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I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to the Hound of The Baskervilles Part 3. In the last episode, Holmes and Watson were visited by Sir Henry Baskerville, the new American heir to the Baskerville estate. Having just arrived in London, Sir Henry was greeted by a sinister warning advising him to stay away from the family home in Dartmoor. But he wasn't daunted, insisting that he intended to take up residence at the first opportunity. He did mention one strange incident, however. He recently had a brand new boot stolen from his hotel. Just one boot, mind. The thief left the other one outside his room. Holmes and Watson tailed Sir Henry back to the Northumberland Hotel and discovered they weren't the only ones following him. A mysterious bearded man also seemed to be dogging his every move. Now Sherlock is attempting to track down the cabbie in whose vehicle the spy was last seen from the Noiser podcast network. This is the Hound of The Baskervilles Part 3. Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas. From our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel. Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you, said the clerk. He asked me to show you up at once when you came. Have you any objection to my looking at your register? Said Holmes. Not in the least. The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family of Newcastle, the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid of High Lodge Alton. Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know, said Holmes to the porter. A lawyer, is he not? Grey headed and walks with a limp? No, Sir. This is Mr. Johnson, the coal owner. A very active gentleman, not older than yourself, surely. You are mistaken about his trade. No, sir. He has used this hotel for many years and is very well known to us. Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore too. I seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds another. She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town. Thank you. I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established a most important fact by these questions, Watson, he continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. We know now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see them. Now this is a most suggestive fact. What does it suggest? It suggests. Hallo my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter? As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate. And when he did speak it was in a much broader and more western dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning. Seems to me they're playing me for a sucker in this hotel. He cried. They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time. Still looking for your boot? Yes sir, and mean to find it. But surely you said that it was a new brown boot. So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one. What, you, you don't mean to say. That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the world. The new brown, the old black and the patent leathers which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones and today they have sneaked one of the black. Have you got it? Speak out man, and don't stand staring. An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene. No sir. I have made inquiry all over the hotel but I can hear no word of it. Well either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel. It shall be found, sir. I promise you that if you will have a little patience it will be found. Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle. I think it's well worth troubling about. Why? You look very serious over it. How do you explain it? I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me. The queerest perhaps, said Holmes thoughtfully. What do you make of it yourself? Well I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry when taken in conjunction with your uncle's death. I am not sure that of all the 500 cases of capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one but sooner or later we must come upon the right. We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions. To go to Baskerville hall and when? At the end of the week. On the whole, said Holmes, I think that your decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London. And amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief and we should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house? Dr. Mortimer started violently. Followed by whom? That, unfortunately is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black full beard? No. Let me see. Well, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a man with a full black beard. Ah. Where is Barrymore? He is in charge of the hall. We had best ascertain if he is really there or if by any possibility he might be in London. How can you do that? Give me a telegraph form. Is all ready for Sir Henry. That will do. Addressed to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph office? Grimpen. Very good. We will send a second wire to the postmaster grimpen. Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel. That should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not. That so, said Baskerville. By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore anyhow? He is the son of the old caretaker who is dead. They have looked after the hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county. At the same time, said Baskerville, it's clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the hall, these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do. That is true. Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will? Asked Holmes. He and his wife had £500 each. Ah. Did they know that they would receive this? Yes. Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will. That is very interesting. I hope, said Dr. Mortimer, that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me. Indeed. And anyone else? There were many insignificant sums to individuals and a large number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry. And how much was the residue? £740,000. Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. I had no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved, said he. Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million. Dear me, it is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here, you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis. Who would inherit the estate? Since Roger Baskerville, Sir Charles younger brother, died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland. Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond? Yes. He once came down to visit Sir Charles. 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. And this man of simple tastes, would be the heir to Sir Charles's thousands. He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. 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. And have you made your will, Sir Henry? No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I have 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 their property? House, land and dollars must go together quite so. 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. Dr. Mortimer returns with me. But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to and his house is miles away from yours. 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. Is it possible that you could come yourself? Mr. Holmes, if matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person. But you can understand that with my extensive consulting practice and with the constant appeal appeals which reach me from many quarters it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. 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. Whom would you recommend then? Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. If my friend would undertake it, I. There is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. 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. Well now that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson, said he. You see how it is with me and you know just as much about the matter as I do. 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 will come with pleasure, said I. I do not know how I could employ my time better. And you will report very carefully to me, said Holmes. When a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready. Would that suit Dr. Watson? Perfectly. Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the 10:30 train from Paddington. We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph. Ah. And diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a cabinet. My missing boot. He cried. May all our difficulties vanish as easily, said Sherlock Holmes. But it is a very singular thing, Dr. Mortimer remarked. I searched this room carefully before lunch. And so did I, said Baskerville. Every inch of it. There was certainly no boot in it then. In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were lunching. 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 endeavoring 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 thoroughly thought. Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall Baskerville. The second visited 23 hotels as directed but sorry to report unable to trace cut sheet of times. Cartwright. There go two of my threads. Watson, there is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another cent. We have still the cabman who drove the spy. Exactly. 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 got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for. Number 2704, said he. I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the yard to ask you to your face what you had against me. I have nothing in the world against you, my good man, said Holmes. On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions. Well, I've had a good day and no mistake, said the cabman with a grin. What was it you wanted to ask, sir? First of all, your name and address in case I want you again. John Clayton, 3 Turpie street, the borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard near Waterloo Station. Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fair who came and watched this house at 10 o' clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street. The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. There's no good my telling you things for you seem to know as much as I do already, said he. The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a Detective, and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone. My good fellow, this is a very serious business and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective? Yes, he did. When did he say this? When he left me. Did he say anything more? He mentioned his name. Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned? His name, said the cabman, was Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 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. A touch, Watson, an undeniable touch, said he. I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it? Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name. Excellent. Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred. He hailed me at half past nine in Trafalgar Square. 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. This very door, said Holmes. Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about it. We pulled up halfway 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. I know, said Holmes. Well, until we got three quarters down Regent Street. 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 10 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 he said, it might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes. That's how I come to know the name. I see. And you saw no more of him? Not after he went into the station. And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes? The cabman scratched his head. Well, he wasn't altogether such an easy gentleman to describe. I'd put him at 40 years of age and he was of a middle height 2 or 3 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. Color of his eyes? No, I can't say that. Nothing more that you can remember? No sir, nothing. Well then here is your half sovereign. The there's another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good night. Good night, sir, and thank you. John Clayton departed, chuckling and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile. Snap goes our third thread and we end where we began. The cunning rascal. 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. About what? About sending you. 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 will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson said he I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me and you can leave me to do the theorizing. What sort of facts? I asked. Anything which may seem to have a bearing, however indirect, upon the case and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbors or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. 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. Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple? By no means. 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 laughter hall, who is also an unknown factor. And there are one or two other neighbors. These are the folk who must be your very special study. I will do my best. You have arms, I suppose? Yes. I thought it as well to take them. Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day and never relax your precautions. Our friends had already secured a first class carriage and were waiting for us upon the platform. No, we have no news of any kind, said Dr. Mortimer. In answer to my friends questions I can swear to one thing and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch and no one could have escaped our notice. You have always kept together, I presume, except yesterday afternoon. 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 and I went to look at the folk in the park, said Baskerville, but we had no trouble of any kind. It was imprudent. All the same, said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave, I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot? No, sir, it is gone forever. Indeed, that is very interesting. Well, goodbye, he added as the train began to glide down the platform. Bear in mind Sir Henry one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted. 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. I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson, said he, but I have never seen a place to compare with it. I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county. I remarked it depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county, said Dr. Mortimer. A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. 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? I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father's death and had never seen the hall for he lived in a little cottage on the south coast. 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. Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor. Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, 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, valor 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 upward on either side of us and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the the thick green foliage. But behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside 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 upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels. High banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hartstongue 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 gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn 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 countryside 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. Hello. Cried Dr. Mortimer. What is this? 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. What is this, Perkins? Asked Dr. Mortimer, our driver, half turned in his seat. There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. 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. Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information. Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing, who Is he? Then it is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer. 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 taws. 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. Baskerville hall, said he. 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 and wrought iron with weather bitten pillars on either side blotched with lichens and surmounted by the boar's 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 St 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 somber 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. Was it here? He asked in a low voice. No, no. The yew alley is on the other side. The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face. It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him. In such a place as this, said he, it's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of electric lamps up here 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 center 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, crenelated 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. Welcome, Sir Henry. Welcome to Baskerville Hall. 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. You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry? Said Dr. Mortimer. My wife is expecting me. Surely you will stay and have some dinner? No, I must go. 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. Goodbye, 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 rafted with huge bulks 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. Is it not? The very picture of an old family home. To think that this should be the same hall in which for 500 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. Would you wish dinner to be served? At once, sir. Is it ready? In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your room. 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. What new conditions? I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life and we were able to look after his wants. You would naturally wish to have more company and so you will need changes in your household. Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave? Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir. But your family have been with us for several generations, have they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection. I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white face. I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles and his death gave us a shock and made the surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall. But what do you intend to do? I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves in some business. 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 and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the de where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependence 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 color 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. My word, it isn't a very cheerful place, said Sir Henry. I suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present. 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 to night 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. The 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 deathless 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. Next time, in the Hound of the Baskervilles, Watson succeeds in identifying the heartbroken woman. He makes a couple of new friends on the moor and witnesses a horrifying death in the process, and the search for the escaped prisoner continues. That's next time. Can't wait until the next episode. Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. 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