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feet across.”

      “Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?”

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

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

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

      “Is there any other opening?”

      “None.”

      “So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?”

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

      “Had Sir Charles reached this?”

      “No; he lay about fifty yards from it.”

      “Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?”

      “No marks could show on the grass.”

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

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

      “You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate[54]closed?”

      “Closed and padlocked[55].”

      “How high was it?”

      “About four feet high.”

      “Then anyone could have got over it?”

      “Yes.”

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

      “None in particular.”

      “Good heaven! Did no one examine?”

      “Yes, I examined, myself.”

      “And found nothing?”

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

      “How do you know that?”

      “Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”

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

      “He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could detect no others.”

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

      “If I had only been there!” he cried.

      “I find that before the terrible event several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, terrible, and ghostlike. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier[56], and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition[57], exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night.”

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

      “I do not know what to believe.”

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have previously confined[58] my investigations to this world,” said he. “In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material.”

      “The original hound was material enough to tug a man’s throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well.”

      “I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? How can I assist you?”

      “By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station”—Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch—“in exactly one hour and a quarter.”

      “He being the heir?”

      “Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee[59] and executor of Sir Charles’s will.”

      “There is no other claimant[60], I presume?”

      “None. The only other relative whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?”

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

      “It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be influenced too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice.”

      Holmes considered for a little time.

      “Put into plain words, the matter is this,” said he. “In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe place for a Baskerville—that is your opinion?”

      “At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so.”

      “Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry[61] would be too unthinkable a thing.”

      “You put the matter more jokily, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?”

      “I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.”

      “And then?”

      “And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.”

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

      “Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”

      “I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff[62] and hurried off in his strange, peering, absentminded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the

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