gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands,
and she promised to deliver it at once."

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any
mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that
Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it
were so--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.

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said
he, as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we
are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may
po