Dr. Mortimer put his paper in his pocket. “Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, of the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”

“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for telling me about a case which certainly may be of interest. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?”

“It does.”

“Have you any other facts?”

“I am telling something I have not told anyone,” said Dr. Mortimer. “My motive is that a man of science does not want to be associated with superstition. I had another motive that no one would want to live at Baskerville Hall, if anything increased its already rather bad reputation. That was why I said less than I knew.

“Very few people live on the moor, and those who live here know each other very well, so I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles’s illness brought us together as well as our interests in science. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and we have spent together many nice evenings discussing scientific problems.

“In the last few months it became clear to me that Sir Charles’s nervous system was near the breaking point. He had taken this legend close to heart—so much that nothing would make him go out on the moor at night. He was sure that his family was cursed. He asked me many times whether I had ever seen any strange beast or heard the barking of a hound on my medical journeys at night. He was sure there was a dreadful hound on the moor.

“I can well remember visiting him in his house in the evening some three weeks before his death. He was at the front door. I was standing in front of him, when I saw him looking over my shoulder with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I turned round and had just time to see something which I took for a large black calf passing the alley. So excited and alarmed was he that I had to go down to where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, but Sir Charles was very much alarmed. I stayed with him all the evening, and he gave me the manuscript, which I read to you.

“It was at my advice that Sir Charles decided to go to London. His heart was, I knew, weak, and the constant fear in which he lived, was evidently very bad for his health. I thought that a few months in town would do him a lot of good. Mr. Stapleton, our friend, was of the same opinion. And at the last moment this tragic death came.

“On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler sent Perkins the groom for me, and I was able to reach Baskerville Hall an hour after the death. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the place at the moor gate where he evidently had waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the footsteps. I saw that there were no other footsteps except those of Barrymore, and I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground. I turned him over and saw that his face was so convulsed that I could hardly recognize my friend. There was no physical injury of any kind. Barrymore said at the inquest that there were no footprints on the ground round the body. He did not see any. But I did—some little distance off, but fresh and clear.”

“Footprints?”

“Footprints.”

“A man’s or a woman’s?”

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for a moment, and said in a whisper:

“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”

I saw that Holmes was really interested.

“You saw this?”

“As clearly as I see you.”

“Why did not anyone else see it?”

“The footsteps were some distance away from the body. I should not have noticed them myself if I had not known this legend.”

“But they had not approached the body?”

“No.”

“What kind of night was it?”

“Damp but not raining.”

“Is there any other gate that leads on to the moor?”

“None.”

“Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—was the gate closed?”

“Closed and locked.”

“How high was it?”

“About four feet high.”

“Then anyone could get over it?”

“Yes.”

“And what marks did you see by the gate?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“Good heaven! Did no one examine?”

“Yes, I examined, myself.”

“And found nothing?”

“Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”

“Excellent! But the marks?”

“He had left his own marks all over that small place. I could see no others.”

“If I had only been there!” he cried. “It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, why did you not call me in!”

“I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without telling everyone about these facts, and I have explained why I did not wish to do so. Besides—”

“Yes?”

“There are things in which the best of detectives is helpless.”

“You mean that the thing is supernatural?”

“I did not say so.”

“No, but you evidently think it.”

“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, I have heard some strange stories.”

“For example?”

“Before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature on the moor which looked like the Baskerville demon. They all said that it was huge and luminous, like a dreadful apparition of the legend. There is a feeling of terror in the district, and hardly anyone crosses the moor at night.”