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The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapterhas brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a timewhen these strange events began to move swiftly towards theirterrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days areindelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell themwithout reference to the notes made at the time. I start them fromthe day which succeeded that upon which I had established twofacts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons ofCoombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and madean appointment with him at the very place and hour that he methis death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to befound among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these twofacts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or mycourage must be deficient if I could not throw some further lightupon these dark places.

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learnedabout Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimerremained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast,however, I informed him about my discovery and asked himwhether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. Atfirst he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts itseemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might bebetter. The more formal we made the visit the less informationwe might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not withoutsome prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up thehorses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come tointerrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which werecentral and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sittingbefore a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smileof welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was astranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of myvisit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extremebeauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour,and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed withthe exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurksat the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, thefirst 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 lipwhich marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are after-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was inthe presence of a very handsome woman, and that she wasasking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understooduntil 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 itwere not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kindhearts I might have starved for all that my father cared."

"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have comehere to see you."

The freckles started out on the lady's face.

"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingersplayed 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. IfI am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest whichhe took in my unhappy situation."

"Did you correspond with him?"

The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazeleyes.

"What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

"The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that Ishould ask them here than that the matter should pass outside ourcontrol."

She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last shelooked 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 hisdelicacy 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. Hewas a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how didhe know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as yousay that he has done?"

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history andunited to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour andintimate friend of Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and itwas through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs."

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapletonhis almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement borethe 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 extraordinary question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

"Then I answer, certainly not."

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face wasbefore me. Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I sawrather than heard.

"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could evenquote a passage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are agentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.' "

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by asupreme effort.

"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

"You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. Butsometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. Youacknowledge now that you wrote it?"

"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in atorrent of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have noreason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believedthat if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him tomeet me."

"But why at such an hour?"

"Because I had only just learned that he was going to Londonnext day and might be away for months. There were reasons whyI could not get there earlier."

"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to thehouse?"

"Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to abachelor's house?"

"Well, what happened when you did get there?"

"I never went."

"Mrs. Lyons!"

"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went.Something intervened to prevent my going."

"What was that?"

"That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."

"You acknowledge then that you made an appointment withSir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death,but you deny that you kept the appointment."

"That is the truth."

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never getpast that point.

"Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility andputting yourself in a very false position by not making anabsolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call inthe aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the firstinstance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?"

"Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawnfrom it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

"And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles shoulddestroy your letter?"

"If you have read the letter you will know."

"I did not say that I had read all the letter."

"You quoted some of it."

"I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burnedand it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was thatyou were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letterwhich he received on the day of his death."

"The matter is a very private one."

"The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

"I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of myunhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage andhad reason to regret it."

"I have heard so much."

"My life has been one incessant persecution from a husbandwhom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day Iam faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him.At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learnedthat there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certainexpenses could be met. It meant everything to me -- peace ofmind, happiness, self-respect -- everything. I knew Sir Charles'sgenerosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my ownlips he would help me."

"Then how is it that you did not go?"

"Because I received help in the interval from another source."

"Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explainthis?"

"So I should have done had I not seen his death in the papernext morning."

The woman's story hung coherently together, and all myquestions were unable to shake it. I could only check it byfinding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings againsther husband at or about the time of the tragedy.

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had notbeen to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap wouldbe necessary to take her there, and could not have returned toCoombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such anexcursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of thetruth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I hadreached that dead wall which seemed to be built across everypath by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yetthe more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner the moreI felt that something was being held back from me. Why shouldshe turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admissionuntil it was forced from her? Why should she have been soreticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of allthis could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. Forthe moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but mustturn back to that other clue which was to be sought for amongthe stone huts upon the moor.

And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I droveback and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancientpeople. Barrymore's only indication had been that the strangerlived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds ofthem are scattered throughout the length and breadth of themoor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it hadshown me the man himself standing upon the summit of theBlack Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. Fromthere I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lightedupon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find outfrom his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, whohe was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip awayfrom us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle himto do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I shouldfind the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remainthere, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes hadmissed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if Icould run him to earth where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, butnow at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of goodfortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing,gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of bis garden,which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.

"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted goodhumour, "you must really give your horses a rest and come in tohave a glass of wine and to congratulate me."

My feelings towards him were very far from being friendlyafter what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I wasanxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to SirHenry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

"It is a great day for me, sir -- one of the red-letter days of mylife," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a doubleevent. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, andthat there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I haveestablished a right of way through the centre of old Middleton'spark, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own frontdoor. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates thatthey cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners,confound them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthyfolk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think thatthere are no rights of property, and that they can swarm wherethey like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decidedDr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a daysince I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in hisown warren."

"How on earth did you do that?"

"Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading -- Franklandv. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I gotmy verdict."

"Did it do you any good?"

"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest inthe matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have nodoubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me ineffigy to-night. I told the police last time they did it that theyshould stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me theprotection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v.Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public. Itold them that they would have occasion to regret their treatmentof me, and already my words have come true."

"How so?" I asked.

The oId man put on a very knowing expression.

"Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; butnothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could getaway from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more ofit. I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner tounderstand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest wayto stop his confidences.

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with an indifferentmanner~

"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter thanthat! What about the convict on the moor?"

I stared. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" saidI.

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure thatI could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it neverstruck you that the way to catch that man was to find out wherehe got his food and so trace it to him?"

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near thetruth. "No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he isanywhere upon the moor?"

"I know it because I have seen with my own eyes themessenger who takes him his food."

My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be inthe power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark tooka weight from my mind.

"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by achild. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof.He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whomshould he be going except to the convict?"

Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance ofinterest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown wassupplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon theconvict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulityand indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

"I should say that it was much more likely that it was the sonof one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the oldautocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.

"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretchingmoor. "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do yousee the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is thestoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherdwould be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is amost absurd one."

I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all thefacts. My submission pleased him and led him to furtherconfidences.

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before Icome to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with hisbundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have beenable -- but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me,or is there at the present moment something moving upon thathillside?"

It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small darkdot against the dull green and gray.

"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "Youwill 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 clappedhis 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 bundleupon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reachedthe crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instantagainst the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtiveand stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanishedover the hill.

"Well! Am I right?"

"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secreterrand."

"And what the errand is even a county constable could guess.But not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you tosecrecy also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!"

"Just as you wish."

"They have treated me shamefully -- shamefully. When the factscome out in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill ofindignation will run through the country. Nothing would induceme to help the police in any way. For all they cared it mighthave been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burnedat the stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me toempty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!"

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuadinghim from his announced intention of walking home with me. Ikept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck offacross the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boyhad disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and Iswore that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown inmy way.

The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of thehill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on oneside and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon thefarthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes ofBelliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was nosound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew,soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the onlyliving things between the huge arch of the sky and the desertbeneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and themystery 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 cleftof the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in themiddle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof toact as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me asI saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. Atlast my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place -- his secretwas within my grasp.

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton woulddo when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, Isatisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidatedopening which served as a door. All was silent within. Theunknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on themoor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwingaside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of myrevolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. Theplace was empty.

But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a falsescent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blanketsrolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon whichneolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire wereheaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and abucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that theplace had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyesbecame accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and ahalf-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle ofthe hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon thisstood a small cloth bundle -- the same, no doubt, which I hadseen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. Itcontained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins ofpreserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examinedit, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet ofpaper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to CoombeTracey."

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinkingout the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not SirHenry, who was being aogged by this secret man. He had notfollowed me himself, but he had set an agent -- the boy, perhaps -- upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken nostep since I had been upon the moor which had not been observedand reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, afine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holdingus so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that onerealized that one was indeed-entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report there might be others, so I lookedround the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, ofanything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which mightindicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in thissingular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and caredlittle for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rainsand looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong andimmutable must be the purpose which had kept him in thatinhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he bychance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hutuntil I knew.

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazingwith scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddypatches by the distant pools which lay amid the great GrimpenMire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there adistant 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 eveninglight, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of thepeace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror ofthat interview which every instant was bringing nearer. Withtingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of thehut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink ofa boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another,coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest cornerand cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discovermyself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of thestranger. There was a long pause which showed that he hadstopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadowfell across the opening of the hut.

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-knownvoice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outsidethan in."