into a rage. basilisk. He glared at me, his sideburns bristling like porcupine quills. —Do you really believe that? —he said, pointing at the wasteland. Do you see the Black Cliff there? And the small hill with the hawthorn just behind it? It is the roughest area of ​​the moor. Do you think so? likely that someone will establish their home there? Your suggestion, sir, is completely unfounded. I humbly replied that I had spoken without having all the elements. My submission seemed to please him and that led to new confidences. —You can be sure that I always keep my footing. firm before drawing a conclusion. I've seen the boy with his bundle over and over again. All days, and sometimes even twice, I have been able to… one moment, Dr. Watson. Are my eyes deceiving me, or is there something moving on the side of that hill right now? The distance was considerable, but I clearly saw a dark dot against the greyish green background of the moor. —Come, my lord, come with me! —he exclaimed Frankland, hurrying up the stairs. You'll see for yourself. and you will be able to judge with your own eyes. The telescope, a formidable device mounted on a tripod, was installed on the roof of the house. Frankland stepped up to the viewfinder and let out a cheer. —Hurry, Dr. Watson, hurry before he disappears on the other side! There he was, without a doubt: a little boy with a bundle on his shoulder, climbing calmly up the slope. When I reached the top I saw it silhouetted for a moment against the pale blue sky, his figure was disheveled and rustic. The boy looked around with a cautious and stealthy air, like someone who fears being stalked. Then he descended the opposite slope. —Well, my lord, was I right? —This is clearly a boy who seems to have a secret mission. —And what that task is is something that even a rural agent could deduce. But I won't be the one Don't tell anyone, and I also require confidentiality from you, Dr. Watson. Not a word! Understood? —As you wish. —I have been treated shamefully, that is the pure truth. When the details of My lawsuit against the Queen, I trust, will shock the whole country. Nothing will induce me to cooperate with the police. For them, it would be the same as those scoundrels of the town They will be burned alive and not just in effigy. He won't leave now, I hope! You have to help me empty the bottle to celebrate this great achievement! But I ignored his pleas and got him to give up. also to walk me home. I continued along the road until I lost it. of sight and then I went cross-country across the moor towards the rocky hill where we had lost sight of the boy. Everything seemed to be in my favor and I swore not to waste it, due to lack of effort or perseverance, the opportunity that fate gave me. It was already getting dark when I reached the summit; The long slopes behind me were greenish-gold for a moment. flank and greyish on the other. On the horizon, the silhouettes of Belliver and the Risco Vixen emerged from a thin veil of mist. Nothing was heard or moved in the entire width. from the moor. A large bird, perhaps a seagull or a curlew, was soaring high in the sky. He The bird and I were, it seemed, the only living beings between the immense arch of the firmament and the silent wasteland. The desolate landscape, the deep loneliness and the urgent mystery of my company joined together to oppress my chest. There was no trace of the boy. But in a depression between the hills, The old stone shelters formed a circle, and in the center one still had a roof. enough to provide shelter from the elements. I felt a shock when I saw him. That must have been the stranger's hiding place. At last I was about to penetrate his lair: had the mystery within reach. I approached the shelter cautiously, just as Stapleton would do it if, with the net raised, he approached a motionless butterfly. It didn't fit doubt that that place had been inhabited. A narrow path between the stones led to the collapsed opening that served as an entrance. Inside there was silence. The mysterious occupant could be there or be lurking around in the vicinity. The anticipation gave me a pleasant tension. I put out my cigarette, placed my hand on the butt of the revolver, and with a quick movement, I peeked inside. It was empty. However, everything indicated that I was not I had taken the wrong path. It was, without a doubt, the home of the unknown. On the same slab where A Neolithic man would have once lain down, resting on blankets rolled up in oilcloth. In the rough fireplace, the ashes of a fire were piled up. Beside him were several utensils. kitchen and a bucket half full of water. A pile of empty cans revealed that the The place had been inhabited for some time, and when my eyes adjusted to the poor light, I saw in a corner a metal glass and a half-empty bottle of some liquor. In In the center, a flat stone served as a table, and on it rested a bundle: the same one he had spotted with the telescope on the boy's shoulder. Inside I found a bar of bread, a can of cured tongue and two preserved peaches in syrup. When leaving the bundle again in its place after examining it, my heart skipped a beat when I saw that underneath there was a sheet of writing. I lifted the paper and this is what I read, crudely scribbled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey." For a moment I stood there with the leaf in hand, wondering what the meaning of that could be concise message. The stranger was following me and not Sir Henry. I didn't do it in person, But I had arranged for an agent—the boy, perhaps—who followed my steps, and that was his report. I had probably not taken a single step since my arrival on the moor without being observed and without that what had happened would be reported later. Always that feeling of an invisible presence, of a subtle network woven around us with extreme skill and precision, a mesh which squeezed so lightly that only at the decisive moment did the victim realize that he was trapped. The existence of that report suggested there might be others, so I searched everywhere for them. the shelter. However, I did not find any other clues, nor did I discover any indication that reveal the identity or purpose of the man who inhabited that peculiar place, except that He was someone with austere habits and very little affection for comfort. Recalling the recent rains and looking at the cracked roof, I understood the strength and determination needed to to stay in such a severe shelter. Was he our perfidious enemy or had he stumbled, maybe, with our hidden protector? I swore to myself that I wouldn't leave the shelter without finding out. Outside the sun was setting and the west was ablaze with shades of scarlet and gold. The distant lagoons Situated in the middle of the great Grimpen swamp, they reflected the light like patches of gold. The towers of the Baskerville mansion could also be seen, and Further away, a thin column of smoke indicated the location of the village of Grimpen. Between both, Behind a hill stood the Stapleton house. Bathed in the golden light of sunset, Everything seemed peaceful, sweet and serene, and yet, as I gazed at that landscape, my spirit did not share in the tranquility of the scene, but rather shuddered at the uncertainty and fear of the approaching encounter. With tense nerves but determined, I settled into a corner of the shelter and waited with silent firmness for the arrival of its inhabitant. I finally heard it. In the distance I heard the dry echo of a boot against the stone. Then another, and another, approaching. I retreated into my hiding place and squeezed the revolver in my pocket, determined not to betray anyone. my presence until I have seen, at least, the face of the stranger. There was a long pause, which indicated that it had stopped. Then, once again, the footsteps came closer and a shadow was projected onto the entrance to the shelter. "A splendid evening, my dear Watson," said he. a voice I instantly recognized. Believe me, you will be much more comfortable outside than inside. Chapter XII Death on the Moor For a few seconds I held my breath, barely able to believe what I was hearing. Then I regained my lucidity and my voice, at the same time as, as if by magic, The weight of enormous responsibility seemed to lift from my shoulders. That cold voice, sharp, sarcastic, it could only come from one person in the whole world. —Holmes! —I exclaimed. Holmes! "Come out," he said, "and please, be careful with the gun. I ducked under the rough lintel and there he was, sitting on a stone in front of the shelter, his grey eyes filled with joy as they took in the astonishment that my features reflected. My friend was very thin and exhausted, but serene and in guard, his angular face tanned by the sun and the wind. With his tweed suit and cap made of cloth looked like one of the hikers who cross the moor and, thanks to that instinct almost feline due to the personal neatness that characterized him, he had managed to make his cheeks were as clean-shaven and his shirt as spotless as if he still resided on Baker Street. "I've never been so happy to see someone in my entire life," I said as I I shook hands with all my strength. —Nor more surprised, are you? —That's right, I must admit. —You weren't the only one confused, I guarantee it. Until I was barely twenty steps from the door I had no suspicion that that he had discovered my temporary hiding place, and even less that he was inside. —My footsteps, perhaps? —No, Watson; I'm afraid I'm not in a position to do so to identify their footprints among so many others. If you really want to amaze me, you'll have to change. of a tobacconist, because when I see a cigarette butt that has the name Bradley, Oxford Street, I know my friend Watson is lurking nearby. You can see it there, by the road. Definitely Some of them threw away their cigarettes at the decisive moment when they burst into the deserted shelter. —That's how it was. —I imagined that, and knowing your admirable perseverance, I was convinced that you were lurking, with a gun in hand, awaiting the return of the shelter's tenant. So you thought I was the culprit? —I didn't know who was hiding here, but I was determined to find out. —Excellent, Watson! And how did you manage to find me? Did you see me the night Sir Henry and you They hunted down the fugitive, when I made the mistake of letting the moon rise behind me? -Yeah; at that moment I saw him. —And you have certainly inspected you all the shelters until you reach this one. -No; someone observed the young man's movements who supplies him with food, and that served as a clue for me to follow him. —Probably the old gentleman with the spyglass. I didn't understand what it was about the first time I saw it. the sun's glare on the lens—he stood up and looked inside the shelter. Wow, I see that Cartwright left me some supplies. What does the note say? So you've been to Coombe Tracey, isn't that right? -Yeah. —To meet with Mrs. Laura Lyons? -That's how it is. -Well done! Our inquiries have followed parallel paths, And when we put the results together, I'm confident we'll have a pretty clear picture of the case. —Well, I'm really glad I found it, because, to be honest, responsibility and enigma were starting to get too much for me. But, for whatever you want, How did you come here and what have you been doing? I thought I was still in Baker Street, busy with that blackmail case. —That was precisely what I wanted you to think. —So you employ me but don't trust me! —I exclaimed with a hint of bitterness. I thought I had earned better treatment from you, Holmes. —My dear friend, on this occasion, as in so many others, your collaboration has been of enormous value to me, and I apologize if I have given the impression of having deceived him. Actually, I did it partly for you, as it became clear to me that the danger that was running was serious. Had I joined you and Sir Henry, my perspective would have been identical to his, and my presence would have alerted our fearsome enemies. Instead, this way I I have been able to move freely, something that would not have been possible living in the house, so I continue being a hidden card in this game, ready to act effectively at the right time. —But why keep me in ignorance? —If you were aware of it, it wouldn't have been helpful to us. of help and could have revealed my presence. You would have liked to tell me something or, carried away by his kindness, he would have tried to bring me some comfort, and that would have involved unnecessary dangers. I brought Cartwright with me (you probably remember to the young man at the errand boy's office, who has been taking care of my modest needs: a loaf of bread and a clean neck. What else is needed? It has also provided me with an extra pair of eyes on some very fast legs, which has been invaluable to me. —Then my reports were of no use to you! —My voice trembled as I recalled the hardships and the care with which I had written them. Holmes took some documents out of his pocket. —Here are your reports, my dear Watson, which I have analyzed very carefully, I guarantee you. I organized things very well and They arrived to me with just a day's delay. I must congratulate you on your diligence and intelligence. which has been demonstrated in a truly complex case. I was still hurt by the maneuver of the that I had been subjected to, but the warmth of Holmes's praise softened me and I realized that He was right, and that, in the end, it was better for our purposes that he hadn't revealed his presence in the moor. "That's better," said Holmes, seeing the shadow on my face fade away. And now, tell me the result of your visit to the Mrs. Laura Lyons; It didn't take me long to figure out that you went to see her, because I knew he was the only person in Coombe Tracey who could give us anything in this matter. In fact, if you hadn't gone today, it's very likely that I would have gone tomorrow. The sun had already set and darkness spread across the moor. The air was frigid and we entered the shelter to take cover. There, sitting in the dark, I told Holmes my conversation with the lady. He was so interested in my story that I had to repeat some of it to him. fragments before he was satisfied. —All of this is of great importance in this "It's such a complex issue," he said when I finished, "because it fills a void that I hadn't been able to fill." You may be aware of the close relationship that lady has with Stapleton. I was completely unaware of it. —There is no doubt about it. They look, They write to each other, there is an absolute understanding between them. And this puts in our hands a very powerful tool. If we could use it to distance his wife… —Your wife? —Let me give you some information. in exchange for all that you have given me. The lady who introduces herself as Miss Stapleton She is actually the naturalist's wife. —Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure about that? How did that man allow Sir Henry to fall in love with her? —Sir Henry's affection can only harm the baronet himself. Stapleton has been very careful to prevent Sir Henry from becoming romantically close to his wife, as you may have noticed. I reiterate that the woman we are talking about is your spouse, not your sister. —But what reason is there for such a complex farce? —To foresee that it would be much more convenient for him present her as single. All my latent doubts and my vague ones Suspicions suddenly took shape, concentrating on the naturalist, on that impassive individual, colorless, with his straw hat and butterfly net. I thought I glimpsed something sinister: a being of infinite patience and skill, with a kind face and an implacable heart. —Is he, then, our adversary? Is he the one who followed us in London? —That's how I interpret the enigma. —And the warning… it had to come from her! -Exactly. In the middle of the The darkness that had enveloped me for so long began to take shape. monstrous infamy, half visible, half intuited. —But are you absolutely sure, Holmes? How do you know that woman is your wife? —Because the day you met him he committed the mistake of revealing to him an authentic fragment of his life, a slip which, I dare say, he has regretted more than once since then. It is true that he was once a teacher in the north of England. Well Well, there's nothing as easy to track down as a teacher. There are educational agencies that allow identify anyone who has taught. A brief investigation allowed me discover how a school had gone bankrupt under scandalous circumstances, and how its owner (whose surname was then different) had disappeared along with his wife. The description matched. When I learned that the fugitive was dedicated to entomology, I had no doubt. The darkness was beginning to dissipate, but many areas still remained shrouded in shadow. —If that woman is really your wife, what role does Mrs. Lyons play in all this? —I asked. —That is one of the points on which your investigations have shed light. His interview with her has cleared the outlook considerably. I didn't know anything about the divorce project. In that case, Believing Stapleton to be a bachelor, Mrs. Lyons was doubtless considering becoming his wife. —And when you discover the truth? —When the time comes, it may be for us useful. Perhaps our first action tomorrow will be to visit it together. Don't you think, Watson, who has been away from the person entrusted to him for quite some time? At the moment should be at the Baskerville residence. In the west the last ones had vanished reddish flashes and night had taken over the moor. A few stars shone faintly in the violet-hued sky. “One last question, Holmes,” I said, rising. There shouldn't be secrets between you and me. What's the point of all this? What is Stapleton's goal? My friend lowered his voice to answer: "It is a matter of homicide, Watson; of homicide calculated, premeditated, executed in cold blood. Don't ask me for details. My networks are closing around him just like Stapleton's already almost envelop Sir Henry, but with the help that You have lent it to me, Watson, I have it almost in my hands. There is only one risk threatening us: that he acts sooner that we are ready. One more day, maybe two, and the case will be solved, but until then You must protect the man in your care with the same dedication with which a mother watches over her son. sick. Your expedition today has been fully justified, and yet I almost wish it weren't. would have left Sir Henry unaccompanied. Listen! A terrifying scream, a prolonged cry of horror and anguish sprang from the silence of the moor. That terrible sound froze my blood. —Good heavens! —I said in a muffled voice. What was that? What does it mean? Holmes had jumped up and his athletic silhouette was outlined in the shelter door, shoulders bent, head forward, peering into the gloom. -Silence! -whisper-. Silence! The cry had reached us with sharpness due to its intensity, but it came from a distant point on the shadowed plain. Again it burst in our ears, closer, more powerful, more urgent than before. —Where does it come from? —whispered Holmes; and I knew, from the trembling in his voice, that he too, The iron man had shuddered deeply. Where do you come from, Watson? "Over there, I think," I said, pointing into the darkness. —No, from that other direction! Once again the anguished cry pierced the night silence, louder and closer than ever. And another sound accompanied it, a dull and persistent roar, musical and at the same time threatening, that rose and fell like the constant and deep murmur of the ocean. —The bloodhound! —exclaimed Holmes. Come on, Watson, hurry up! God forbid we be late! My friend was already running across the moor at high speed and I followed him instantly. But then it came up, from somewhere among the depressions of the terrain that stretched out just in front of us, a final cry of despair and then a dull thud, like something heavy falling. We stopped and listened. No new sound broke the dense silence of the motionless night. I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead, like a man who has lost control of himself, and stamped his foot on the ground. —He's beaten us, Watson. We have arrived too late. —No, no, that can't be! —My clumsiness for not having acted sooner. And you, Watson, see the consequences of leaving Sir Henry alone! But heaven is my witness: If the worst has happened, we will avenge it! We ran blindly in the darkness, stumbling over stones, making our way through brambles and gorse, climbing hills with effort and descending slopes precipitously, always in the direction of the place from which we had been those terrifying screams arrived. At each height Holmes scanned the surroundings, But the shadows thickened over the moor and not the slightest movement was to be seen. monotonous surface. —Do you see anything? -Nothing. -Listen! What's that? A faint moan had reached our ears. And then again, to our left! For that On one side a row of rocks ended in a steep precipice. Below, on the stones, we distinguish a dark figure, with irregular outlines. As we ran closer, the blurred silhouette took on a defined form. It was a man lying face down, with his head bent under his body at an angle. frightful, shoulders sunken and body hunched as if about to do a somersault. The position was so absurd that it took me a few seconds to realize that he had died after exhaling that breath. last regret. Because not even a murmur emanated from him, not the slightest movement, from the figure in shadows over which we leaned. Holmes touched it and immediately drew his hand away with a exclamation of horror. The glow of a match revealed that he had stained his fingers with blood, as well as the terrifying pool that slowly grew from the victim's shattered skull. And something more than filled us with dejection and despair: it was the body of Sir Henry Baskerville! It was impossible for either of them to forget that peculiar reddish tweed suit: the same one that was wearing the morning he appeared on Baker Street. We saw it clearly for a moment and then The match flickered and went out, just as hope faded from our souls. Holmes let out a groan, and his face took on a pale glow despite the gloom. —Bloody beast! —I exclaimed, clenching my fists. Ah, Holmes, I never I will forgive you for leaving him alone to face his fate! —I am more to blame than you, Watson. With In order to close the case flawlessly, I allowed our client to lose his life. It is the hardest blow I have received in my career. But how was I to know, How could I have foreseen that he would risk wandering alone on the moor, despite all my warnings? —To think that we heard his screams, and what screams, my God, without being able to save him! Where is that monstrous beast that brought him to his death? Maybe it's hidden behind those rocks right now. And Stapleton, where is Stapleton? He will have to be held accountable for this crime. —He will. I'll take care of it myself. Uncle and nephew have been eliminated: the first one died of terror when facing the creature that believed supernatural and the second precipitated to death in his desperate attempt to escape. But Now we must establish the connection between man and animal. If it weren't for him testimony of our own ears, we could not even confirm the existence of the bloodhound, since Sir Henry has died from the fall. But I call heaven to witness that, Despite all his cunning, that fellow will be under my power before a day is up! We stood motionless, our hearts filled with bitterness, on either side of the mangled corpse, overwhelmed by that sudden and irreversible disaster that put an end to such a tragic to our long and arduous efforts. Then, as the moon rose, We climbed the rocks from whose summit our unfortunate friend had fallen and contemplated the shadowy wasteland, half silver and half shadow. Far away, far away in the direction of Grimpen, a constant yellow light was flashing. It could only have come from the lonely Stapleton house. As I watched her, I raised my fist and let out a bitter curse. —Why don't we proceed with his arrest immediately? —Our case is not yet complete. That individual He is exceptionally cautious and shrewd. He doesn't care what we know, but what we can demonstrate. One false step and that wretch could still get away. —What can we do then? —We'll have plenty of homework tomorrow. This night, we can only pay one last tribute to our unfortunate friend. Together we descended the steep slope again and approached the corpse, which was It stood out like a dark stain on the silver stones. The anguish reflected in those disjointed limbs sent a spasm of pain through me, and tears blurred my vision. —We must call for help, Holmes! It is impossible to transport it from here to the mansion. Good heavens! Have you lost your mind? My friend had just let out an exclamation when he bent over the body. And now he danced, laughed and hugged me the hand with enthusiasm. Was that the serious and reserved Sherlock Holmes who I knew? How much energy contained! —A beard! He has a beard! The corpse he has a beard! -Beard? —It’s not the baronet… it’s… my neighbor, the fugitive! With feverish anxiety we turn our bodies, and his wet beard pointed to the moon, cold and bright. There was no doubt about it when observing the prominent supraorbital arches and the deep-set, wild-looking eyes. It was the the same face that had glared at me by candlelight above the rock: the face of Selden, the criminal. Then, in an instant, I understood all. I remembered that the baronet had given Barrymore his old clothes. He butler had given them to Selden to facilitate his escape. Boots, shirt, cap: it all belonged to Sir Henry. The tragedy was still horrific, But, at least according to the laws of his nation, that man had deserved your destiny. With my soul overflowing with relief and gratitude, I explained to Holmes what had happened. "So that wretch died wearing the baronet's clothes," said my friend. To the bloodhound has been trained with some of Sir Henry's clothing (probably the boot that disappeared in the hotel) and that's why he chased this man. However, There is something very curious: with the reigning darkness, how did Selden know that the bloodhound was following him? —He heard it. —Hearing a hound on the moor It wouldn't be enough to terrify a man like him to the point of risking recapture, screaming desperately for help. If we judge by their screams, He continued running long after he knew he was being chased. How did you know? —It is even more mysterious to me why that bloodhound, assuming that all our hypotheses are correct... —I don't base myself on assumptions. —Okay, but why would that animal be on the loose tonight? I guess he doesn't roam freely on the moor every day. Stapleton no would have released him without having good reason to believe that he would meet Sir Henry. —My problem is more complex than yours, because it seems to me that we will find an answer very soon. for your doubt, while mine could continue to be an enigma. Now the question is, what What will we do with this unfortunate body? We can't leave him here at the mercy of crows or foxes. —I suggest we take him to one of the shelters until we can notify the police. -OK. I'm sure between the two of us we can carry it. Gee, Watson! What is that I see? Our man himself. Extraordinary! There is no greater temerity! Not a word to hint at what we know; not a word, or everything will be ruined. A figure was moving across the moor, accompanied by the faint reddish glow of a cigar. The moon was shining high in the sky and I was able to make out the well-kept and well-groomed appearance of the the naturalist's light step. Stapleton stopped when he saw us, but only for a moment. —Well, Dr. Watson; I find it hard to believe it's you, the last person I would have imagined find on the moor at this time. But, for God's sake, what is this? Anyone hurt? No! Don't me Say it's our friend Sir Henry! He hurried past me to bend over the corpse. I heard him take a sharp breath and the cigarette slipped through his fingers. —Who…, who is this guy? -babbling. —It's Selden, the escaped convict from Princetown. When he turned his face towards us, Stapleton's expression was chilling, but with a supreme effort he managed to master it. his surprise and dismay. Then he gave us both a scrutinizing look. —Good heavens! What a terrible event! How did he die? —He seems to have broken his neck when he fell from those rocks. My friend and I were walking across the moor when we heard a scream. —I heard a scream too. That's what made me leave. He was worried about Sir Henry. —And why Sir Henry in particular? —I couldn't avoid the question. —Because I had invited him to dinner at my house. I was surprised by his absence and naturally alarmed. hear screams in the moor. By the way,' his eyes scanned Holmes's and my faces again, Have you heard anything else besides the scream? "No," replied Holmes, "and you?" -Neither. —So, what's the question? —Well, you know the local legends about a ghostly hound. It is said that he is heard by the nights on the moor. I wondered if there would be any evidence of such a sound this time. "We haven't heard anything," I said. —And what is your opinion? about the death of this unfortunate man? —I have no doubt that Anxiety and inclement weather have made him lose his mind. He ran out across the moor, out of his mind, and ended up throwing himself from there and breaking his neck. "That seems like the most reasonable explanation," Stapleton said, adding a a sigh that seemed to me to be one of relief. What is your opinion, Mr. Holmes? My friend gave a slight bow of his head in a sign of courtesy. "You identify people quickly," he commented. —We've been waiting for you since Dr. Watson arrived. You have come just in time in time to witness a tragedy. —Indeed, that's right. I have no doubt that my friend's interpretation fits perfectly with the facts. Tomorrow I will return to London with an unpleasant memory. —Are you leaving tomorrow? —That's my intention. —I hope your visit has shed some light on these events that have so puzzled us. Holmes shrugged slightly. —The desired success is not always achieved. A researcher needs facts, not stories or assumptions. It has not been a satisfactory case. My friend spoke in his most calm and carefree tone. Stapleton continued to watch him with a persistent look. Then he turned to me. —I would suggest moving this poor man to my house, but my sister would be scared of such a thing. in a way that does not seem reasonable to me. I think if we cover his face he'll be safe until morning. So we did. After declining Stapleton's invitation to accept his hospitality, Holmes and I headed towards the Baskerville mansion, leaving the naturalist to return. only to your residence. Looking back, we saw it slowly moving away across the vast moor. and, behind him, the black spot on the silver slope that indicated the place where lay the man who had such a tragic fate. —It was about time we met face to face. face to face! —said Holmes as we walked across the moor. What extraordinary self-control! same! Admirable is his fortitude after the terrible blow that has meant discovering who was in reality the victim of his intrigue. I warned you in London, Watson, And I repeat it now: we have never had an adversary more worthy of our steel. —I'm sorry you saw that, Holmes. —At first I regretted it too. But it was inevitable. —What consequences Do you think you will have enough for your plans? —It could make him more cautious or even push him forward. to desperate measures. Like many clever criminals, he may be overconfident in his cunning and believes that he has completely deceived us. —And why don't we proceed to arrest him immediately? —My dear Watson, there is no doubt that you was born for action. His instinct always drives him to act decisively. But let us suppose, As a simple hypothesis, if we order his arrest this very night, what would we gain from it? No We have concrete evidence against him. Therein lies his devilish intelligence! If I acted through a human intermediary, we might be able to find clues, but even if we managed to get that huge dog in broad daylight, we would still not be able to put a rope around its owner's neck. —I am convinced that we have sufficient evidence. —Not at all: we only have conjectures and deductions. We would be the target of ridicule in any court if we were to show up with such a story and such weak evidence. —There is the death of Sir Charles. —Not the slightest sign was found on his body. of violence. You and I know that he died of terror and also what scared him, But how can we get twelve impartial jurors to believe it? What traces are there? of the bloodhound? Where are the marks of his fangs? We know, of course, that a dog does not attack a corpse, and that Sir Charles was already dead when the animal approached him. But all of this needs to be proven, and we are not in a position to do so. —And what do you say about what happened tonight? —We are not in a better situation either. One more time, There is no direct link between the bloodhound and Selden's death. We didn't get to see the animal. We heard it, yes; but we cannot prove that he was following the fugitive's trail. And let us not forget the absolute lack of a mobile phone. No, my dear Watson; We have to admit that for now we lack of conclusive evidence, and that it is worth taking certain risks in order to obtain it. —And how do you plan to get them? —I have great confidence in what you can reveal to us. Mrs. Laura Lyons once she knows the truth. And I also have my own plan. We should not worry about tomorrow, for each day has enough trouble of its own. But I remain hopeful that in less than twenty-four hours we will have solved the case. I couldn't get anything else out of him, and until we reached the gates of the Baskerville mansion He remained immersed in his thoughts. —Are you going in? -Yeah; I see no reason to continue hiding. But first, one last warning, Watson. Not a word about the bloodhound to Sir Henry. For him, Selden has died just like Stapleton I wish we would believe it. You will face with more serenity the hard test that awaits you tomorrow, since, if I remember your report correctly, you have agreed to dine with those people. —I should go with him. —You'll have to excuse yourself, because Sir Henry must come alone. We will solve that without difficulty. And now I believe that we'll both need something to eat in case we get too late for dinner. Chapter XIII Preparing the Nets Rather than being surprised, Sir Henry was genuinely pleased to see Sherlock Holmes, For I had been hoping for several days that recent events had brought it from London. He raised his eyebrows, however, when he noticed that my friend arrived without luggage and He showed no interest in justifying his absence. Between the baronet and me soon We provided Holmes with what he needed and then, during our late refreshment, We told the baronet everything we thought was important for him to know. But before that, I had the thankless task of communicating to Barrymore and his wife the news of the Selden's death. For the butler it might have been a real relief, But his wife sobbed intensely, covering her face with her apron. For the rest of the world, Selden was a symbol of brutality, half beast, half demon; but for his sister The older boy continued to be the capricious child of his childhood, the little boy who clung to his hand. A very wicked man must be who does not have at least one woman to mourn his death. "I've done nothing but feel depressed since Watson left this morning," he commented. the baronet—. I guess I should get credit for it, since I kept my promise. If there is no sworn I wouldn't go out alone, I could have had a more entertaining evening, as Stapleton sent a message for me to visit him. —I have no doubt that he would have had "a livelier evening," said Holmes coldly. By the way, I don't know if you are aware that during For a few hours we mourned his death, convinced that he had suffered a cervical fracture. Sir Henry's eyes widened. —What do you say? —That poor fellow was wearing his discarded clothes. I fear that the servant who delivered it to her might have some problems with the police. -I don't believe it. Those clothes don't They had marks, if I remember correctly. —A fortune for him..., and actually a Good luck to all of you too, since you have all broken the law. I wonder if, As a rigorous detective, he should not arrest every resident of the house. The reports of Watson are highly compromising documents. —But tell me, how is the case progressing? —he asked baronet-. Have you found any threads to pull on to untangle this? mess? It seems to me that neither Watson nor I know much more now than when we arrived from London. —I think I'll be able to shed some light on the situation soon. It has been a case exceptionally arduous and convoluted. There are still some dark spots that need more light, but we will resolve the case in due time. —As Watson has no doubt already told you, we have lived a very unique experience. We heard the hound on the moor, so I'm willing to swear that not everything is reduced to empty superstitions. I had dealings with dogs when I lived in the American West and I know how to recognize its howls. If you manage to muzzle him and chain him, I will be willing to say that you are the greatest detective of all time. —I am convinced that I can put a muzzle and chain on him, if you will help me. —I will do whatever you say. —Very well, but I will also ask you to obey me. without reservations, without demanding explanations. —I will do so. —If he does, I'm sure there's a good chance we'll resolve this soon. little enigma. I have not the slightest doubt… Holmes stopped abruptly and fixed his gaze. view in the air, just above my head. The light of the lamp illuminated him the face and was so absorbed and still that it might well have been an ancient statue, a figure of surveillance and concentration. —What's going on? —Sir Henry and I exclaimed. I understood instantly, when he looked down, that he was holding an emotion. deep. His face remained serene, but his eyes shone, jubilant and sparkling. "Forgive the admiration of a connoisseur," he said, indicating with a slight gesture the series of portraits. that adorned the opposite wall. Watson denies having artistic taste, but that's pure envy, because our opinions on this matter do not coincide. Actually, You have an admirable collection of portraits. "Well, I'm glad to hear it," replied Sir Henry, looking at my friend with some surprise. I don't pretend to know much about these things; I understand more of horses or bulls than of paintings. And I didn't know you were interested in them. —I know what's good when I see it, and now I'm looking at it. I would dare to say that the lady dressed in blue silk is the work of Kneller and that the A robust gentleman with a wig is a Reynolds. I imagine they are all family portraits. —Indeed, they all are. —Do you know who they are? —Barrymore has been giving me some private lessons and I think I could pass a basic exam already. —Who is the gentleman with the telescope? —Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West Indies. The one in the blue coat with the documents is Sir William Baskerville, chairman of the committees of the House of Commons in Pitt's time. —And the one right in front of me, with velvet black and lace, supporter of Charles I? —Ah; You have every right to know, because it is the origin of all our evils. It is the infamous Hugo, who set in motion the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles. I don't think we'll forget it easily. I looked at the portrait with attention and some wonder. -Gee! "He seems a quiet and well-mannered man," said Holmes, "but I dare say to claim that there was a demon lurking in his gaze. I had imagined him as someone more corpulent and with a more quarrelsome air. —There is not the slightest doubt about its authenticity, since on the back of the canvas appear the name and the date, 1647. Holmes said little more, but the portrait of the old-time libertine seemed to captivate him, and didn't take her eyes off him for the rest of dinner. It was only later, When Sir Henry retired to his chambers, I was able to follow his train of thought. Holmes led me back into the dining room and raised the candle he held in his hand to illuminate that portrait faded by the years. —Do you notice anything unusual? I noticed the wide hat with the feather, the long curls that fell over the temples, the white lace collar and the serious and austere features that were framed by that set. It was not a cruel face, but a refined one, firm and severe, with a determined mouth of lips. thin and cold, implacable eyes. —Does it remind you of someone you know? —I see something of Sir Henry in the shape of your jaw. —Just a glimpse, perhaps. But wait a second! Holmes climbed onto a chair and, raising his head, light with his left hand, bent his right arm to cover his hat and curls with it. —Good heavens! —I exclaimed, unable to contain my astonishment. Stapleton's face had emerged on the canvas. —Aha! Now you see it clearly. I'm used to looking at faces, not at its ornaments. The first virtue of a criminal investigator is knowing how to look beyond the disguise. —It's amazing. I could pass by his portrait. -Yeah; It is a fascinating example of both regression physical as well as spiritual. It is enough to examine the portraits of a lineage to convince to any of the truth of certain hereditary theories. That man is a Baskerville, there is no doubt about it. —And with very good purposes specific regarding succession. -Exactly. Thanks to this portrait found by chance, we have the link that we were still missing. It's ours now, Watson, and I dare say bet that before tomorrow night he will be caught in our net as helpless as a of her butterflies. A pin, a cork and a tag and it's in the Baker Street collection! Holmes gave one of his rare laughs as he walked away from the painting. I haven't heard him laugh many times, but it's always been a bad omen for someone. The next morning I got up very early, but Holmes had already approached me. ahead, because while I was dressing I saw him returning along the avenue towards the house. —Yes, today will be a very intense day —he commented, while the joy of the action made him rub his hands together. The nets are set and we are going to start pulling them. Before nightfall we will know if we have caught our big sharp jawed pike or if it is has slipped us through the nets. —Have you been to the moor yet? —I have sent a report to Princetown from Grimpen about Selden's death. I'm convinced that they will not bother you. I have also been reunited with my loyal Cartwright, who would undoubtedly have languished at the entrance of my refuge like a dog at his master's grave, if he hadn't let him know he was okay. —What's the next step? —Talk to Sir Henry. Ah, here it comes! "Good morning, Holmes," the baronet greeted. You look like a general who draws up the battle alongside his chief of staff. —That's exactly the situation. Watson was asking for instructions. —And I do the same. -Perfect. Tonight, as I understand it, you are invited to dinner with our friends the Stapletons. —I hope you come too. They are very welcoming and I know they will be happy to see you. —I'm afraid Watson and I must return. to London. —To London? -Yeah; I estimate that at this moment we are more useful there than here. Sir Henry's face visibly lengthened. —I trusted that you would accompany me until this was resolved. This house and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone. —My dear friend, you must trust me completely and do exactly as I tell you. Tell your hosts that we would have loved to stay, but an emergency requires us to to return to London. We hope to return very soon. Will you be able to convey that message to them? —If you insist... —There is no other option, I assure you. Sir Henry's frown showed me how much it affected him to think that we were going to leave him. —When do you plan to leave? —he asked coldly. —Right after breakfast. We'll pass through Coombe Tracey first, but my friend will stop here. your belongings as proof that we will return. Watson, write a note to Stapleton to tell him that he regrets not being able to attend the dinner. "I would very much like to go with you to London," he said. the baronet—. Why should I stay here alone? —Because this is his position, and because he has given me You give me your word that you will obey my instructions, and now I am ordering you to remain here. —In that case, that's fine. I'll stay. —One more thing! I want you to drive to the Merripit house. But then return the vehicle and inform your hosts that you intend to walk back. —Cross the moor on foot? -Yeah. —But that is precisely what you have asked me so many times not to do. —This time you can do it safely. If I didn't have absolute confidence in my serenity and in his anger, he would not ask him to do so, but it is essential that he do so. —Then I will. —And if you value your life, Cross the moor only by the straight path that leads from Merripit House to the road from Grimpen, which is his usual route. —I will follow your instructions to the letter. -Very good. I would like to leave as soon as possible after breakfast, to arrive in London in the early afternoon. That plan puzzled me quite a bit, although he remembered perfectly how Holmes had told Stapleton the night before that his visit would conclude the following day. It hadn't occurred to me, however, that I would want take me with him, nor did I understand how we could both be absent at a time when Holmes himself considered it crucial. But there was no choice but to obey without reservation; So we said goodbye to our dejected friend, and a couple of hours later we found ourselves at Coombe Tracey station, seeing off the hansom cab as it made its way back to the mansion. A boy was waiting for us on the platform. —Any instructions, sir? —You must take this train to London, Cartwright. Upon arrival, please send a telegram on my behalf to Sir Henry Baskerville to tell him that if he finds the wallet I have lost, he will send it to Baker Street by certified mail. -Yes sir. —And now ask at the station office if there is any message for me. The boy returned instantly with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It said the following: «Telegram received. I'm heading there with an arrest warrant. signed. I will arrive at 5:40 p.m. LESTRADE». —This is the answer to the one I sent this morning. I consider Lestrade the best of the officers, and his assistance may be of use to us. Now, Watson, I think it would be most profitable to pay a visit. to his acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons. His strategy was beginning to take shape. I was going to use the baronet to convince the Stapletons that we had left, when in reality we would return at the decisive moment. The telegram from London, If Sir Henry mentioned it in front of the Stapletons, it would serve to dispel the last suspicions. I could already imagine our nets tightening around the sharp-jawed pike. Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes began the conversation with so much frankness and clarity that Frankland's daughter could not hide her perplexity. —I am investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. —said Holmes. My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you told him, and also what he deliberately omitted. —What have I hidden? —Mrs. Lyons asked defiantly. —He has acknowledged that he requested Sir Charles to was by the gate at ten o'clock sharp. We know that the baronet lost his life in that place and at that time, and we also know that you have covered up the relationship between those events. —There is no relationship. —Then it would be a coincidence. truly extraordinary. But I hope that, in due time, we can make that connection. I want to speak to you with absolute sincerity, Mrs. Lyons. We believe that we are facing a homicide case, and the evidence could point not only to your friend, Mr. Stapleton, but also his wife. The lady abruptly rose from her seat. —His wife! —he exclaimed. —The secret is no longer a secret. The person who was made passing for his sister is actually his wife. Mrs. Lyons had sat down again. She gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that her nails lost their color. —His wife! —he repeated. His wife! He is not married. Sherlock Holmes shrugged. —Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if can… —The menacing glare in his eyes said more than any words. "I have come prepared," said Holmes, taking several documents from his pocket. Here's one Photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago. On the back it reads: "Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur," but it will be easy for you to identify Stapleton, and also his supposed sister, if you have seen it. In addition, I have three written statements from reliable people, which describe the Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur when they ran St. Oliver's Private School. Read them and Tell me if you have any doubts about who they are. Mrs. Lyons glanced at the papers that Holmes introduced him and then looked at us with the rigid face of a wounded woman. "Mr. Holmes," he said, "that man promised to marry me if I could succeed." divorce. He has deceived me, the scoundrel, in every way imaginable. I have never been told the truth. And why? I thought he did it all for me, but now I understand. that I was nothing more than an instrument for him. Why would I keep my word? when he only lied to me? Why would I protect him from the consequences? of his ignoble acts? Ask whatever you want: I'm not going to hide anything from you. I only ask you one thing: believe me when I tell you that when I wrote that letter I never imagined that could cause harm to the good old man who was always the most generous of my friends. "I do not doubt it, madam," replied Holmes, "and as relating these facts might If it is painful for you, perhaps you would prefer to hear the version I am going to offer you, to correct myself. if I make any major mistakes. Was it Stapleton who suggested you send the letter? —He dictated it to me himself. —I guess the justification was that you would receive financial assistance from Sir Charles to cover the costs of the divorce. -Exactly. —And then, after sending the letter, He convinced her not to go to the meeting. —He told me that his pride would suffer if someone more than he provided the money, and that, despite his lack of resources, would spend every last coin to tear down the obstacles that separated us. —Very considerate, no doubt. And you didn't know anything else until you read the news in the newspapers? death of Sir Charles? —That's how it was. —Did he also ask you to swear to secrecy about your appointment with Sir Charles? -Yeah. He stated that the death was highly suspicious and that if the existence of the letter was known, suspicions would fall on me. He scared me into not saying anything. —It was to be expected. But did you suspect something? Mrs. Lyons hesitated, looking down. "I knew what it was," he said. But if he hadn't broken his promise, I would have always been faithful to him. "I think she may, after all, be considered fortunate to have escaped," said Holmes. You He had Stapleton in his hands, he knew it, and yet you're still alive. He has walked for months on the edge of the abyss. And now, Mrs. Lyons, we bid you farewell for the present; it is likely hope to hear from you again soon. —The case is closing and, one by one, the pieces "They fit," Holmes commented as we waited for the express from London. Very soon I will be able to recount in detail one of the most unusual and notable crimes of the time. modern. Criminology experts will remember the similar events that occurred in Grodno, in Little Russia in 1866, and also, of course, the Anderson murders of North Carolina, although this case presents unique characteristics, since, even now, We still lack definitive evidence against this elusive subject. But I would be surprised much that we shall not be able to shed full light on the matter before we go to bed tonight. The London Express roared into the station and a short man, Firmly built and with the appearance of a bulldog, he jumped out of the first-class carriage. We greet each other, and I noticed at once, from the respectful look Lestrade gave my companion, who had learned quite a bit since the days when they first worked together. He still clearly remembered the skepticism that Holmes's theories used to greet. awaken in that very pragmatic man. —Any news worth mentioning? -asked. "The most important thing in many years," Holmes replied. We have two hours before acting. I think we'll use them to get something to eat, and then, Lestrade, we'll get him out of the fog. Londoner to breathe the pure air of Dartmoor nights. No have you ever been to the moor? Magnificent! I don't think I'll forget this first visit. Chapter XIV The Hound of the Baskervilles One of Sherlock Holmes's flaws—if it can really be called a flaw— It was his reluctance to share his plans before the very moment of executing them. This was due in part, no doubt, to his dominant character, which drove him to control and surprise those around him. And also, in part, to his professional prudence, which always led him to minimize risks. This custom, however, was quite annoying to those who acted as their agents and collaborators. I had already suffered for This has happened on several occasions, but never more than during that long journey in the dark. We had the great test ahead of us; But, although we were about to engage in confrontation In the end, Holmes had said nothing: I could only guess what his course of action would be. Barely I managed to contain my anxiety when, finally, the icy wind that hit our faces and The dark spaces on both sides of the narrow road announced to me that we had returned to the paramo. Every step of the horses and every turn of the wheels brought us closer to the decisive adventure. Because of the presence of the coachman we could not speak freely and were forced to maintain a small talk while tension and hope frayed our nerves. After that forced discretion, I felt a great relief to leave Frankland's house behind and know that We were approaching the Baskerville mansion, the place where everything was going to happen. Rather To arrive by car to the house, we got off next to the gate at the beginning of the avenue. We dismissed the tartane and ordered the driver to return to Coombe Tracey at once, at the same time that we were starting the journey towards the Merripit house. —Are you armed, Lestrade? "Whenever I put on my pants I have a back pocket," he replied with a the little detective smiles—and whenever I have a back pocket I carry something in it. -Perfect. My friend and I are also ready for any eventuality. —You are being very reserved on this matter, Mr. Holmes. What are we playing this time? —Let’s wait. —Good heavens, This place has nothing comforting about it! —said the detective with a shudder, contemplating around him the melancholy slopes of the hills and the great expanse of fog that covered the Grimpen swamp. I see some lights ahead. —That's Merripit House, the end of our path. Please walk on tiptoe and speak in a very low voice. We advanced with extreme caution along the path as if we were going towards the house, but Holmes stopped us. when we were about two hundred meters away. "That's enough," he said. Those rocks on the right will provide excellent protection. —Are we going to wait there? -Exact; Let's prepare our little ambush. Lestrade, hide in that hole. You've been inside the house, haven't you, Watson? Can you describe me? the layout of the rooms? What do those windows with bars correspond to? —I think they're the ones in the kitchen. —And the other one, a little further away, well lit? —It must be the dining room. —The blinds are up. You know better the terrain. Slide very carefully and watch what they do, but for heaven's sake, Don't let them discover that we are watching them! I tiptoed along the path and hid myself. behind the low wall that surrounded the orchard of stunted trees. Taking advantage of its shadow, I slid down to a point where I could see directly through the window without curtains. There were only two people in the room: Sir Henry and Stapleton, seated on either side of a round table. I saw them in profile from where I was. They were both smoking cigars and had coffee and port wine in front of them. Stapleton He chatted enthusiastically, but the baronet seemed pale and distant. Maybe the idea of ​​​​return lonely on the moor weighed on his spirit. As I watched them, Stapleton stood up and left the dining room; Sir Henry refilled his glass and leaned back in his chair, inhaling the smoke. of the cigar. Then I heard a door creak and the clear sound of boots on gravel. The footsteps advanced on the other side of the wall that protected me. Raising my head slightly, I saw that The naturalist stopped at the entrance to a room in the corner of the orchard. I heard a spin key, and as Stapleton entered, a strange noise was heard coming from inside. He did not stay more than a minute in that place; Then I heard the lock again, the naturalist passed by next to me and returned to the house. When I checked that he was meeting with his guest again, I slid in. I quietly went to where my companions were waiting for me and told them what I had seen. —You say, Watson, that the lady was not in the dining-room? —asked Holmes at the end my report. -No. —Where can it be found, then, since there is no light in any other room except the kitchen? —I couldn't say for sure. I already mentioned that about the swamp From Grimpen floated a thick white fog that slowly moved towards us, presenting itself like a low, dense wall with defined contours. The moon illuminated it from above, giving it the appearance of a huge sheet of shiny ice, with the ridges of rocks emerging as if they were resting on its surface. Holmes turned to look at the fog and began to mutter, restless, while he followed his progress with his eyes. —He's approaching us, Watson. —Is that serious? —Without a doubt: it is the only thing that can ruin my plans. The baronet shouldn't be much longer. It's ten o'clock. Our success, and even Sir Henry's life may depend on his leaving before the fog covers the path. Above us the sky was clear and calm. The stars shone coldly and The half moon bathed the landscape in a soft light that barely outlined the contours. Before us rose the dark silhouette of the house, with its irregular roof and its tall chimneys stood out sharply against the silver sky. Wide bands of golden light, coming from the illuminated rooms on the ground floor, extended into the garden and the moor. One of the windows suddenly closed. The servants had left the kitchen. Only the lamp in the dining room was still lit, where the two men, The criminal host and the unsuspecting guest continued chatting while smoking their cigars. With each passing minute, the white mist covering the moor drew closer to the house. The first threads crossed in front of the illuminated rectangle of the window. The farthest fence of the The orchard disappeared, and the trees were half-sunken in a whirlwind of milky vapor. Before our eyes, the first tendrils of fog crept around both corners of the house, advancing little by little, thick, until the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship on a sea of ​​shadows. Holmes tapped impatiently on the rock that served as our shelter and He even went so far as to kick the ground in suppressed fury. —If our friend takes more than a quarter of an hour When you leave, the fog will cover the entire road. And in half an hour we won't even see our own hands. —What if we were to stand at a higher point? -Yeah; I think it wouldn't be bad. So we moved to about half a mile from the house, although the dense white sea, whose surface shone in the moonlight, continued to advance slowly but inexorably. "Here we must stay," said Holmes. We can't risk Sir Henry being intercepted before reaching us. This position must be maintained at all costs. —and he knelt down to put his ear to the ground. I think I hear him coming, thank heavens. The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence of the moor. Hidden among the stones, We watched closely the silver edge of the fog bank in front of us. The sound grew louder, and through the mist, as if emerging from a curtain, the man we were waiting for appeared. Sir Henry looked around, surprised to suddenly find himself on a clear night, under the stars. Then he walked quickly along the path, It passed very close to where we were hiding and began to climb the slope behind us. As he walked, he looked back repeatedly, like someone who was uneasy. —Attention! —exclaimed Holmes, as there was the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked. Careful! It's coming! From somewhere in the heart of that mass white that continued to slide towards us, there came a light and persistent drumming. The fog She was about fifty meters from our hiding place and the three of us watched her without knowing what terror was about to emerge from his bowels. I stood next to Holmes and turned around for a moment. towards him. I saw him pale and excited, with his eyes shining in the moonlight. Suddenly, However, his gaze fixed on her with a strange fixity and astonishment made her lips part. Lestrade also let out a scream of terror and sank face down to the ground. I stood up In one leap, his hand holding the weapon motionless, his mind paralyzed by the monstrous vision that emerged from the shadows of the fog. It was a hound, a gigantic hound, black as coal, but unlike any animal that human eyes had ever seen. Flames came out of its half-open jaws, its eyes looked like burning embers and a glow flashing lights illuminated his snout, back and neck. Not even the most feverish nightmare of a deranged mind could have conceived something more fierce, more abominable, more hellish than that dark silhouette and that wild face that launched itself at us from the wall of fog. The huge black creature strode along the path, following the trail of our friend. Such was the stupor that his an apparition that had already passed by when we managed to regain our composure. Then Holmes and I fired at the same time, and the animal uttered a terrific shriek, which indicated that at least one of the bullets had hit the target. Nevertheless, continued moving forward at full speed without stopping. In the distance, on the path, We saw Sir Henry turn around, his face livid in the moonlight, his hands raised in a gesture of terror, helplessly looking at the monster that was chasing him. But the bloodhound's cry of pain immediately dispelled our fears. If he could be hurt, He could also die, and if we had reached him, we would also be able to shoot him down. I have never seen a man run like Holmes did that night. Although I am considered fast, my friend He had as much advantage over the little detective as I did. As we ran quickly along the path, We heard Sir Henry's piercing screams and the deep roar of the hound. Scope to see how the beast jumped on its prey, knocked it to the ground and tried to reach its throat. But a second later, Holmes fired five times into the animal's flank. With a last howl of agony and a furious snap at the air, the hound fell back, shaking violently kicking its legs until it finally lay motionless on its side. I stopped, panting, and I brought my revolver close to that horrendous luminous head, but it was useless to squeeze the trigger. The giant dog had died. Sir Henry lay unconscious on the spot where he had fallen. We loosened his shirt collar, and Holmes murmured a short prayer. of gratitude when we saw that he was not hurt: we had arrived just in time. He Baronet blinked shortly and tried weakly to sit up. Lestrade handed him the flask of brandy to our lips, and immediately two eyes full of terror fell upon us. -My God! —whispered our friend. What was that? For the love of God, What kind of creature was that? —Whatever it was, it no longer exists. —said Holmes. We have finally put an end to the ghost of the Baskervilles. Size and strength alone were enough to make the creature that lay before him we a fearsome being. It was neither a purebred hound nor a mastiff, but a mixture of both: gaunt, fierce, and the size of a small lioness. Even in the stillness of death, It seemed as if a blue flame still came out of its jaws, and its cruel eyes, sunken into the orbits, retained a burning glow. I touched the shiny snout and when I pulled my hand away I saw that My fingers glowed faintly in the darkness, as if burning with a faint phosphorescence. —Phosphorus —I said. —An ingenious preparation "based on phosphorus," Holmes agreed, approaching the corpse to sniff it. Completely odorless, so as not to obstruct the animal's sense of smell. You have much to forgive us, Sir Henry, for having exposed him to such an atrocious experience. I was expecting to meet a bloodhound, but not with such a creature. And the fog almost prevented us from receiving it properly. —They saved my life. —After having put it into play. Do you feel strong enough to stand up? —Give me another sip of that brandy and I'll be ready to whatever. Good! Help me up. What do you intend to do now, Mr. Holmes? —We're going to leave you here. He is not in a condition to live through any more shocks this time. evening. If you would be so kind as to wait, one of us will return with you to the mansion. The baronet managed to get to his feet with effort, although he was still pale as wax and trembling. head to toe. We took him to a rock, where he sat down, resting his face in his hands and body still shaken by tremors. "Now we must leave it," said Holmes. Still There is still work to be done and we don't have a second to lose. We already have the evidence; we are only missing the man. There is a possibility "One in a thousand chances of finding it in the house," my friend added, as we hurried back. along the path. The shots must have let him know that all is lost. —We were a bit far away and the fog may have muffled the sound. —You can be sure that I was following the bloodhound to call you as soon as he finished his task. No no; He must have left by now, but we will review everything and leave no doubt. The front door was unlocked, so we entered the house and looked around. quickly through each room, causing the astonishment of the old, trembling servant who ran into us in the corridor. There was no light other than that of the dining room, but Holmes He took the lamp and left no corner of the house unexamined. Although we did not find the man who We were searching and discovered that one of the rooms upstairs was locked. —There's someone in here! —Lestrade exclaimed. I hear sounds. Open the door! From inside came faint groans and creaks. Holmes struck hard, just above the lock, and the door gave way instantly. Weapons in hand, the three of us burst into the room. But the criminal was not in it. challenging that we expected to find, but a spectacle so strange and so unexpected that for a few moments we stood paralyzed, staring at him in amazement. The room was set up like a small museum, and the walls were lined with glass cases. with the collection of diurnal and nocturnal butterflies whose capture was the hobby of that man as complex as he was dangerous. In the center of the room stood a pillar, placed at the time to reinforce the old cracked beam that held up the roof. To that pillar A figure was tied up, so wrapped and covered with sheets that, for a moment, one could not determine whether it was a man or a woman. A towel, attached to the pillar behind, wrapped around him. the neck. Another one covered the lower part of his face and, above it, two eyes dark ones—full of pain, shame, and terrible questions—watched us. In less than a minute We had loosened the gag and undone the knots, and Mrs. Stapleton collapsed before us. As her still beautiful head sagged on her chest, I noticed, crossing her neck, the clear sign of a recent whiplash. —You infamous wretch! —exclaimed Holmes. Lestrade, your flask of brandy, please! Sit this lady on that chair! The abuse and the tension has left her senseless. Mrs. Stapleton opened her eyes again. —Are you safe? —he asked in a weak voice. Did he manage to escape? —He won't get away from us, madam. -No no; I'm not talking about my husband. Is Sir Henry safe? —It is. —And the bloodhound? -Dead. Mrs. Stapleton breathed a deep sigh of relief. -Thank God! Blessed be God! That wretch! Look what he's done to me! -HE She rolled up her dress and showed us her arms, covered in bruises. But this is nothing, nothing! What has outraged and broken has been my spirit and my mind. I endured it all: Abuse, isolation, an entire existence of lies, all while I was still able to hold on to the illusion that he loved me, but now I understand that even in that I was deceived, used - some intense sobs interrupted her words. —Since you have no reason to feel gratitude towards him,' Holmes said, 'tell us where we can find him.' If any Once you helped him in his crimes, now collaborate with us and redeem yourself at least in part. "There's only one place he could have run to," she replied. There is an old mine of tin on the island that occupies the very center of the swamp. There he kept his bloodhound and also had made preparations in case he needed a hiding place. He's definitely headed there. The fog clung to the window like a thick white wool blanket. Holmes brought the lamp closer to the glass. —Look, —he said. Tonight no one could enter the great Grimpen swamp. Mrs. Stapleton burst out laughing. and applauded. His eyes and teeth shone with an almost wild joy. "He may have gotten in, but he's not getting out again," he exclaimed. You won't be able to see the small sticks that mark the way. We placed them together to mark the safe route through the swamp. Ah, If only I could have withdrawn them today! Then you would have him trapped. It was clear that it was useless to continue the search until the fog cleared. We left Lestrade guarding the house and Holmes and I returned to the mansion with the baronet. We could no longer keep the Stapleton story from him, but he endured it admirably. fortitude the revelations about the woman he had fallen in love with. Even so, The shock caused by the night's events broke his nerves, and soon after he was delirious with a high fever, under the care of Dr. Mortimer. Both would end up traveling around the world before Sir Henry became the king again. strong and jovial man that he had been before inheriting that mansion full of legends. And now I only have to tell the outcome of this unusual story with which I have tried to make the reader shared the dark fears and vague conjectures that weighed on him for weeks our lives and that ended so tragically. The next morning, when the fog stood up, Mrs. Stapleton led us to the place where she and her husband had found a practicable path through the swamp. The enthusiasm and bitterness with which that woman guided us and helped us better understand the torment that had been her life with Stapleton. We left her on a narrow tongue of firm peat that disappeared into the swamp. From there, some Small sticks stuck in the ground marked the path, which zigzagged from reed bed to reed bed between the greenish pools and nauseating mudflats that blocked any unnoticed passage. The Tall reeds and slimy aquatic plants gave off a putrid smell and threw us into the face dense unhealthy vapors, while a miscalculated step made us sink thigh-deep in the dark, trembling mud that, for meters around, shuddered in soft waves beneath our feet, clinging tightly to our heels and transforming, Every time we fell into it, into a hostile grasp that tried to drag us into its depths: such was the intensity of the embrace with which he held us. Only once did we find evidence of that someone had passed before us along that treacherous path. From the center of a rush field a dark object protruded from the mud. Holmes sank to the waist by going out of the way to reach him, and if we hadn't been there to help him, there wouldn't have been ever left that hell. What he lifted up was an old, black boot. Inside The leather inscribed: "Meyers, Toronto." "The plunge was worth it," said Holmes. Is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot. —Dropped here by Stapleton during the escape. -Exactly. He carried it with him after using it to put the bloodhound on the baronet's trail. Then, still holding the boot, he ran away when he realized he had lost, and threw her here in his despair. At least we know he made it this far. But we were not destined to know much more, although we managed to deduce several aspects. No There was no way to find footprints in the swamp, since the mud that rose with each step erased them. immediately and, although we explored thoroughly when we reached solid ground, we never found the slightest hint. If we are to believe what the earth tells us, then we must accept that Stapleton He never reached the island he tried to reach that last night, shrouded in fog, seeking refuge. Somewhere in the heart of the swamp, in the putrid mud of the great marsh that swallowed him, that man with a cold heart and implacable will was buried forever. On the island in the middle of the swamp, where he hid his fierce companion, We found numerous traces of their presence. A large driving wheel and a half-filled well of rubble indicated the location of a forgotten mine. Next to it, the ruined remains of some huts; The miners had undoubtedly ended up leaving, unable to bear it. the fetid air of the surroundings. In one of the shacks, a ring with its chain, together with some gnawed bones, indicated the place where the hound was confined. Between Among the remains we also found a skeleton that still had some strands of brown hair. —A dog! —said Holmes. Definitely a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see him again. your favorite. Good; I don't think this place holds any more secrets to reveal. Stapleton maintained here to the hound, but he could not prevent himself from being heard, and hence those howls that even In broad daylight they were disturbing. At key moments he could lock him in one of the Merripit premises, but that carried a risk, and only on the appointed day, when he expected complete his plan, he dared to do it. The paste contained in that can is undoubtedly the mixture luminous with which he covered the animal. The idea must have come to him, naturally, from the legend of the hellhound and the desire to provoke a fatal fright in the old Sir Charles. No wonder Selden, poor wretch, ran and screamed like our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, seeing such a beast following him in the darkness. It was an extremely clever strategy, because in addition to being able to cause the death of his victim, What peasant would dare approach such a creature if he came across it? as so many have claimed? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now: we have never contributed to strike down a man as dangerously bold as the one lying yonder—and Holmes extended his long arm towards the vast green-stained swamp, which was lost in the reddish moor. Chapter XV Retrospective Examination On a cold, foggy night, towards the end of November, Holmes and I were sitting on either side of the sides of a crackling fire in our Baker Street living room. From the tragic conclusion During our visit to Devonshire, my friend had dealt with two cases of exceptional importance; In the first he exposed the scandalous conduct of Colonel Upwood in relation to the famous scandal of the Nonpareil Club cards, while in the second he defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier, accused of murder for the death of her stepdaughter, Mademoiselle Carère, a young woman who, as will be remembered, appeared alive six months later in New York, after getting married. My friend was in an excellent mood, encouraged by his recent successes in a series of complex and high-profile cases, and it didn't take much to encourage him to review the cases with me. details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity, because he knew well that Holmes never allowed the overlapping of investigations, and that his mind, As clear as it was logical, it did not abandon the present to deal with the past. But Sir Henry and the Dr. Mortimer were in London, about to embark on the long journey that recommended to the baronet to recover his nerves, and they had visited us that same afternoon, which made me allowed the topic to be introduced quite naturally. —From the perspective of the one who called himself Stapleton,' said Holmes, 'the plan he devised was one of great simplicity, though to us, that we initially lacked the motives for their actions and only partially had them of the facts, it would be extraordinarily convoluted. In addition, I have been fortunate to spoke to Mrs. Stapleton twice, so the case has been completely resolved clarified and no secret remains. In the Bertha section of my case index, which I keep alphabetically arranged, you will find some notes on this matter. —Could you be so kind as to outline for me from memory the development of events? —Of course, although I can't guarantee that I'll retain all the details. It's funny how the Intense concentration on each case erases the previous ones. A lawyer who masters it perfectly One subject can, after a few weeks dedicated to another, forget everything that came before. Likewise, each One of my cases replaces the previous one, and Mlle. Carère has clouded my memories of the mansion in The Baskervilles. Tomorrow another trivial matter could arise that would displace even the French lady and the despicable Upwood. As for the case of the bloodhound, I will explain to you the most the sequence of events as faithfully as possible, and you may ask me about any point I omit. My investigations have confirmed beyond a doubt that the family portrait was not lying and that Our individual was, in fact, a Baskerville, son of Rodger, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who had fled with a bad reputation to South America, where he was presumed dead without issue. In fact, she married and had a single son, our protagonist, who inherited her name and who in turn He married Beryl García, one of the beauties of Costa Rica. After appropriating a a large sum of public funds, adopted the surname Vandeleur and fled to England, where he founded a college in East Yorkshire. His interest in this occupation was due to the fact that, during On the return trip, he met a teacher suffering from tuberculosis whose professional competence He took the opportunity to give seriousness to the project. But when Fraser, the teacher, died, the school went into decline and ended in absolute discredit, which led the Vandeleurs to change their minds again name. This is how Rodger Baskerville's son moved, now as Jack Stapleton, to the southwest from England with the remains of his fortune, his future goals and his passion for entomology. At the British Museum I found that he was considered an authority on the subject, and that the name Vandeleur was linked to a certain moth that he described as first time during his stay in Yorkshire. We now enter the stage of his life that concerns directly. Stapleton carried out investigations and discovered that only two lives had passed. separated from a vast inheritance. I think that when he arrived in Devonshire his plans were still vague, Although the criminal nature of his intentions is clear from the outset by the fact that he would introduce his wife as if she were his sister. I was already harboring the idea of ​​using her as bait, although perhaps not all the details were defined yet. At the end of the road was the Baskerville inheritance, and he was prepared to employ any means and assume any risk to achieve it. The first step was to settle as close as possible to his ancestral lineage and the second to gain the trust of Sir Charles and his neighbors. Sir Charles himself told him the story of the hound, unwittingly preparing, the road to their doom. Stapleton—and I will continue to use that name—knew that the old man was suffering of the heart and that any intense emotion could be fatal, information provided by the Dr. Mortimer. He also learned that Sir Charles was superstitious and took the grim legend seriously. of the hound. His ingenuity then suggested a way to end the life of the baronet without leaving real possibility of identifying the culprit. »Once the idea was conceived, Stapleton executed it with remarkable skill. An ordinary conspirator would have been content with a dog long enough fierce. The use of artificial effects to give it a demonic air was a feature of genius. He bought the dog in London, going to the firm Ross and Mangles, located on Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most ferocious specimen in its catalogue. To move it to the moor used the North Devon railway line and then walked a long distance to avoid suspicion. By then, thanks to his frequent entomological excursions, He had already explored the Grimpen Marsh, which allowed him to safely hide the animal. A Once installed there, he waited for the right moment. However, the opportunity was slow to come. By At night it was difficult to get the old man out of his property. For months, Stapleton lurked around with the dog without success. In those unsuccessful attempts, some peasants came to see - or rather to glimpse—his companion, which gave renewed vigor to the legend of the hellhound. Stapleton trusted his wife to lure Sir Charles into the trap, but in that respect Beryl was unexpectedly firm. He did not want to participate in an emotional relationship that would put the old man in the hands of his enemy. Neither threats nor, I regret to say, ill-treatment succeeded. bend her. He flatly refused and Stapleton found himself with no way out for a while. He finally found a way around his obstacles through Sir Charles himself, who, because of the affection he had for her, confided to her everything related to the matter of that woman so unfortunate, Mrs. Laura Lyons. By presenting himself as a bachelor, he soon achieved a great dominance over her, and gave her to understand that if she succeeded in divorcing Lyons she would marry him she. The situation reached a turning point when Stapleton learned that Sir Charles was thinking to leave the moor on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, whose opinion he pretended to share. It was necessary to act without delay, otherwise his victim would be permanently out of reach. So he pressured Mrs. Lyons to write the letter, requesting an interview with the old man the night before leaving for London and then, under pretexts false, dissuaded her from attending, thus obtaining the opportunity she had been waiting for so long. Returning from Coombe Tracey in the late afternoon, he had time to collect the hound, smear him with his infernal mixture and lead him to the gate where he hoped to find the old man. The dog, urged on by its owner, jumped over the gate and went after the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming along the Yew Tree Walk. In that dark corridor, the sight of that gigantic black creature, with phosphorescent jaws and incandescent eyes, It must have been terrifying. Sir Charles fell dead at the end of the path, victim from fear and from her fragile heart. As the baronet ran, the hound stayed on the strip of grass, so only human footprints remained visible. Seeing the old man motionless, the animal probably approached him to sniff him; It was later, when he realized that he had died, that as he turned to leave, left the mark that Dr. Mortimer would later observe. Stapleton called the bloodhound and hurried to return it to its lair in the Grimpen swamp, leaving behind a mystery that It baffled the authorities, alarmed the entire region and ultimately prompted our intervention. »It is possible that Stapleton was still unaware of the existence of the heir residing in Canada, But in any case he learned it very soon from his friend, Dr. Mortimer, who told him plus all the details of Sir Henry's arrival in London. His first thought was that, Instead of waiting for him to show up in Devonshire, it might be wiser try to eliminate the young man in the capital. As he already distrusted his wife since she refused to set the trap for the old man, he did not dare to leave her alone for fear of losing his control over her. she. That's why they came to London together. They stayed, as I discovered, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, on Craven Street, one of the establishments my agent visited in search of clues. Stapleton locked his wife there while he, disguised with a false beard, He followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and then to the station and the Northumberland Hotel. His wife suspected some of his intentions, but her fear—based on the cruel mistreatment which he had suffered—prevented him from warning Sir Henry in writing. If the letter fell into the hands Stapleton's, his life would be in danger. Finally, as we know, he chose to cut words from a magazine and write the address in altered handwriting. The message reached the baronet and it was the first warning of the danger that lay ahead. »Stapleton needed a piece of clothing from Sir Henry, in case he needs to resort to the bloodhound, provides him with the trail to follow. With the speed and audacity that characterized him, he immediately got down to work, and there is no doubt that he bribed the shoeshine boy or some chambermaid at the hotel to achieve this. By chance, The first boot he got was new and therefore useless for his purpose. So, got another one. A very revealing incident, as it showed me beyond any margin of error that it was of a real bloodhound: no other hypothesis would explain the urgent need to obtain one used boot and lack of interest in a new one. The more strange and grotesque an event is, the greater deserves attention, and what seems to be the darkest point of a case is, if examined methodically, the one that offers the greatest probability of resolution. The next morning, our friends came to visit us, while Stapleton spied on them from a rental car. By your knowledge of where we live, my appearance, and your general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton's criminal career was not limited to the Baskerville affair. Is It is worth noting that in the last three years there have been four robberies in the region with fracture of notable importance, and in none of them was the person responsible arrested. Latest, The incident that occurred in May at Folkestone Court was notable because the masked robber fired shots. in cold blood against the bellboy who surprised him. I have no doubt that Stapleton resorted to that type of crimes to maintain their dwindling resources and that for some time had been a desperate and extremely dangerous man. What happened that morning when he managed to escape with such skill, as well as his insolence in returning my name to me through the coachman, are good examples of his cunning. From that moment on, knowing that I was in charge of the case London, he realized that he no longer had any chance of succeeding in the capital and returned to Dartmoor to await the arrival of the baronet. “Wait a minute,” I said. There is no doubt that it has You have accurately described the chain of events, but there is one aspect you have not mentioned. What happened to the bloodhound during his master's stay in London? —I've thought a lot about that point, because it certainly is important. It is clear that Stapleton had an accomplice, although it is not likely that he entrusted him with all his plans. An old man lived in the Merripit house. servant named Anthony. His relationship with the Stapletons dated back to his school days, so he must have known that they were really husband and wife. This individual has disappeared, probably fleeing the country. Please note that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is in Spain and in Spanish-speaking countries. That man, Like Mrs. Stapleton, he spoke correct English, although with a slight lisp. I got to see that old man cross Grimpen Marsh on the path Stapleton had taken. marked. It is very likely, therefore, that during his employer's absence he was the one who took care of him. of the bloodhound, although perhaps without ever knowing the final purpose for which it was intended. The Stapletons then returned to Devonshire, followed very shortly afterwards by for Sir Henry and you. A brief comment on my situation at that time. You may remember You who, when examining the paper with the words cut out, studied it carefully in search of filigree. As I did so, I brought it quite close to my face and perceived a faint scent of jasmine. He Criminology expert must recognize the seventy-five most common perfumes and, in my experience, The resolution of more than one case has depended on rapid olfactory identification. That The scent hinted at the presence of a lady, and that's how I began to suspect the Stapletons. That's how I discovered the bloodhound's existence and deduced who it was. the culprit before leaving for Devonshire. My goal was to keep an eye on Stapleton. It was obvious, However, he couldn't do it while he was with you, because in that case the suspect would be permanently alert. That's why I deceived everyone, including you, and secretly moved to the wasteland. when he was supposed to still be in London. The deprivations I suffered were not as great as you imagine, although details of that nature should never interfere with a serious investigation. I spent most of my time at Coombe Tracey and only used the Neolithic shelter when necessary. be close to the main stage. Cartwright, who accompanied me, helped me a lot with his costume. peasant. She depended on him for food and clean clothes. While I was watching Stapleton, It was rare for Cartwright to do this with you, so he had complete control of the situation. I have already explained to you that your reports reached me without delay, since they were sent from Baker Street. immediately to Coombe Tracey. They were extremely valuable to me, especially that one true fact about Stapleton's biography. Thanks to that, I identified the couple and knew finally what to expect. The case had become quite complicated by the incident. of the escaped prisoner and his connection to the Barrymores. You also clarified that very effectively, although For my part, I would have come to the same conclusion. When you found me on the moor I already knew all aspects of the case, but still lacked evidence admissible in court. Not even the attempt on Sir Henry's life the night poor Selden died would have helped us. to formally charge Stapleton. There was no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to We needed to use Sir Henry as a decoy, apparently alone and unprotected. This is how we did it and, at the cost of a terrible scare for our client, we managed to complete our work and precipitate Stapleton's fall. I must admit that it casts a certain stain on my way of acting. that Sir Henry would be exposed to such danger, but we could not foresee the aspect so creepy that the animal would have, nor the fog that allowed its appearance almost without warning. We got the result we were looking for, at a price that, according to the specialist and Dr. Mortimer, will only be temporary. A long journey will allow our friend to recover not only his nerves, but also his spirit. His affection for Mrs. Stapleton was deep and sincere, And for him the most painful thing about this dark case is the betrayal of that woman. It only remains to clarify the role of Mrs. Stapleton. There is no doubt that her husband was a practicing upon her an influence that could have been love, fear or a mixture of both, since they are not necessarily exclusive. In any case, this influence was fully effective. By his order, agreed to impersonate her sister, although it is also true that Stapleton discovered the limits of his power when he tried to make her an accomplice to murder. Beryl wanted to warn Sir Henry without betraying her husband, and tried to do so on several occasions. It is clear that Stapleton was also a victim of jealousy, so when he saw the baronet courting to his wife - although it was part of the plan - he could not resist the temptation to interrupt the idyll with a rapture that revealed the fiery temperament that he hid beneath his reserved manners. By fostering this relationship he ensured that Sir Henry frequented Merripit House and that, sooner or later, the opportunity that awaited him would arise. However, on the decisive day, his wife rebelled unexpectedly. He had heard of Selden's death, and he knew well that, The night Sir Henry was invited to dinner, the hound was in an outbuilding of the house. Beryl accused her husband of wanting to murder the baronet, which led to a violent scene, during which Stapleton confessed for the first time that he had a rival. The lady's fidelity Stapleton's anger immediately turned to hatred, and the man understood that his wife was ready to betray him. He then tied her up to prevent her from warning Sir Henry, hoping that, once everyone attributed the baronet's death to the old curse—as they undoubtedly would have done— She would accept the fait accompli and remain silent. At that point, I think he miscalculated. Even without our intervention, his downfall was imminent. A woman of Spanish blood does not forgives so easily an affront of that kind. And now, dear Watson, I cannot continue with a more detailed account of this fascinating case without consulting my notes. I don't know if it's left some fundamental aspect without explanation. —Stapleton had to assume that he couldn't kill Sir Henry with fear alone, as happened with his uncle, I observed. —It was a very fierce dog and it was hungry. If his presence did not finish off the victim, Terror could at least paralyze her, preventing all resistance. -Of course. I only have one question left. If Stapleton had managed to inherit, how did he intend to explain that he, the heir, had been living so close to Baskerville Manor under a fake name? How would he have claimed his share without raising suspicions or provoking investigations? —That is a complex question, and I fear it requires more than I can offer. The past and the present belong to the scope of my analysis, but the future of an individual it is an uncertain matter. According to his wife, Stapleton had considered several solutions. The The first was to claim from South America, proving your identity to the consular authorities British and thus obtaining the fortune without ever returning to England. The second consisted in adopting an unrecognizable disguise to be in London for just the right amount of time. The third involved give one's identity to an accomplice, with evidence and documents, in exchange for a portion of the income. From what we know of his ingenuity, it is certain that he would have found some way to solve that obstacle. And now, my dear Watson, may I suggest that we have been for weeks uninterrupted effort and that, for once, we could dedicate ourselves to lighter pleasures. I have a box for Les Huguenots. Have you ever heard of the De Reszke? In that case, would it be okay to be ready in half an hour, to stop at Marcini’s on the way to the theater and enjoy a bite before the show? 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