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you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established a most important fact by these questions, Watson,” he continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. “We know now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact.”

      “What does it suggest?”

      “It suggests—halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?”

      As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning.

      “Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,” he cried. “They’ll find they’ve started in to monkey with the wrong man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can’t find my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they’ve got a bit over the mark this time.”

      “Still looking for your boot?”

      “Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”

      “But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?”

      “So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

      “What! you don’t mean to say—?”

      “That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the world—the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and today they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and don’t stand staring!”

      An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

      “No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no word of it.”

      “Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I’ll see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel.”

      “It shall be found, sir—I promise you that if you will have a little patience it will be found.”

      “Mind it is, for it’s the last thing of mine that I’ll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle—”

      “I think it’s well worth troubling about.”

      “Why, you look very serious over it.”

      “How do you explain it?”

      “I just don’t attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me.”

      “The queerest perhaps—” said Holmes thoughtfully.

      “What do you make of it yourself?”

      “Well, I don’t profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle’s death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right.”

      We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions.

      “To go to Baskerville Hall.”

      “And when?”

      “At the end of the week.”

      “On the whole,” said Holmes, “I think that your decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?”

      Dr. Mortimer started violently. “Followed! By whom?”

      “That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full beard?”

      “No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is a man with a full, black beard.”

      “Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

      “He is in charge of the Hall.”

      “We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility he might be in London.”

      “How can you do that?”

      “Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not.”

      “That’s so,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?”

      “He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county.”

      “At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do.”

      “That is true.”

      “Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles’s will?” asked Holmes.

      “He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

      “Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

      “Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will.”

      “That is very interesting.”

      “I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me.”

      “Indeed! And anyone else?”

      “There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry.”

      “And how much was the residue?”

      “Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

      Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved,” said he.

      “Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million.”

      “Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here—you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!—who would inherit the estate?”

      “Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland.”

      “Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?”

      “Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir

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