“But what is it that alarms you？”
“Look at Sir Charles’s death！ That was bad enough， for all thatthe coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There’snot a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Lookat this stranger hiding out yonder， and watching and waiting！
What’s he waiting for？ What does it mean？ It means no good toanyone of the name of Baskerville， and very glad I shall be to bequit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants are ready totake over the Hall.”
“But about this stranger，” said I. “Can you tell me anythingabout him？ What did Selden say？ Did he find out where he hid， orwhat he was doing？”
“He saw him once or twice， but he is a deep one， and givesnothing away. At first he thought that he was the police， but soonhe found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentlemanhe was， as far as he could see， but what he was doing he could notmake out.”
“And where did he say that he lived？”
“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts wherethe old folk used to live.”
“But how about his food？”
“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him andbrings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for whathe wants.”
“Very good， Barrymore. We may talk further of this some othertime.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the blackwindow， and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving cloudsand at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wildnight indoors， and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.
What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in sucha place at such a time！ And what deep and earnest purpose can hehave which calls for such a trial！ There， in that hut upon the moor，seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed meso sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before Ihave done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery.
The Man on the Tor
The extract from my private diary which forms the lastchapter has brought my narrative up to the eighteen of October，a time when these strange events began to move swiftly towardstheir terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few daysare indelibly graven upon my recollection， and I can tell themwithout reference to the notes made at the time. I start thenfrom the day which succeeded that upon which I had establishedtwo facts of great importance， the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons ofCoombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and madean appointment with him at the very place and hour that he methis death， the other that the lurking man upon the moor was tobe found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these twofacts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or mycourage must be deficient if I could not throw some further lightupon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learnedabout Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before， for Dr. Mortimerremained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast，however， I informed him about my discovery， and asked himwhether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. Atfirst he was very eager to come， but on second thoughts it seemedto both of us that if I went alone the results might be better. Themore formal we made the visit the less information we mightobtain. I left Sir Henry behind， therefore， not without someprickings of conscience， and drove off upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up thehorses， and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come tointerrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms， which werecentral and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony，and as I entered the sitting-room a lady， who was sitting before aRemington typewriter， sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.
Her face fell， however， when she saw that I was a stranger， and shesat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extremebeauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour， andher cheeks， though considerably freckled， were flushed with theexquisite bloom of the brunette， the dainty pink which lurks atthe heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was， I repeat， the firstimpression. But the second was criticism. There was somethingsubtly wrong with the face， some coarseness of expression， somehardness， perhaps， of eye， some looseness of lip which marred itsperfect beauty. But these， of course， are after-thoughts. At themoment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of avery handsome woman， and that she was asking me the reasonsfor my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant howdelicate my mission was.
“I have the pleasure，” said I， “of knowing your father.”
It was a clumsy introduction， and the lady made me feel it.
“There is nothing in common between my father and me，” shesaid. “I owe him nothing， and his friends are not mine. If it werenot for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind heartsI might have starved for all that my father cared.”
“It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have comehere to see you.”
The freckles started out on the lady’s face.
“What can I tell you about him？” she asked， and her fingersplayed nervously over the stops of her typewriter.
“You knew him， did you not？”
“I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If Iam able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which hetook in my unhappy situation.”
“Did you correspond with him？”
The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazeleyes.
“What is the object of these questions？” she asked sharply.
“The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I shouldask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control.”
She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she lookedup with something reckless and defiant in her manner.
“Well， I’ll answer，” she said. “What are your questions？”
“Did you correspond with Sir Charles？”
“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge hisdelicacy and his generosity.”
