was at my advice that Sir Charles decided to go to London. His heart was, I knew, weak, and the constant fear in which he lived, was evidently very bad for his health. I thought that a few months in town would do him a lot of good. Mr. Stapleton, our friend, was of the same opinion. And at the last moment this tragic death came.
“On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler sent Perkins the groom for me, and I was able to reach Baskerville Hall an hour after the death. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the place at the moor gate where he evidently had waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the footsteps. I saw that there were no other footsteps except those of Barrymore, and I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground. I turned him over and saw that his face was so convulsed that I could hardly recognize my friend. There was no physical injury of any kind. Barrymore said at the inquest that there were no footprints on the ground round the body. He did not see any. But I did—some little distance off, but fresh and clear.”
“Footprints?”
“Footprints.”
“A man’s or a woman’s?”
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for a moment, and said in a whisper:
“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”
Chapter 4
The Problem
I saw that Holmes was really interested.
“You saw this?”
“As clearly as I see you.”
“Why did not anyone else see it?”
“The footsteps were some distance away from the body. I should not have noticed them myself if I had not known this legend.”
“But they had not approached the body?”
“No.”
“What kind of night was it?”
“Damp but not raining.”
“Is there any other gate that leads on to the moor?”
“None.”
“Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—was the gate closed?”
“Closed and locked.”
“How high was it?”
“About four feet high.”
“Then anyone could get over it?”
“Yes.”
“And what marks did you see by the gate?”
“Nothing interesting.”
“Good heaven! Did no one examine?”
“Yes, I examined, myself.”
“And found nothing?”
“Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”
“Excellent! But the marks?”
“He had left his own marks all over that small place. I could see no others.”
“If I had only been there!” he cried. “It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, why did you not call me in!”
“I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without telling everyone about these facts, and I have explained why I did not wish to do so. Besides—”
“Yes?”
“There are things in which the best of detectives is helpless.”
“You mean that the thing is supernatural?”
“I did not say so.”
“No, but you evidently think it.”
“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, I have heard some strange stories.”
“For example?”
“Before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature on the moor which looked like the Baskerville demon. They all said that it was huge and luminous, like a dreadful apparition of the legend. There is a feeling of terror in the district, and hardly anyone crosses the moor at night.”
“And you, a man of science, believe it to be supernatural?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“But, Dr. Mortimer, if you think that the hound is supernatural, why have you come to consult with me? You tell me that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death, and that you want me to do it.”
“I did not say that I wanted you to do it.”
“Then, how can I help you?”
“By advising me what to do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station today.”
“Is he the heir?”
“Yes. After the death of Sir Charles we looked for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada.”
“There is no other heir, I believe?”
“None. The only other relative whom we have been able to find was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the eldest. The second brother, who died young, is the father of Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He looked very much like the family picture of old Hugo, they tell me. He left England for Central America, and died there in 1876. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I am meeting him at Waterloo Station. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?”
“Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?”
“It seems natural, does it not? And yet, every Baskerville who goes there meets with his death. That is why I ask for your advice. What would you recommend?”
Holmes thought for a little time.
“I recommend, sir, that you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.”
“How long will it take you to make up your mind?”
“Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, call on me here, and bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”
“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.”
“Good morning.”
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of satisfaction which meant that he had an interesting
