The Hound of the Baskervilles
interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was
supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the
convict’s, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his
knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity
and indifference were evidently my strongest cards.
“I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of
one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father’s dinner.”
The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his grey
whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.
“Indeed, sir!” said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching
moor. “Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see
the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the
stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd
would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a
most absurd one.”
I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the
facts. My submission pleased him and led him to further
confidences.
“You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I
come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his
bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been
able—but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is
there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside?”
It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark
dot against the dull green and grey.
“Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. “You will
see with your own eyes and judge for yourself.”
The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,
stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye
to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.
“Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!”
There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle
upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached
the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant
against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and
stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over
the hill.
“Well! Am I right?”
“Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand.”
“And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But
not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy
also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!”
“Just as you wish.”
“They have treated me shamefully—shamefully. When the facts come
out in Frankland _v_. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of
indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me
to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have
been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the
stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the
decanter in honour of this great occasion!”
But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading
him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept
the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off
across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy
had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore
that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that
I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.
The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the
hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one
side and grey shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the
farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of
Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound
and no movement. One great grey bird, a gull or curlew, soared
aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living
things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath
it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery
and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy
was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the
hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle
of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a
screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw
it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my
foot was on the threshold of his hiding place—his secret was
within my grasp.
As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do
when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I
satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a
habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the
dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent
within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be
prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of
adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the
butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked
in. The place was empty.
But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false
scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets
rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which
Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped
in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place
had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became
accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full
bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the
hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this
stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen
through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained
a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved
peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my
heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper
with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,
roughly scrawled in pencil: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe
Tracey.”
For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking
out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir
Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not
followed me himself, but he had set an agent—the boy,
perhaps—upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had
taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been
observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen
force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and
delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme
moment that one realised that one was indeed entangled in its
meshes.
If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round
the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of
anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might
indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this
singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared
little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy
rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and
immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that
inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by
chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut
until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with
scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches
by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There
were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur
of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,
behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet
and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I
looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but
quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which
every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a
fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited
with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a
boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming
nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and
cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself
until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.
There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then
once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the
opening of the hut.
“It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known
voice. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside
than in.”
Chapter 12.
Death on the Moor
For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my
ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a
crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be
lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could
belong to but one man in all the world.
“Holmes!” I cried—“Holmes!”
“Come out,” said he, “and please be careful with the revolver.”
I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon
my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and
alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the
wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other
tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike
love of personal cleanliness which was one of his
characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen
as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.
“I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I
wrung him by the hand.
“Or more astonished, eh?”
“Well, I must confess to it.”
“The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no
idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that
you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door.”
“My footprint, I presume?”
“No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously
desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I
see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know
that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it
there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that
supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut.”
“Exactly.”
“I thought as much—and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I
was the criminal?”