crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I
thought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figure
against the moon. Was he also out in that deluged--the unseen
watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my
waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark
imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling
about my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire now,
for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the
black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from
its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy
downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the
heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape,
trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills.
In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the
two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They
were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only
those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the
hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had
seen on the same spot two nights before.

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and
hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see
how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his
dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much
troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had
wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such
consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen
Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

"By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road,
"I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of
this whom you do not know?"

"Hardly any, I think."

"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are
L. L.?"

He thought for a few minutes.

"No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for
whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no
one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after
a pause. "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she
lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She is Frankland's daughter."

"What! Old Frankla