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one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.
Chapter 7 The Stapletons of Merripit House

The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before.

โ€œI guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!โ€ said the baronet. โ€œWe were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more.โ€

โ€œAnd yet it was not entirely a question of imagination,โ€ I answered. โ€œDid you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in the night?โ€

โ€œThat is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream.โ€

โ€œI heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman.โ€

โ€œWe must ask about this right away.โ€ He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his masterโ€™s question.

โ€œThere are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,โ€ he answered. โ€œOne is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her.โ€

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old manโ€™s death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster, and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymoreโ€™s own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram.

โ€œCertainly, sir,โ€ said he, โ€œI had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed.โ€

โ€œWho delivered it?โ€

โ€œMy boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?โ€

โ€œYes, father, I delivered it.โ€

โ€œInto his own hands?โ€ I asked.

โ€œWell, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymoreโ€™s hands, and she promised to deliver it at once.โ€

โ€œDid you see Mr. Barrymore?โ€

โ€œNo, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.โ€

โ€œIf you didnโ€™t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?โ€

โ€œWell, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,โ€ said the postmaster testily. โ€œDidnโ€™t he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.โ€

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmesโ€™s ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were soโ€”suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

โ€œYou will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,โ€ said he, as he came panting up to where I stood. โ€œHere on the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House.โ€

โ€œYour net and box would have told me as much,โ€ said I, โ€œfor I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?โ€

โ€œI have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?โ€

โ€œHe is very well, thank you.โ€

โ€œWe were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?โ€

โ€œI do not think that it is likely.โ€

โ€œOf course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the family?โ€

โ€œI have heard it.โ€

โ€œIt is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor.โ€ He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. โ€œThe story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.โ€

โ€œBut how?โ€

โ€œHis nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak.โ€

โ€œHow did you know that?โ€

โ€œMy friend Mortimer told me.โ€

โ€œYou think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of fright in consequence?โ€

โ€œHave you any better explanation?โ€

โ€œI have not come to any conclusion.โ€

โ€œHas Mr. Sherlock Holmes?โ€

The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was intended.

โ€œIt is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson,โ€ said he. โ€œThe records of your detective have reached us here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take.โ€

โ€œI am afraid that I cannot answer that question.โ€

โ€œMay I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?โ€

โ€œHe cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his attention.โ€

โ€œWhat a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or advice.โ€

โ€œI assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind.โ€

โ€œExcellent!โ€ said Stapleton. โ€œYou are perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again.โ€

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.

โ€œA moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,โ€ said he. โ€œPerhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister.โ€

My first thought was that

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