Essential Novelists - Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Conan Doyle

that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.”

      “And then?”

      “And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.”

      “How long will it take you to make up your mind?”

      “Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”

      “I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

      “Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville’s death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?”

      “Three people did.”

      “Did any see it after?”

      “I have not heard of any.”

      “Thank you. Good-morning.”

      Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

      “Going out, Watson?”

      “Unless I can help you.”

      “No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley’s, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning.”

      I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o’clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more.

      My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.

      “Caught cold, Watson?” said he.

      “No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”

      “I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.”

      “Thick! It is intolerable.”

      “Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.”

      “My dear Holmes!”

      “Am I right?”

      “Certainly, but how?”

      He laughed at my bewildered expression. “There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?”

      “Well, it is rather obvious.”

      “The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?”

      “A fixture also.”

      “On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”

      “In spirit?”

      “Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about.”

      “A large-scale map, I presume?”

      “Very large.”

      He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. “Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle.”

      “With a wood round it?”

      “Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again.”

      “It must be a wild place.”

      “Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men—”

      “Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation.”

      “The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we’ll shut that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?”

      “Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.”

      “What do you make of it?”

      “It is very bewildering.”

      “It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?”

      “Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley.”

      “He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?”

      “What then?”

      “He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart—and fell dead upon his face.”

      “Running from what?”

      “There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run.”

      “How can you say that?”

      “I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy’s evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then,