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.”
“Take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand that something has happened since you arrived in London?”
“Nothing important, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, I think. It was this letter, which reached me this morning.”
He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all looked at it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address was “Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel”.
“Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?” asked Holmes.
“No one. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer.”
“Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in you.” Out of the envelope he took a sheet of paper. Across it one sentence was formed of printed words pasted on it. It ran:
If you value your life keep away from the moor.
The word “moor” only was written by hand.
“Now,” said Sir Henry Baskerville sharply, “perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what it means, and who takes so much interest in my affairs? It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs.”
“I shall tell you everything before you leave here today. And now, this very interesting document must have been composed and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday’s Times, Watson?” said Sherlock Holmes.
“It is here.”
He looked over it.
“What do you think of that, Watson?” cried Holmes.”These words have been taken from here.”
“You’re right! Well, isn’t it smart!” cried Sir Henry.
“So, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Henry Baskerville, “someone cut out these words with a pair of scissors and pasted them with gum. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’ was written by hand.”
“Because he could not find it in the newspaper. The other words were all simple and might be found easily, but ‘moor’ is less common.”
“Why, of course, that explains it. Have you read anything else in this letter, Mr. Holmes?”
“There are one or two things. The Times is a paper which is only read by the highly educated. We may say, therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man. The words are not gummed on in an accurate line, some are much higher than others. It may point to hurry in which he was. And now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?”
“Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”
“You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?”
“Why should anyone follow or watch me?” said our visitor.
“You have nothing else to tell us?”
Sir Henry smiled.
“I don’t know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here.”
“You have lost one of your boots?”
“My dear sir,” cried Dr. Mortimer, “You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?”
“I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never worn them. I did a good deal of shopping. Among other things I bought these brown boots—and one of them was stolen before I had them on my feet.”
“It seems a strange thing to steal,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“And, now, gentlemen,” said the baronet, “it seems it is time for you to give me a full account of what you know.”
Dr. Mortimer presented the whole case as he had done on the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention.
“Of course, I’ve heard of the hound ever since I was a boy,” said he. “It’s a favourite story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle’s death—well, you have not made up your mind whether it’s a case for a policeman or a clergyman.”
“And the letter to you at the hotel shows that someone knows more than we do about what goes on upon the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer.
“We now have to decide, Sir Henry, whether it is good for you to go to Baskerville Hall.”
“Why should I not go?”
“It may be dangerous.”
“Do you mean danger from this supernatural hound or do you mean danger from man?”
“Well, that is what we have to find out.”
“No one can prevent me from going to the home of my family. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, could you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come and lunch with us at two. I’ll be able to tell you more clearly then about my plans.”
“You may expect us.”
“Then we meet again at two o’clock. Good morning!”
We heard our visitors go down the stairs and the front door bang. In a moment Holmes changed from the dreamer to the man of action.
“Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!” We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were walking a little distance ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.
We followed into Oxford Street and down Regent Street. When our friends stopped and looked into a shop window, Holmes did the same. A moment later he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and I saw that a cab with a man inside which had stopped on the other side of the street was now driving again.
“There’s our man, Watson! Come along! We’ll have a good look at him.”
At that moment I saw a black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the window of the cab. He screamed something, and the cab drove off down Regent Street. Holmes looked round for another cab, but there were no empty cabs in sight.
“Who was the man?”
“I have not an idea.”
“A spy?”
“Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been followed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be known so quickly about the Northumberland Hotel?
“When our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of seeing the spy. So clever was he that he did not follow them on foot, but he had got a cab so that they did not notice him. If they took a cab he was ready to follow them. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson.”
“What a pity we did not get the number!”
“My dear Watson, you don’t really think so! No. 2704 is our man. And now it only remains for us to find the cabman.”
Chapter 6
At the Northumberland Hotel
At two o’clock that afternoon 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.”
As we came to the top of the stairs we saw Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was red with anger, and he held an old boot in his hand. So furious was he that he could hardly speak.
“By thunder, if that fellow can’t find my missing boot there will be trouble,” he cried.
“Still looking for your boot?”
“Yes,