“And you, a man of science, believe it to be supernatural?”

“I do not know what to believe.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“But, Dr. Mortimer, if you think that the hound is supernatural, why have you come to consult with me? You tell me that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death, and that you want me to do it.”

“I did not say that I wanted you to do it.”

“Then, how can I help you?”

“By advising me what to do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station today.”

“Is he the heir?”

“Yes. After the death of Sir Charles we looked for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada.”

“There is no other heir, I believe?”

“None. The only other relative whom we have been able to find was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the eldest. The second brother, who died young, is the father of Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He looked very much like the family picture of old Hugo, they tell me. He left England for Central America, and died there in 1876. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I am meeting him at Waterloo Station. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?”

“Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?”

“It seems natural, does it not? And yet, every Baskerville who goes there meets with his death. That is why I ask for your advice. What would you recommend?”

Holmes thought for a little time.

“I recommend, sir, that 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, call on me here, and bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.”

“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.”

“Good morning.”

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of satisfaction which meant that he had an interesting task before him.

“Going out, Watson?”

“Yes.”

I knew that solitude was very necessary for my friend in the hours of mental concentration during which he solved difficult problems. 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 came into the sitting-room.

“After you left I sent for a map of this portion of the moor,” said Holmes.

He pointed to a map which he held on his knee. “That is Baskerville Hall in the middle. I believe this must be the yew alley, with the moor on the right of it. This small group of buildings here is the village of Grimpen. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a few houses. There is a house here which may be the home of the naturalist—Stapleton. Here are two farms. Then fourteen miles away is the prison of Princetown. Around these buildings extends the lifeless moor.”

“It must be a wild place.”

“Yes, there are two questions waiting for us. The first is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what the crime is and how it was committed. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know what to make of 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.”

“Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley? He was running, Watson—running for his life, running until he burst his heart—and fell dead.”

“Running from what?”

“There lies our problem. I presume that the man was crazy with fear before he began to run.”

“How can you say that?”

“I presume that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. Only a man crazy with fear would have run from the house and not towards it. Then, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own house?”

“You think that he was waiting for someone?”

“The man was elderly and in poor health. The night was damp. Is it natural for him to stand for five or ten minutes? He avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he left for London. Now, we will think over this business when we meet Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.”

Our clients were punctual, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown in, followed by the young baronet. Sir Henry Baskerville was a small, dark-eyed man of about thirty, very strongly built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, lively face. He had the weather-beaten appearance of a man who has spent most of his time in the open air.

“This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“Yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend had not suggested coming to you this morning I should have come myself. I understand that you solve little puzzles, and I’ve had one this morning which I am not able to solve.”