LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.”

      “But why at such an hour?”

      “Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier.”

      “But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?”

      “Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s house?”

      “Well, what happened when you did get there?”

      “I never went.”

      “Mrs. Lyons!”

      “No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going.”

      “What was that?”

      “That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”

      “You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment.”

      “That is the truth.”

      Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point.

      “Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, “you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?”

      “Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal.”

      “And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?”

      “If you have read the letter you will know.”

      “I did not say that I had read all the letter.”

      “You quoted some of it.”

      “I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death.”

      “The matter is a very private one.”

      “The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation.”

      “I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it.”

      “I have heard so much.”

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

      “Then how is it that you did not go?”

      “Because I received help in the interval from another source.”

      “Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”

      “So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning.”

      The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy.

      It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor.

      And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore’s only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed.

      Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.

      “Good-day, Dr. Watson,” cried he with unwonted good humour, “you must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me.”

      My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

      “It is a great day for me, sir—one of the red-letter days of my life,” he cried with many chuckles. “I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton’s park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We’ll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I’ve closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren.”

      “How on earth did you do that?”

      “Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading—Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen’s Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my verdict.”

      “Did it do you any good?”

      “None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police last time

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