If you have access to a copy of the November issue Vol. Besides immediately before the beginning of the story, it might have appeared across from that issue's table of contents or even at some other place among the advertisements. Please contact me to help clear up a few points. And if you have an original unbound copy of this issue, send me email even if you cannot find the illustration since this would conclusively disprove my tentative identification. The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , November , p.
The Hound of the Baskervilles (Illustrated Sidney Paget) - Kindle edition by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sidney Paget, ICU Publishing. Download it once and read it . The Hound of the Baskervilles (with Illustrations by Sidney Paget) [Arthur Conan Doyle, Sidney Paget] on uzotoqadoh.tk *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers.
Original pencil, ink and wash approx. The illustration is for a Martin Hewitt adventure published serially under the title The Red Triangle with individual case names for each part. It was collected in The Red Triangle , London and Boston , but neither book contains any illustrations. The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , December , p. Original wash drawing 14 x 10 inches matted , initialed "SP" by the artist in the lower left and captioned at bottom as "The Red Triangle 2 Get out, he shouted. See notes for the first Red Triangle drawing above.
Original pen and ink and wash drawing 12 x 10 inches inside frame , initialed "SP" by the artist in the lower right and captioned in pencil beneath the drawing as "Red Triangle 5 [circled] 'They are! Held in a simple wooden frame with glass front. See also notes for the first Red Triangle drawing above.
The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , January , p. For sale by Peter L. Stern , a dealer. Original wash drawing 12 x 9 inches , initialed "SP" by the artist in the lower right portion and inscribed in the lower left corner as "To Dr McClure The New Year Framed, with newspaper article about Paget on frame back. Not framed at time of purchase. Original ink and watercolour illustration 8. Bell next to him. Held in a private collection for many years and sold in as part of a bereavement collection in Torquay, Devon. Purchased by the current owner in from an English dealer in Torquay. Mazzoni describes this as with bodycolours, but notes that "gouache" and "bodycolour" are sometimes confused or used interchangeably.
Previously framed with caption and margins hidden. Photo of original drawing is courtesy of Dr. The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , March , p. BYU purchased this collection in toto in Not framed or matted, though a pencil border outlines the image area. The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , May , p. Above the caption but below the drawing is written " Screen" in black ink. Blue pencil notes for "Blk line round rounded corners" and a "5" next to a double-headed horizontal arrow also appear below the drawing.
The [Harmsworth] London Magazine , July , p. Original pen and ink and wash drawing 12 x 10 inches inside frame , initialed "SP" by the artist at lower right and no visible caption on the front. Faded writing appears on the back of the drawing as "Good news for you Mr Poltimore" and then the title "Face in the dark" and a number "1. Despite the notation on the back of the drawing this is the second to appear in the story.
I haven't identified a collection of her short stories that includes "The Face in the Dark. Original wash drawing 14 x 10 inches before framing , signed "S. Paget" by the artist in the lower right corner and captioned beneath the drawing as " 'Tally Ho' at the Hippodrome. Purchased from a farmer on a farm owned by relatives of Paget in September Please contact me if you know which issue of The Sphere first included this drawing.
Now in a black frame and white mat. Probably appeared as a full-page illustration or a two-page spread in or Please contact me if you think you know where this drawing first appeared.
Now matted and framed. See the Sidney Paget Memorabilia page for artifacts, books, and other Holmes-related items once owned by Paget. Public exhibitions focused on Sidney Paget or including at least three original drawings. Individual item showings are listed in the census entry. The Museum of London: The Exhibition Catalogue has color photos of all the Paget art and commentary on the drawings by two collectors.
Six original Paget drawings from the Holmes stories are shown in honor of Paget's Sesquicentennial, plus a talk by an expert Sherlockian. Toronto Public Library Virtual Exhibit: This online exhibition honors the th anniversary of the birth of Sidney Paget and includes reproductions from a nice set of non-Holmesian works. This exhibition honors the centenary of Paget's death in January and included reproductions of many of his drawings as well as background material on Holmes and Watson.
Four original Paget drawings were shown in this exhibition noted above , and a full-color exhibition poster reproduced one of them. Seven original Paget drawings noted above , with six from the Holmes stories and the unpublished portrait A. Sidney Edward Paget was a painter and illustrator best known for his drawings for the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that appeared in The Strand Magazine and various book editions by George Newnes and other publishers.
His oldest brother, Henry Marriott Paget , was a painter of historical subjects and portraits. His youngest brother, Walter Stanley Paget ? Sidney entered the Royal Academy Schools in and won a number of prizes. At least nineteen of his paintings were shown at Royal Academy exhibitions from to He married Edith Hounsfield on 1 June and had six children with her. Around he developed a painful chest complaint. While some sources claim this may have come from ingesting lead-based paint when sucking his brushes, L.
M Goode reports that his death certificate gave the cause of death as "Mediastinal tumour, 3 years, exhaustion. Part II of this census, on Paget paintings, lists and shows Paget family portraits painted by Sidney. Some other elements of Paget family history are shown and described on the Sidney Paget Memorabilia page. For each section of illustrations, drawings are listed chronologically by publication date and then in the sequence in which they appeared in the text.
Bold captions at the top of each entry contain the text that appeared with the drawing's first publication in England. A "Private Collector" is someone who requested anonymity for this online census. I will forward email to the owner if you have a question for them. Dimensions, given as Height by Width, are in inches and generally to the nearest quarter.
This selective listing of photos of the original drawings focuses on widely available sources and typically does not include auction or dealer catalogs. When the illustration also appears in the first English or American edition of the relevant Sherlock Holmes book, I cite that in the Notes for that entry. When applicable, the notes cite a cross-reference to Ann Byerly's census. Ownership and descriptions have been personally confirmed by me with the owner unless noted otherwise.
When reports differ on any aspect of a drawing, I typically provide what appears to be the most authoritative version. In addition to various bookseller and auction catalogues, the following sources were particularly useful. Scuttlebutt from the Spermaceti Press , various issues.
All 20 drawings listed in her census are included with cross-references above, and many entries are updated with new information. And one more question, Dr Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here - you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis! James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmorland.
He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him. He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it. I've had no time, for it was only yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go with the title and estate.
That was my poor uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone. With all the good will in the world, he may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side.
At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor. No one can say so more confidently than I. The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to answer Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.
If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll never forget it. The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the Baronet hailed me as a companion. I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready? We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph, and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a cabinet. The German was sent for, but professed to know nothing of the matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly.
Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted.
All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question. The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.
I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective? Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it? He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions.
I was glad enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here. We pulled up half-way down the street and waited an hour and a half.
Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and along-'. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and said: The cabman scratched his head.
I'd put him at forty years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that. There's another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. John Clayton departed, chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile.
He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly, dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.
Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station, and gave me his last parting injunctions and advice. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations.
There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor. You could not make a greater mistake.
If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions.
There is Mr Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours.
These are the folk who must be your very special study. Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage, and were waiting for us upon the platform. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do.
Did you get your other boot? That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,' he added, as the train began to glide down the platform. I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind, and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us. The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions, and in playing with Dr Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate.
Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not? Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr Watson, and I'm as keen as possible to see the moor. Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor,' said Dr Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men.
There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it. The train pulled up at a small wayside station, and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed.
The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upwards on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upwards through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy harts-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream, which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders.
Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turning Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation - sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which, we travelled. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no sight of him yet.
The farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing. I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin.
The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky.
Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him. We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders.
Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a cup-like depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with his whip. Its master had risen, and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.
A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold. Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads.
Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end. I'll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won't know it again with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door. The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected.
The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette.
The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service. The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge balks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped.
Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats-of-arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp. It's just as I imagined it,' said Sir Henry. To think that this should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived! It strikes me solemn to think of it. I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him.
Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard, and pale, distinguished features. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff. You would, naturally, wish to have more company, and so you will need changes in your household.
I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms. A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall, approached by a double stair. From this central point two long corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all the bedrooms opened.
My own was in the same wing as Baskerville's and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind. But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents. At one end a minstrels' gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them.
With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have softened, but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company.
We talked little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette. I don't wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning. I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my window.
It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.
And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable.
It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away, and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall. The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our minds the grim and grey impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience at Baskerville Hall.
As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats-of-arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream. He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience.
It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's question. The other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her. And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face.
She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern, set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this?
And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street?
The beard might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point for ever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster, and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes. Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr Mortimer, stood high above the rest.
The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not? If there is any mistake it is for Mr Barrymore himself to complain. It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any further, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so - suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England.
Was he the agent of others, or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of The Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores.
But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the grey, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a grey suit and wearing a straw hat.
A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder, and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House. But how did you know me? As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey? It is asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the country-side.
Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter? Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor. I fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak.
The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed no surprise was intended. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take. He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of service to you, I trust that you will command me.
If I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions, or how you propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or advice. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again.
We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a grey plume of smoke. My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help him with those.
And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious. The residents would call me a new-comer.
We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that there are few men who know it better than I do. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here, with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable about that? You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it? Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place.
And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable ponies! Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upwards and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.
The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. Have you turned the case over in your mind? All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. At twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master.
Two in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather, and never know the difference until the Mire has them in its clutch. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire. They are really islands cut off on all sides by the impassable Mire, which has crawled round them in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them. He looked at me with a surprised face. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it.
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression on his face. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud. I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.
You don't believe such nonsense as that? Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns.
Look at the hillside yonder. What do you make of those? Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant!
It is surely Cyclopides. A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great Mire, but my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous Mire, when I heard the sound of steps, and, turning round, found a woman near me upon the path.
She had come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close. I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. Castle Books, [after ]. See below for passage illustrated.
Paget's earlier illustration of this recognition scene Formatting and text by George P.