The Hound of the Baskervilles
on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The
fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.
Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she
had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other
reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the
girl has had a pretty bad time.”
“How does she live?”
“I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be
more, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she
may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the
bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did
something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did
for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It
was to set her up in a typewriting business.”
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is
no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow
morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see
this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will
have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of
mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,
for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent
I asked him casually to what type Frankland’s skull belonged, and
so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have
not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just
now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due
time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played
écarté afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the
library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.
“Well,” said I, “has this precious relation of yours departed, or
is he still lurking out yonder?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has
brought nothing but trouble here! I’ve not heard of him since I
left out food for him last, and that was three days ago.”
“Did you see him then?”
“No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”
“Then he was certainly there?”
“So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took
it.”
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at
Barrymore.
“You know that there is another man then?”
“Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know of him then?”
“Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding,
too, but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t
like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you straight, sir, that I don’t like
it.” He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.
“Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter
but that of your master. I have come here with no object except
to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don’t like.”
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst
or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.
“It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last, waving his
hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor.
“There’s foul play somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing,
to that I’ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry
on his way back to London again!”
“But what is it that alarms you?”
“Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, for all that
the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night.
There’s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for
it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and
waiting! What’s he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no
good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall
be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants
are ready to take over the Hall.”
“But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything
about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or
what he was doing?”
“He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing
away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he
found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he
was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not
make out.”
“And where did he say that he lived?”
“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the
old folk used to live.”
“But how about his food?”
“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and
brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what
he wants.”
“Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other
time.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the black
window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds
and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild
night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.
What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in
such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose
can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon
the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has
vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have
passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
of the mystery.
Chapter 11.
The Man on the Tor
The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter
has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time
when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their
terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are
indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them
without reference to the notes made at the time. I start them
from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established
two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of
Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an
appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his
death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be
found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two
facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my
courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light
upon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained
with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however,
I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would
care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager
to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I
went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made
the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry
behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and
drove off upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,
and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.
I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and
well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I
entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a
Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.
Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and
she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme
beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and
her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the
exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at
the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the
first impression. But the second was criticism. There was
something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of
expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip
which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are
afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in
the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me
the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that
instant how delicate my mission was.
“I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”
It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.
“There is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said.
“I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not
for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I
might have starved for all that my father cared.”
“It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come
here to see you.”
The freckles started out on the lady’s face.
“What can I tell you about him?” she asked, and her fingers
played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.
“You knew him, did you not?”
“I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If
I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest
which he took in my unhappy situation.”
“Did you correspond with him?”
The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.
“What is the object of these questions?” she asked sharply.
“The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I
should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our
control.”
She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she
looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.
“Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What are your questions?”
“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”
“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his
delicacy and his generosity.”
“Have you the dates of those letters?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a
very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.”
“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he
know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say
that he has done?”
She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.
“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united
to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate
friend of Sir Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was
through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton
his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady’s statement bore
the impress of truth upon it.
“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I
continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “Really, sir, this is a very