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"
Into
his
own
hands
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Well
,
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.
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
did
n'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
.
"
Did
n'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
possibly
have
heard
my
name
from
our
mutual
friend
,
Mortimer
.
I
am
Stapleton
,
of
Merripit
House
.
"
