Chapter I. Mister SHERLOCK HOLMES

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the table and having breakfast. He usually got up quite late, except on those frequent occasions when he did not have to go to bed at all. I stood on the rug by the fireplace and twirled in my hands a stick that our yesterday’s visitor had forgotten, a good thick stick with a knob - one of those that is called “hard evidence.” Just below the knob was a silver ring about an inch wide. On the ring was inscribed: “To James Mortimer, C.K.H.O., from his friends in the C.C.L.,” and the date: “1884.” In the old days, venerable house doctors walked with such sticks - solid, weighty, reliable.

- Well, Watson, what do you think of her?

Holmes sat with his back to me, and I thought that my manipulations remained invisible to him.

- How do you know what I'm doing? You'd think you had eyes in the back of your head!

“What’s missing isn’t there, but in front of me stands a silver coffee pot polished to a shine,” he answered. - No, really, Watson, what can you say about our visitor’s stick? You and I missed him and don’t know why he came. And since we are so unlucky, we will have to pay special attention to this random souvenir. Examine the stick and try to recreate the image of its owner from it, and I will listen to you.

“In my opinion,” I began, trying as best I could to follow my friend’s method, “this Doctor Mortimer is a successful middle-aged physician, and also respected by everyone, since his friends bestow such attention on him.”

- Fine! - said Holmes. - Perfect!

“Besides, I’m inclined to think that he is a country doctor, and therefore he has to make a lot of money on foot.”

- Why is this?

“Because his stick, which was quite good in the past, is so knocked down that I can’t imagine it in the hands of the city doctor.” The thick iron tip was completely worn off - apparently Dr. Mortimer had walked with it for many miles.

“Very sound reasoning,” said Holmes.

– Again the inscription: “From friends at CHKL.” I believe that the letters “KL” stand for a club, most likely a hunting club, to whose members he provided medical assistance, for which he was given this small gift.

- Watson, you have outdone yourself! - said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I cannot help but notice that, while describing my modest merits with your usual courtesy, you usually underestimate your own capabilities. If you yourself do not emanate a bright radiance, then you, in any case, are a conductor of light. You never know there are people who, although not shining with talent, still have the remarkable ability to ignite it in others! I am in your deepest debt, my friend.

This was the first time I had heard such a confession from Holmes, and I must say that his words gave me great pleasure, for this man's indifference to my admiration for him and to all my attempts to publicize his method of work had more than once injured my vanity. In addition, I was proud that I managed not only to master Holmes's method, but also to apply it in practice and thereby earn the praise of my friend.

Holmes took the stick from my hands and examined it with his naked eye for several minutes. Then, clearly interested in something, he put the cigarette aside, went to the window and again began to examine the stick, but through a magnifying glass.

“Not God knows what, but still curious,” he said, returning to his favorite place in the corner of the sofa. – There is certainly some data here, and it will serve as the basis for us to make some conclusions.

“Did something really escape me?” – I asked, not without a feeling of complacency. “I hope I haven’t missed anything serious?”

“Alas, my dear Watson, most of your conclusions are wrong.” When I said that you serve as a good incentive for me, this, frankly speaking, should have been understood as follows: your mistakes sometimes help me get on the right path. But now you are not so mistaken. This person certainly does not practice in the city, and he has to make a lot of trips on foot.

- So I was right.

– In this regard, yes.

– But that’s all?

- No, no, my dear Watson, not all, far from all. So, for example, I would say that a doctor would most likely receive such an offering from some hospital, and not from a hunting club, and when the letters “CHK” are in front of the hospital, the name “Cheringcross” suggests itself.

- It is possible that you are right.

– Everything points to such an interpretation. And if we accept my guess as a working hypothesis, then we will have additional data to reconstruct the identity of our unknown visitor.

- Fine. Let us assume that the letters "CHKL" stand for "Cheringcross Asylum." What further conclusions can be drawn from this?

– Nothing comes to your mind? You are familiar with my method. Try it.

– The conclusion is obvious: before leaving for the village, this man practiced in London.

– What if we go a little further? Look at it from this angle: why was the gift given to him? When did his friends consider it necessary to jointly present him with this stick as a sign of their affection? Apparently, at the time that Dr. Mortimer left the hospital, deciding to go into private practice. They gave him a gift, we know that. It is assumed that he changed his work at the hospital to rural practice. Will our conclusions be too bold if we say that the gift was made precisely in connection with his departure?

- It's very likely.

- Now note that he could not be on the staff of the hospital's consultants, because this is permissible only for a doctor with a solid London practice, and such a doctor would hardly leave the city. Then who was he? If he worked there without being a full-time consultant, it means that he was assigned the modest role of a curator living at the hospital, that is, little more than the role of an intern. And he left there five years ago - look at the date on the stick. Thus, my dear Watson, your respectable old family doctor has disappeared, and in his place there has arisen before us a very handsome man of about thirty years of age, unambitious, absent-minded and dearly loving his dog, which, as I roughly estimate, is larger than a terrier, but smaller than a mastiff.

Classic detective story of the founder of the genre

Read the book The Hound of the Baskervilles online

Hound of the Baskervilles

Chapter I

Mr Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the table and having breakfast. He usually got up quite late, except on those frequent occasions when he did not have to go to bed at all. I stood on the rug by the fireplace and twirled in my hands a stick that our yesterday’s visitor had forgotten, a good thick stick with a knob - one of those that is called “hard evidence.” Just below the knob was a silver ring about an inch wide. On the ring was inscribed: “To James Mortimer, C.K.H.O., from his friends in the C.C.L.,” and the date: “1884.” In the old days, venerable house doctors walked with such sticks - solid, weighty, reliable.

Well, Watson, what do you think of her?

Holmes sat with his back to me, and I thought that my manipulations remained invisible to him.

How do you know what I'm doing? You'd think you had eyes in the back of your head!

“What is not there is not there, but in front of me stands a silver coffee pot polished to a shine,” he answered. - No, really, Watson, what can you say about our visitor’s stick? You and I missed him and don’t know why he came. And since we are so unlucky, we will have to pay special attention to this random souvenir. Examine the stick and try to recreate the image of its owner from it, and I will listen to you.

“In my opinion,” I began, trying as best I could to follow my friend’s method, “this Doctor Mortimer is a successful middle-aged physician, and also respected by everyone, since his friends bestow such attention on him.

Fine! - said Holmes. - Perfect!

Besides, I am inclined to think that he is a country doctor, and therefore he has to make a lot of ends on foot.

Why is this?

Because his stick, which in the past was quite good, is so knocked down that I can’t imagine it in the hands of the city doctor. The thick iron tip was completely worn off - apparently Dr. Mortimer had walked with it for many miles.

"Very sound reasoning," said Holmes.

Again the inscription: “From friends at CHKL.” I believe that the letters “CL” stand for a club, most likely a hunting club, to whose members he provided medical assistance, for which he was given this small gift.

Watson, you have outdone yourself! - said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I cannot help but notice that, while describing my modest merits with your usual courtesy, you usually underestimate your own capabilities. If you yourself do not emanate a bright radiance, then you, in any case, are a conductor of light. You never know there are people who, although not shining with talent, still have the remarkable ability to ignite it in others! I am in your deepest debt, my friend.

This was the first time I had heard such a confession from Holmes, and I must say that his words gave me great pleasure, for this man's indifference to my admiration for him and to all my attempts to publicize his method of work had more than once injured my vanity. In addition, I was proud that I managed not only to master Holmes's method, but also to apply it in practice and thereby earn the praise of my friend.

Holmes took the stick from my hands and examined it with his naked eye for several minutes. Then, clearly interested in something, he put the cigarette aside, went to the window and again began to examine the stick, but through a magnifying glass.

Not God knows what, but still curious,” he said, returning to his favorite place in the corner of the sofa. - There is certainly some data here, and it will serve as the basis for some conclusions.

Has anything escaped me? - I asked, not without a feeling of complacency. - I hope I didn't miss anything serious?

Alas, my dear Watson, most of your conclusions are wrong. When I said that you serve as a good incentive for me, this, frankly speaking, should have been understood as follows: your mistakes sometimes help me get on the right path. But now you are not so mistaken. This person certainly does not practice in the city, and he has to make a lot of trips on foot.

So I was right.

In this regard, yes.

But that's all?

No, no, my dear Watson, not everything, not everything. So, for example, I would say that a doctor would most likely receive such an offering from some hospital, and not from a hunting club, and when the letters “CHK” are in front of the hospital, the name “Cheringcross” suggests itself.

It's possible that you're right.

Everything points to this interpretation. And if we accept my guess as a working hypothesis, then we will have additional data to reconstruct the identity of our unknown visitor.

Fine. Let us assume that the letters "CHKL" stand for "Cheringcross Asylum." What further conclusions can be drawn from this?

Nothing comes to your mind? You are familiar with my method. Try it.

The conclusion is obvious: before leaving for the village, this man practiced in London.

What if we went a little further? Look at it from this angle: why was the gift given to him? When did his friends consider it necessary to jointly present him with this stick as a sign of their affection? Apparently, at the time that Dr. Mortimer left the hospital, deciding to go into private practice. They gave him a gift, we know that. It is assumed that he changed his work at the hospital to rural practice. Will our conclusions be too bold if we say that the gift was made precisely in connection with his departure?

This is very likely.

Now note that he could not be on the staff of the hospital's consultants, because this is permissible only for a doctor with a solid London practice, and such a doctor is unlikely to leave the city. Then who was he? If he worked there without being a full-time consultant, it means that he was assigned the modest role of a curator living at the hospital, that is, little more than the role of an intern. And he left there five years ago - look at the date on the stick. Thus, my dear Watson, your respectable old family doctor has disappeared, and in his place there has arisen before us a very handsome man of about thirty years of age, unambitious, absent-minded and dearly loving his dog, which, as I roughly estimate, is larger than a terrier, but smaller than a mastiff.

I laughed incredulously, and Sherlock Holmes leaned back on the sofa and blew small rings of smoke that floated smoothly in the air at the ceiling.

As for the last point, there is no way to check you here,” I said, “but we will now find some information about the age of this person and his career.”

I took the medical reference book down from my small bookshelf and found the right name). There were several Mortimers there, but I immediately found our visitor and read aloud everything that related to him:

“Mortimer James, member of the Royal Society of Surgeons since 1882. Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devonshire. From 1882 to 1884 he was curator of the Charingcross Asylum. He was awarded the Jackson Prize in Comparative Pathology for his work “Should Disease Be Considered an Atavistic Phenomenon?” Corresponding Member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of the articles “Anomalous phenomena of atavism” (The Lancet, 1882), “Are we progressing?” (Bulletin of Psychology, March 1883). Country Doctor for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley and High Barrow."

Not a word about the hunting club, Watson,” Holmes said with a sly smile, “but he really is a country doctor, as you subtly noted.” My conclusions are correct. As for adjectives, if I'm not mistaken, I used the following: attractive, unambitious and absent-minded. I know this from experience - only nice people receive parting gifts, only the most unambitious exchange their London practice for a country one, and only the absent-minded are capable of leaving their stick instead of a calling card after waiting for more than an hour in your drawing room.

Hound of the Baskervilles

Arthur Conan Doyle

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was in the habit of getting up very late, except on those frequent occasions when he did not go to bed at all, was sitting at breakfast. I stood on the rug in front of the fireplace and held in my hands the cane that our visitor had forgotten the night before. It was a beautiful, thick stick with a round knob. Just below it, a wide (an inch wide) silver ribbon was wrapped around the stick, and on this ribbon was engraved: “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S. from his friends in the S.S.N.” and the year “1884”. It was just the kind of cane that old-fashioned family doctors usually carry - venerable, strong and reliable ... "

Arthur Conan Doyle

Hound of the Baskervilles

I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was in the habit of getting up very late, except on those frequent occasions when he did not go to bed at all, was sitting at breakfast. I stood on the rug in front of the fireplace and held in my hands the cane that our visitor had forgotten the night before. It was a beautiful, thick stick with a round knob. Just below it, a wide (an inch wide) silver ribbon was wrapped around the stick, and on this ribbon was engraved: “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S. from his friends in the S.S.N.” and the year "1884". It was just the kind of cane that old-fashioned family doctors usually carry - venerable, strong and reliable.

- What are you doing with her, Watson?

Holmes sat with his back to me, and I showed nothing of what I was doing.

- Why did you know what I was doing? You must have eyes in the back of your head.

“At least I have a well-polished coffee pot sitting in front of me,” he replied. “But tell me, Watson, what are you doing with our visitor’s cane?” Since we unfortunately missed his visit and have no idea why he came, this sign of memory takes on a certain significance. Let's hear what idea you get about a person after examining his cane.

“I think,” I said, using as best I could my friend’s method, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful elderly doctor, respected, since his acquaintances showed him the attention of this gift.”

- Fine! Holmes approved. - Wonderful!

“I also think he is probably the village doctor and makes a lot of visits on foot.”

- Why?

“Because this cane, very beautiful when it was new, is so scratched that it is unlikely that a city doctor could use it.” The iron tip is so worn out that, obviously, quite a few walks have been made with it.

- Absolutely sane! - Holmes noted.

- Then it is engraved with “from friends from S.S.N.” I believe that these letters stand for some kind of hunt, some local hunting society, to whose members he may have provided medical assistance, for which they gave him this little gift.

“Really, Watson, you surpass yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I must say that in all your kind stories about my insignificant actions, you estimated your own abilities too low. You may not be the illuminator, but you are the conductor of light. Some people, without possessing genius themselves, have the remarkable ability to bring it out in others. I confess, dear comrade, that I am greatly indebted to you.

He had never spoken so much before, and I must confess that his words gave me great pleasure, because I was often offended by his indifference to my admiration for him and to my attempts to publicize his method. I was also proud that I had mastered his system so much that by using it I had earned his approval. Holmes took the cane from my hands and examined it with his naked eye for several minutes. Then, with an expression of excited interest on his face, he put down the cigarette and, going up to the window with his cane, began to examine it again through the magnifying glass.

“Interesting, but elementary,” he said, sitting down in his favorite corner of the sofa. – There are, of course, one or two correct instructions regarding the cane. They give us the basis for several conclusions.

– Did I miss anything? – I asked with some arrogance. “Nothing important, I guess?”

“I’m afraid, dear Watson, that most of your conclusions are wrong.” I said quite sincerely that you provoked thoughts in me, and, noticing your delusions, I accidentally fell on the true trail. I'm not saying you're completely wrong. This man is, without a doubt, the village doctor, and he walks a lot.

- So I was right.

- So much, yes.

- But that's all.

- No, no, dear Watson, not all, far from all. I would say, for example, that the gift to the doctor was made rather from the hospital than from the hunting society, and since the letters C. C. are placed in front of this hospital, then the words “Charing-Cross Hospital” naturally come to mind. .

– You may be right.

– Everything speaks for such an interpretation. And if we accept it as the main hypothesis, then we will have new data to restore the identity of this unknown visitor.

- Well, assuming that the letters S.S.N. should stand for Charing Cross Hospital, what further conclusions can we draw?

– Don’t you feel how they are asking themselves? You are familiar with my system - apply it.

“The only obvious conclusion that is clear to me is that this man practiced in the city before moving to the village.”

– It seems to me that we can go a little further. Continue in the same direction. On what occasion could this gift most likely be given? When could his friends conspire to prove their affection to him? Obviously, at the moment when Dr. Mortimer left the hospital in order to enter private practice. We know that a gift was made. We believe that Dr. Mortimer has exchanged service in the city hospital for country practice. So is it too bold to conclude from these two premises that the doctor received a gift on the occasion of this change?

- Of course, this apparently was the case.

- Now notice that he could not be on the staff of the hospital, because only a person with a well-established practice in London could occupy such a position, and such a person would not go to the village. Who was he? If he occupied a position in a hospital, and yet was not part of its staff, then he could only be a doctor or surgeon-supervisor - little more than a senior student. He left the hospital five years ago - the year is marked on the cane. Thus, dear Watson, your venerable, elderly family doctor disappears, and a young man no older than thirty years of age appears, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded and the owner of a beloved dog, about which I will say in general terms that it is larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.

I laughed incredulously when Sherlock Holmes, having said this, leaned against the sofa and began to blow smoke rings towards the ceiling.

“As for your last assumption, I have no means of verifying it,” I said, “but at least it is not difficult to find some information about the age and professional career of this man.”

From my small shelf of medical books I took the doctor's index and opened it to the name Mortimer; There were several of them, but only one of them could relate to our visitor. I read the following aloud

Page 2 of 11

information about him:

"Mortimer, James, M.R.S.L., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon, medical curator, from 1882 to 1884 at Charing Cross Hospital. He received the Jackson Prize for Comparative Pathology with a study entitled: “Is Disease Hereditary?” Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society, author of the articles: “Several quirks of atavism” (Lancet, 1882), “Are we progressing?” (Psychological Journal, March, 1883). Serves in the parishes of Grimpen, Torelei and Guy Barrot.”

“Not the slightest hint, Watson, of the local society of hunters,” said Holmes with a sarcastic smile, “but the village doctor, as you astutely noted.” I think my findings are sufficiently confirmed. As for the adjectives I cited, if I’m not mistaken, they were: amiable, unambitious and absent-minded. I know from experience that in this world only an amiable person receives attention, only an unambitious one leaves a London career for country practice, and only an absent-minded one leaves his cane instead of a calling card, after waiting for you in your room for an hour.

- And the dog?

“I used to carry this cane for my master.” Since this cane is heavy, the dog held it tightly by the middle, where the marks of its teeth are clearly visible. The space occupied by these marks shows that the dog's jaw is large for a terrier and small for a mastiff. This must be... well, yes, of course, this is a curly spaniel.

Holmes got up from the sofa and, speaking in this way, walked around the room. Then he stopped at the window. There was such confidence in his voice that I looked at him in surprise.

- Dear friend, how can you be so sure of this?

- For the simple reason that I see a dog on the threshold of our door, and here comes the call from its master. Please don't go, Watson. He is your colleague, and your presence may be useful to me. The dramatic moment has come, Watson, when you hear the footsteps of a person on the stairs who is about to bring something into your life, and you don’t know whether it’s for good or not. What does Dr. James Mortimer, a man of science, need from Sherlock Holmes, an expert on crimes? - Come in.

The appearance of our visitor surprised me, because I was expecting a typical village doctor. He was very tall, thin, with a long beak-like nose protruding between two sharp, gray eyes, set close together and shining brightly behind gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a professional, but sloppy suit: his frock coat was a bit dirty and his trousers were shabby. Although he was still young, his back was already hunched, and he walked with his head bent forward, with a general expression of inquisitive benevolence. As he entered, his gaze fell on the cane in Holmes's hands, and he ran up to it with a joyful exclamation:

- How pleased I am! I wasn't sure whether I left it here or at the shipping office. I wouldn't want to lose this cane for anything in the world.

“This is apparently a gift,” said Holmes.

- Yes, sir...

– From Charing Cross Hospital?

– From several friends serving there on the occasion of my wedding.

“Oh, oh, this is bad,” said Holmes, shaking his head.

Doctor Morthamer's eyes flashed through his glasses with gentle surprise.

- Why is this bad?

“Only because you ruined our little conclusions.” On the occasion of your wedding, you say?

- Yes, sir. I got married and left the hospital, and with it any hopes of practicing as a consultant. This was necessary so that I could start my own home.

“Yeah, so we weren’t really so wrong,” said Holmes. So, Dr. James Mortimer...

- Mister, sir, mister... modest doctor.

– And obviously a person with precise thinking.

“A scoundrel in science, Mr. Holmes, a shell collector on the shores of the great unexplored ocean.” I suppose I'm addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not...

- No, this is my friend, Doctor Watson.

- I'm very glad to have met you, sir. I heard your name in connection with your friend's name. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I was looking forward to seeing such a dolicocephalic skull and such well-defined development of the supraorbital bone. It won't matter to you if I run my finger along your parietal suture? A photograph of your skull, while the original is still active, would be an adornment to any anthropological museum. I have no intention of being indelicate, but I confess that I covet your skull.

Sherlock Holmes pointed the strange visitor to a chair and said:

“I see, sir, that you are an enthusiastic fan of your idea, just as I am of mine.” I see from your index finger that you roll your own cigarettes. Feel free to smoke.

The visitor took tobacco and a piece of paper from his pocket, and with amazing dexterity he rolled the cigarette. He had long, trembling fingers, as mobile and restless as the tentacles of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his quick glances proved to me how interested he was in our amazing guest.

“I suppose, sir,” he said at last, “that you did me the honor of coming here last night and again today, not for the exclusive purpose of examining my skull?”

- No, sir, no, although I am happy that I got this opportunity. I come to you, Mr. Holmes, because I admit that I am an impractical person and because I suddenly found myself face to face with a very serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing you as the second expert in Europe...

- Really, sir! Can I ask you who has the honor of being first? – Holmes asked somewhat sharply.

“But it’s true that Bertillon’s scientific mind will always have a strong influence.”

– So wouldn’t it be better for you to consult him?

“I was talking, sir, about a scientific mind.” As for the practical business person, it is recognized by everyone that you are the only one in this regard. I hope, sir, that I have not inadvertently...

“A little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, that you will do better if, without further discussion, you will be kind enough to simply tell me what the problem is that requires my help.”

II. The Curse of the Baskervilles

“I have a manuscript in my pocket,” began James Mortimer.

“I noticed it as soon as you entered the room,” said Holmes.

- This is an old manuscript.

– Not newer than the eighteenth century, unless it’s a fake.

- How could you know this, sir?

“The entire time you were talking, two inches of this manuscript were peeking out of your pocket.” I would be a poor expert if I could not indicate the era of a document with an accuracy of approximately ten years. Perhaps you have read my short monograph about this. I date this document to 1730.

“The exact date is 1742.” At the same time, Dr. Mortimer took the document out of his pocket. “This family paper was entrusted to me by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and mysterious death about three months ago created such excitement in Devonshire. I can say that I was his friend and doctor. He was, sir, a man of strong mind, stern, practical, and as little imaginative as myself. Meanwhile, he took this document seriously, and his mind was prepared for the end that befell him.

Holmes reached out for the manuscript and smoothed it on his knee.

– Notice, Watson, the alternating long and short “S”. This is one of several indications that enabled me to determine

Page 3 of 11

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded letter. The title said: “Baskerville Hall”, and below, scrawled in large numbers: “1742”.

- It looks like some kind of story.

– Yes, this is the story of a legend that is current in the Baskerville family.

– But, as far as I understand, you want to consult me ​​about something more modern and practical?

- About the most modern. About the most practical urgent matter that must be resolved in twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is not long and is closely related to the case. With your permission, I will read it to you.

Holmes leaned against the back of his chair, placed the tips of the fingers of both hands together and closed his eyes with an expression of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript up to the light and began to read in a high, cracking voice the following curious story:

“Much has been said about the origin of the Baskerville Hound, but since I am descended in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and since I heard this story from my father, and he from his, I related it with full confidence that it happened exactly like that, as stated here. And I would like you, my sons, to believe that the same Justice that punishes sin can also mercifully forgive it, and that there is no heavy curse that cannot be removed by prayer and repentance. So learn from this story not to be afraid of the fruits of the past, but rather to be prudent about the future, so that the nasty passions from which our race has suffered so cruelly are not again unleashed to our destruction.

Know, therefore, that at the time of the great rebellion (to the history of which, written by the learned Lord Clarendon, I must seriously call your attention) the manor of Baskerville was in the possession of Hugo Baskerville, a most unbridled, impious atheist. His neighbors would have forgiven him for these qualities, because they had never seen saints flourish in this area, but he was distinguished by such cruel debauchery that his name became a byword throughout the West. It so happened that Hugo fell in love (if such a beautiful word can express his vile passion) with the daughter of a wealthy peasant who rented land near the Baskerville estate. But the young girl, modest and enjoying a good name, constantly avoided him, fearing his notoriety.

One day, on the day of Michael the Archangel, Hugo, with five or six of his idle and evil companions, stole into the farm and abducted the girl while her father and brothers were away, as he well knew. The girl was brought to the castle and placed in a room on the top floor, and Hugo and his friends indulged in, as usual, a long night orgy. Meanwhile, the poor girl, hearing the songs, screams and terrible swearing that reached her from below, almost went crazy, because when Hugo Baskerville was drunk, they say he used words that could kill the person who heard them. Finally, driven to the utmost terror, she did something that would have terrified the bravest man: with the help of the ivy that covered (and still covers) the southern wall, she climbed down from the ledge and ran across the swamp towards her father's farm, nine miles from the castle. miles.

A little later, Hugo decided to take his guest something to eat and drink, and maybe something even worse, and found the cage empty - the bird had flown away. It was as if the devil had taken possession of him then, and he rushed downstairs, ran into the dining room, jumped up on the large table, overturning bottles and food, and shouted at the top of his lungs that he was ready to betray his body and soul to the unclean spirit that very night, if only he managed to catch up with the girl. The revelers stood with their mouths open at the sight of their master's rage, when suddenly one of them, more angry than the others, and perhaps more drunk, shouted that the dogs should be released on her. Hearing this, Hugo ran out of the house and, calling the grooms, ordered them to saddle his mare and let the dogs out. When this was done, he let the dogs sniff the girl's head scarf, pushed them onto the trail and, with a loud cry, flew across the swamp, illuminated by the moon.

The revelers continued to stand, their eyes wide, not understanding that this had been done so hastily. But suddenly their heavy brains cleared up, and they realized what was about to happen in the swamp. Everyone got excited: some demanded their pistol, some their horse, and some a bottle of wine. Finally, they came to their senses and the whole crowd (thirteen people in total) mounted their horses and set off to catch up with Hugo. The moon shone clearly above them, and they quickly galloped side by side in the direction in which the girl had to run if she wanted to return home.

They had ridden two or three miles when they met one of the night shepherds on the swamp and asked him if he had seen a hunt. The story goes that this man was so struck with fear that he could hardly speak, but finally said that he had seen the unfortunate girl and the dogs running in her footsteps. “But I saw even more than this,” he added, “Hugo Baskerville overtook me on his black mare, and a dog ran silently behind him, such a fiend of hell that God forbid I should ever see at my heels.” The drunken landowners cursed the shepherd and continued on their way. But soon goosebumps ran over their skin, because they heard the rapid clatter of hooves and immediately saw a black mare galloping past them in the swamp, splashed with white foam, with dragging reins and an empty saddle. The revelers gathered closer together because they were overcome with fear, but they still continued to move through the swamp, although each, if he were alone, would be glad to turn back. They drove slowly and finally reached the dogs. Although they were all famous for their courage and training, however, here, gathered in a heap, they howled over a notch in the swamp, some jumped away from it, while others, trembling and wide-eyed, looked down.

The company, sobered up, as one might think, stopped. Most of the riders did not want to move on, but three of them, the bravest, and perhaps the drunkest, descended into the depression. A wide space opened before them, on which stood large stones, visible there even now and placed here in ancient times by some forgotten people. The moon brightly illuminated the platform, and in the center of it lay the unfortunate girl who had fallen here dead from fear and fatigue. But the hair stood up on the heads of the three devilishly brave loafers, not because of this sight and not even because the body of Hugo Baskerville lay right there, next to the girl, but because standing over Hugo, tugging at his throat, was a disgusting creature resembling a dog, but incomparably larger than any dog ​​ever seen. While the riders were looking at this picture, the animal tore out the throat of Hugo Baskerville and turned its head towards them with burning eyes and an agape jaw from which blood was dripping. All three screamed in horror and galloped away, saving their lives, and for a long time their screams filled the swamp. One of them, they say, died that same night from what he saw, and the other two remained broken people for the rest of their lives.

This, my sons, is the legend about the appearance of the dog, which since then has been, they say, the scourge of our family. I stated it because what is known is less terrifying than what is assumed and guessed. It also cannot be denied that many

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from our family died an unnatural death - sudden, bloody and mysterious. But let us surrender to the protection of an infinitely benign Providence, which will not forever punish the innocent beyond the third or fourth generation, as the Holy Scripture threatens. Therefore, I entrust you, my sons, to this Providence and advise you, for the sake of precaution, not to walk through the swamp in the dark hours of the night, when evil spirits rule.

(From Hugo Baskerville to his sons Roger and John, with a warning not to say anything about this to his sister Elizabeth)."

When Dr. Mortimer finished reading this strange story, he pushed his glasses onto his forehead and stared intently at Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and threw the butt of his cigarette into the fireplace.

- Well? he asked.

-Don't you find this interesting?

- For the collector of fairy tales.

Dr. Mortimer took a folded newspaper from his pocket and said:

– Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something more modern. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It contains a brief account of the facts surrounding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.

My friend leaned forward a little, and his face expressed intense attention. Our visitor adjusted his glasses and began to read:

“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, who was considered a likely candidate for the next election from Mid-Devon, has cast a dark shadow over the whole country. Although Sir Charles lived at his Baskerville estate for a comparatively short time, his courtesy and extreme generosity endeared him to the love and respect of all who came into contact with him. In these days, abounding in nouveaux riches, it is comforting to see when a descendant of an old county family, which has suffered hard days, is able to make up his own fortune and restore his family to its former greatness. It is known that Sir Charles acquired a large capital by speculation in South Africa. More prudent than those who do not stop until the wheel of fortune turns against them, he realized his profits and returned with them to England. He only took up his abode in Baskerville two years ago, and everyone talks of his extensive plans for reconstruction and improvement, which were interrupted by his death. Himself childless, he loudly expressed the desire that, during his lifetime, all this section of the county should benefit from his prosperity, and many have personal reasons for mourning his untimely death. His generous donations to charitable causes locally and throughout the county were often featured in the columns of our newspaper.

It cannot be said that the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Charles were completely clarified by the investigation, but at least much was done to refute rumors caused by local superstition. Be that as it may, there is not the slightest reason to suspect foul play or that death occurred from anything other than the most natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and it may be said that in some respects he was an eccentric man: despite his wealth, he had very modest tastes, and his entire household staff at Baskerville Castle consisted of the Barrymores - the husband was a butler, and the wife housekeeper. From their testimony, supported by the testimony of several friends, it appears that Sir Charles's health had lately begun to weaken, and that he had some kind of heart disease, manifested by changes in complexion, suffocation, and acute attacks of nervous prostration. Dr. James Mortimer, friend and physician of the deceased, testified to the same thing.

The circumstances surrounding this case are very simple. Sir Charles Baskerville used to walk along the famous yew avenue before going to bed. The Barrymores testified to this habit of his. On the 14th of May Sir Charles announced his intention to go to London the next day and ordered Barrymore to pack his things. In the evening he went on his usual night walk, during which he had the habit of smoking a cigar. He was not destined to return from this walk. At twelve o'clock at night, seeing that the door to the hall was still open, Barrymore became worried and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. It was a damp day, and Sir Charles's footprints were clearly visible in the avenue. Halfway along this alley there is a gate overlooking the swamp. It was clear that Sir Charles did not stop here for long, then continued his walk along the alley, and at the very end of it his body was found. There is only one unexplained fact here, namely, the testimony of Barrymore that, behind the gate, the tracks of Sir Charles's steps changed their character, and it seemed as if he was walking not with a full foot, but only on his toes. A certain Murphy, a gypsy dealer, was at that time in the swamp, not far from the gate, but, by his own admission, he was dead drunk. He stated that he heard screams, but was unable to determine where they were coming from. No signs of violence were found on the body of Sir Charles, and although the doctor's evidence indicated an incredible almost distortion of the face (so strong that Dr. Mortimer did not immediately recognize his friend and patient), it was found that such a symptom occurs in cases of suffocation and death from heart paralysis. This explanation was given at the autopsy, which proved that Sir Charles had long suffered from an organic heart defect, and the investigator made his decision on the basis of medical evidence. It is good that everything was explained this way, because it is of the utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should take up residence in the castle and continue the good work that was so sadly interrupted. If the prosaic conclusion of the investigator had not put an end to the romantic stories that were whispered about this death, it would have been difficult to find a ruler for Baskerville. The nearest relative and heir is said to be Sir Henry Baskerville, son of Sir Charles's younger brother. According to the latest news, the young man was in America, and now information is being collected about him in order to be able to inform him about his inheritance.”

Dr. Mortimer folded the newspaper and put it back in his pocket.

“These, Mr. Holmes, are the facts published relating to the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.

“I must offer you my thanks,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some interesting data.” At the time I caught a glimpse of a few newspaper reports about this, but I was busy with the little matter of the Vatican cameo and, in my desire to please the pope, lost sight of several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the published facts?

- So tell me intimate information.

With these words, Holmes again leaned against the back of his chair, folded the ends of his fingers and assumed the most dispassionate judicial expression.

“In doing this,” said Mortimer, who was beginning to show great emotion, “I am saying something that I have never trusted anyone with.” One of the reasons why I hid this from the investigation is that it is extremely unpleasant for a person of science to be suspected of sharing popular superstition. The second motive was that the Baskerville estate, as the newspaper says, would be left without an owner if anything

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added to his already dismal reputation. For both of these reasons, I thought that I had the right to say less than I knew, since practically nothing good could come from my frankness, but I have no reason to hide anything from you.

The swamp is very sparsely populated, and those who live next to each other are in constant intercourse. Therefore I often saw Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Laftar Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there is not a single intelligent man for many miles. Sir Charles led a solitary life, but his illness brought us together, and this connection was maintained by our common interests in science. He brought with him a lot of scientific information from South Africa, and we spent many delightful evenings discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

In recent months it has become clearer and clearer to me that Sir Charles's nerves were strained to the utmost. The legend I read to you had such an effect on him that although he walked throughout the entire expanse of his domain, nothing could force him to go to the swamp at night. No matter how incredible it may seem to you, Mr. Holmes, he was sincerely convinced that a terrible fate was looming over his family, and, of course, what he told about his ancestors could not have a reassuring effect. He was constantly haunted by the thought of the presence of something disgusting, and more than once he asked me if during my medical wanderings I had seen any strange creature or heard barking. He asked me the last question several times, and his voice always trembled with excitement.

I remember well how, about three weeks before the fatal incident, I came to him. He stood at the exit door. I got off the chaise and, standing opposite him, saw that his eyes were fixed behind my shoulder, and terrible horror was visible in them. I looked around and only managed to catch a glimpse of something that I took to be a large black calf running behind the carriage. Sir Charles was so excited and frightened that I rushed to the spot where I had seen the animal to catch it. But it disappeared, and this incident seemed to make a most painful impression on Sir Charles. I sat with him the whole evening and on this occasion, in order to explain my excitement, he handed me the manuscript of the story, which I read to you, for safekeeping. I mention this little episode because it takes on some significance in view of the tragedy that subsequently occurred, but at the time I was convinced that it was an ordinary incident and that Sir Charles's excitement had no basis.

It was I who advised him to go to London. I knew that his heart was not right, and the constant fear under which he was, no matter how chimerical its cause, obviously had a strong influence on his health. I thought that after several months spent in city entertainment, he would return to us as a renewed person. Mr. Stapleton, our mutual friend, who was also concerned about his health, was of the same opinion. At the last minute before leaving, a terrible disaster happened.

On the night of Sir Charles's death, the butler Barrymore, who found his body, sent groom Perkins on horseback for me, and since I had not yet gone to bed, an hour after the incident I was already at Baskerville Castle. I checked and confirmed all the facts that were mentioned during the investigation. I followed the footprints along the yew avenue; I saw a place at the gate leading into the moor, on which Sir Charles seemed to be standing; I noticed a change in the shape of the tracks from this point, and ascertained that there were no more tracks on the soft gravel than Barrymore's, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been disturbed until my arrival. Sir Charles lay prone, with his arms outstretched, his fingers digging into the ground, and his facial features were so distorted by some strong shock that I would not have sworn then that it was him I saw. There really were no signs of violence on the body. But Barrymore's testimony at the inquest was incorrect. He said there were no marks on the ground around the body. He didn’t notice any, but I noticed... at some distance from the body, but fresh and distinct.

- Footprints?

– Men or women?

Dr. Mortimer looked at us strangely, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper when he answered:

- Mr. Holmes, I saw the footprints of a giant dog.

III. Task

I admit, at these words I shuddered. And there was a slight trembling in the doctor’s voice, which proved that he, too, was deeply moved by what he told us. Holmes, excited, leaned forward, and his eyes sparkled with that hard, dry shine that his gaze always took on when he was very interested.

-Have you seen them?

“As clearly as I see you.”

- And you didn’t say anything?

- Why?

- How could it happen that no one but you saw them?

“These prints were about twenty yards from the body, and no one thought about them. I believe that I would not have paid attention to them if I had not known the legend.

– Are there many shepherds in the swamp?

“Of course, but it wasn’t a shepherd.”

– You say the dog was big.

- Enormous.

– But she didn’t approach the body?

– What was the weather like that night?

- The night was damp.

- But it didn’t rain?

-What does the alley look like?

“It consists of two lines of yew impenetrable hedges, twelve feet high. The path between them is approximately eight feet wide.

– Is there anything between the hedges and the path?

“Yes, between them there is a strip of grass about six feet wide on both sides.

– I understand that there is access to the alley through a gate made in the hedge?

- Yes, through the gate that goes out onto the swamp.

– Is there any other hole in the fence?

- There is none.

- So, in order to enter the yew alley, you need to go down from the house or enter through the gate from the moor?

- There is another way out - through the gazebo at the far end.

-Has Sir Charles reached her?

- No, he was lying about fifty yards from her.

“Now tell me, Doctor Mortimer, this is very important: were the footprints you saw imprinted on the path, and not on the grass?”

“You couldn’t see any traces on the grass.”

– Were they on the side of the gate?

- Yes, on the edge of the path, on the same side as the gate.

– You interested me extremely. Another question. Was the gate locked?

- Locked.

– How tall is she?

- About four feet.

- So you can climb over it?

-Did you see any traces near the gate?

- Nothing special.

- King of Heaven! And no one has explored this place?

“I examined it myself.”

- And you didn’t find anything?

– I was very embarrassed. It was evident that Sir Charles had been standing there for five or ten minutes.

- Why did you know this?

- Because the ash from his cigar managed to fall twice.

- Wonderful. This, Watson, is a colleague we like. But traces?

– All over this small piece of gravel, only his traces were visible. I haven't seen any others.

Sherlock Holmes struck his knee with an expression of annoyance and exclaimed:

- Oh, why am I not there?

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was! This is obviously an unusually interesting matter and of such a nature that it presents a wide field for action to the scientific expert. This page of gravel, on which I could read so much, has long been worn away by rain and the heavy boots of curious men. Ah, Doctor Mortimer, Doctor Mortimer! How come you didn’t call me there! You truly have a great responsibility.

“I could not summon you, Mr. Holmes, without making these facts publicly known, and I have already told you the reasons why I did not want to do this.” Besides, besides...

– Why are you hesitating?

“There is an area in which the most insightful and experienced detective is helpless.

– Do you want to say that this matter is supernatural?

– I didn’t actually say that.

- Yes, but obviously you do.

- Mr. Holmes! Since this tragedy several incidents have come to my attention which are difficult to reconcile with the natural order of things.

- For example?

“I learned that before this terrible incident, several people saw on the swamp a creature corresponding to this Baskerville demon, a creature that cannot be any animal known to science. Everyone who saw it said that it was a huge creature, glowing, disgusting and ghost-like. I asked all these people: one of them is a peasant with a strong head, another is a blacksmith, the third is a farmer in the swamp, and they all say the same thing about this strange ghost, and what they draw exactly corresponds to the hellish dog from the legend . I assure you that there is terror in the area, and the bravest person is the one who dares to walk through the swamp at night.

– And you, a man of science, believe that a supernatural force is at work here?

– I don’t know what to think.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and said:

“Until now, my research has been limited to this world. I fought against evil on a modest scale, but to speak out against the father of evil himself would perhaps be too presumptuous on my part. However, you must assume that the footprints were material.

– The legendary dog ​​was so material that it could gnaw a person’s throat, and yet it was a fiend of the devil.

“I see that you have completely gone over to the side of the supernaturalists.” But, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this: if you hold such views, why did you come to me for advice? You tell me that it is useless to investigate the death of Sir Charles, and at the same time you ask me to do so.

“I didn’t tell you to investigate.”

- So how can I help you?

- Advice on what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who will arrive at Waterloo station - (Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch) - in exactly an hour and a quarter.

- Heir?

- Yes. After the death of Sir Charles, we collected information about this young man and learned that he was engaged in farming in Canada. From the information obtained about him, it turns out that he is an excellent fellow in all respects. Now I speak not as a doctor, but as Sir Charles's executor.

– I assume that there are no more claimants to the inheritance?

- No. The only other relative of whom we have been able to learn is Roger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers, of whom poor Sir Charles was the eldest. The second brother, long dead, is the father of young Henry. The third, Roger, was the freak of the family. The blood of the ancient, powerful family of the Baskervilles flowed in him, and they say that he resembled like two peas in a pod the family portrait of old Hugo. He behaved so badly that he had to flee England and died in 1876 in Central America from yellow fever. Henry is the last Baskerville. In an hour and five minutes I will meet him at Waterloo station. I received a telegram that he would arrive at Southampton this morning. So what do you advise me, Mr. Holmes, to do with it?

“Why shouldn’t he go to the house of his ancestors?”

– Yes, it seems natural, doesn’t it? Meanwhile, keep in mind that all the Baskervilles who lived there suffered an evil fate. I am sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken to me at the moment of his death, he would have asked me not to bring to this accursed place the last of his line and the heir to a large fortune. However, it cannot be denied that the welfare of the entire poor, gloomy area depends on his presence. All the good that Sir Charles has done will be in vain if there is no owner at Baskerville Hall. Out of fear that I would be guided by my own, obvious interest in this matter, I came to tell you everything and ask for your advice.

Holmes thought for a while, then said:

– In simple words, you are of the opinion that some kind of devilish obsession is making Dartmoor a dangerous place for a descendant of the Baskervilles, isn’t it?

“At least, I claim that the circumstances indicate that.”

- Wonderful. But if your opinion of the supernatural is correct, it can do evil to a young man as easily in London as in Devonshire. The devil with purely local power, like parish government, would be too incomprehensible a phenomenon.

“You would not take the matter so lightly, Mr. Holmes, if you had to personally come into contact with these circumstances.” So your opinion is that the young man's safety will be as assured in Devonshire as in London. He'll arrive in fifty minutes. What do you recommend?

“I advise you, sir, to take a cab, call your spaniel, who is scratching at the front door, and go to Waterloo station to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.”

– And then?

“And then you won’t tell him anything until I think about it.”

– How long will you think about it?

- Twenty-four hours. I shall be much obliged to you, Doctor Mortimer, if to-morrow morning at ten o'clock you will come here to me and bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you; it would be useful for my future plans.

- I will do it, Mr. Holmes.

He wrote the appointment on the cuff of his shirt and hurried out with his characteristic strange gait. Holmes stopped him at the top of the stairs with the words:

“Just one more question, Dr. Mortimer.” You said that before Sir Charles Baskerville died, several people saw a ghost on the moor?

- Three saw him.

- Did anyone see him after that?

- I haven't heard anything about it.

- Thank you. Farewell!

Holmes returned to his chair with that calm expression of inner contentment which meant that he had a pleasant job ahead of him.

-Are you leaving, Watson?

- Yes, if you don't need me.

- No, my friend, I only turn to you for help at the moment of action. But this luxurious thing is positively unique from certain points of view. Will you be so good as to tell him, when you pass Bradley, to send me a pound of the strongest tobacco? Thank you. It would be better if you found it convenient not to return until evening. And then I will be very pleased to compare our impressions of the extremely interesting problem that was proposed this morning for our solution.

I knew that solitude was necessary for my friend during those hours of intense mental concentration, during which he weighed all the particles of evidence, formed various conclusions, checked them mutually, and decided which points

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are essential and which ones are not important. So I spent the day at the club and only returned to Becker Street in the evening.

It was about nine o'clock when I entered our living room, and my first impression was that we were on fire: the room was so full of smoke that the light of the lamp standing on the table had the appearance of a spot. But when I entered, I calmed down, as I was coughing from the acrid tobacco smoke. Through the fog, the figure of Holmes in a dressing gown was vaguely outlined; he sat huddled in a chair, with a black clay pipe in his teeth. There were several bundles of papers lying around him.

- What, have you caught a cold, Watson? he asked.

– No, I’m coughing from the poisonous atmosphere.

– Yes, now, as you said, I find it somewhat heavy.

- Heavy! She's unbearable!

- So open the window. I see that you have been at your club all day.

- Dear Holmes!

- Am I wrong?

- Of course, you’re right, but how...?

He laughed at my bewilderment.

“You spread such a delightful freshness around you, Watson, that it is pleasant to exercise my little abilities at your expense.” A gentleman goes out in rainy weather and mud; he returns in the evening with a hat and boots that have not lost their luster. So he didn't move all day. He has no close friends. Where could he be? Isn't it obvious?

– Yes, perhaps, which is obvious.

– The light is full of evidence that no one notices. Where do you think I was?

– They also didn’t move.

– On the contrary, I was in Devonshire.

- Mentally?

- Exactly. My body remained in this chair and, as I unfortunately see, consumed two large mugs of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco in my absence. When you left, I sent to Stamford for an artillery map of this part of the swamp, and my mind wandered over it all day. I can boast that I will not get lost on its roads.

– This is a large scale map, probably?

- Very big. “He unrolled part of it on his lap. – Here is the area that interests us, and here is Baskerville Hall in the middle.

- With the forest around it?

- Exactly. I believe that the yew avenue, not marked on the map by that name, runs along this line, with the marsh on the right side of it, as you see. This cluster of buildings is the village of Grimpen, where our friend Doctor Mortimer lives; for five miles in circumference, as you see, there are very few scattered dwellings. Here is Laftar-goll, which was mentioned in the story. There is a house marked here, which may belong to the naturalist Stapleton, if I remember his name correctly. There are two farms on the swamp, Gai-Tor and Faulmair. And fourteen miles further on is the large Princetown prison. Between and around these scattered points lies a bleak, lifeless swamp. Here, finally, is the stage on which the tragedy played out, and on which we will try to reproduce it.

“This must be a wild place.”

- Yes, the situation is suitable. If the devil wanted to interfere in people's affairs...

– So, then, you too are inclined to a supernatural explanation?

– Can’t creatures made of meat and blood be agents of the devil? Now, to begin with, we are asked two questions: first, has a crime been committed here, second, what type of crime is this, and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's assumption is correct, and we are dealing with forces not subject to the simple law of nature, then this is the end of our investigations. But we must exhaust all other hypotheses before giving in to this one. I guess if you don't care, close this window. Surprisingly, I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps concentrate thoughts. I haven't gotten to the point of climbing into the thinking box, but it's a logical conclusion to my beliefs. Have you thought about this case?

– Yes, I thought about him a lot during the day.

- And what do you think about him?

– This matter can lead to a dead end.

– It, of course, has its own special character. It has distinctive features. For example, this is a change in tracks. What do you think of him?

“Mortimer said the man was walking on tiptoe along this part of the alley.

“He only repeated what some fool said during the investigation.” Why would a person tiptoe down an alley?

-What was that?

“He ran, Watson, he ran desperately, he ran to save his life, he ran until his heart broke and he fell dead.”

-Fleeing from what?

– This is our task. There are indications that he was struck with terror before he began to flee.

– What instructions?

“I believe the reason for his fear came from the swamp.” If this is so - and this seems most likely to me - then only a distraught person could run away from the house instead of walking towards it. If we believe the gypsy's testimony, then Sir Charles fled screaming for help in the direction from which it was least likely to be received. Then again, who was he expecting that night, and why was he expecting him in the yew alley, and not in his own house?

- Do you think he was expecting someone?

“Sir Charles was an elderly and sick man. We can assume that he went out for an evening walk, but the ground was damp and the weather was unfavorable. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I could suppose in him, concluded from the ashes of the cigar?

- But he went out every evening.

“I don’t think he stood at the gate leading to the swamp every evening.” On the contrary, it is obvious from the story that he avoided the swamp. That same night he stood there and waited. It was the eve of the day appointed for his departure for London. The case is taking shape, Watson. Is a sequence. May I ask you to hand over the violin to me, and we will defer all further considerations on this matter until we have had the pleasure of seeing Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville to-morrow morning.

IV. Sir Henry Baskerville

Our breakfast was cleared early, and Holmes, in his dressing gown, awaited the promised date. Our clients were accurate: the clock had just struck ten when Doctor Mortimer appeared at the door, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a short, lively, black-eyed man of about thirty, strongly built, with thick black eyebrows and a healthy, serious face. He was dressed in a reddish suit and had the appearance of a man who spent most of his time outdoors, and yet there was something in his determined look and in the calm confidence of his manner that revealed him as a gentleman.

“This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“That’s true,” confirmed Sir Henry, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend had not suggested that I go to you this morning, I would have come on my own.” I know you're into solving little riddles, and this morning I came across one that requires more thought than I can handle.

- Please sit down, Sir Henry. Am I correct in understanding that something extraordinary has happened to you personally since you arrived in London?

“Nothing particularly important, Mr. Holmes.” Something like a joke. This morning I received this letter, if you can call it a letter.

He placed an envelope on the table and we all bent over it. This envelope was made of plain grayish

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paper. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in uneven letters; the postmark was "Charing Cross" and the date of yesterday.

“Who knew you were staying at the Northumberland Hotel?” – Holmes asked, peering shrewdly at our visitor.

- Nobody could know this. Dr. Mortimer and I decided to stay at this hotel after I met him.

“But, no doubt, Dr. Mortimer has already settled there before?”

“No, I’m staying with a friend,” said the doctor. “There could be no indication that we intended to go to this hotel.”

- Hm! Someone appears to be deeply interested in your actions.

Holmes took out from the envelope half a sheet of small paper, folded in four. He unfolded it and straightened it on the table. Pasted in the middle of the sheet in separate printed words was a single phrase: “If you value your life or your mind, you should stay away from the swamp.” The word “swamp” alone was written in ink, but also in block letters.

“Now,” said Henry Baskerville, “perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what this means, and why the devil is so interested in my affairs?”

“What do you think about this, Doctor Mortimer?” You must admit that, in any case, there is nothing supernatural in this.

“Of course, sir, but this letter could have been received from a person convinced of the supernatural nature of this matter.”

- What's the matter? – Sir Henry asked sharply. “It seems to me that you all know much more than I do about my own affairs.”

“We will share all our information with you before you leave this room, Sir Henry.” I promise you this,” said Sherlock Holmes. – For now, with your permission, we will limit ourselves to this very interesting document, which was, in all likelihood, drawn up and delivered to the post office yesterday evening. Do you have yesterday's Times, Watson?

- He's in the corner here.

“Can I ask you to take it out and put it on the editorial page?”

He quickly scanned the columns of the newspaper and said:

– Here is an excellent article about free trade. Let me read you an extract from it. “If you are flattered, you imagine that your special trade or your own industry should be encouraged by a protective tariff, but reason says that from such legislation prosperity will be far from the country, our import trade will be less valuable and life on the island in its general conditions will remain low." What do you think about this, Watson? - exclaimed a beaming Holmes, rubbing his hands with pleasure. – Don’t you think that a wonderful feeling is expressed here?

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an expression of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville looked at me with his black eyes in bewilderment and said:

“I know a little about tariffs and the like, but it seems to me that we have wandered off the path to explaining this letter.”

“On the contrary, Sir Henry, we are hot on our trail.” Watson is more familiar with my method than you, but I am afraid that he did not fully understand the meaning of this maxim.

“I admit, I don’t understand what she has to do with the letter.”

– Meanwhile, my dear Watson, there is a close connection between them, one is taken from the other. “If”, “you”, “you”, “from”, “should”, “your”, “your”, “mind”, “far”, “valuable”, “life”, “hold on”. Do you see now where these words come from?

- Damn it, you're right! Well, isn't it lovely! - exclaimed Sir Henry.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, this is beyond anything I could have imagined,” said Dr. Mortimer, looking at my friend with surprise. “I could have guessed that the words were taken from a newspaper, but to say which one and add that they were taken from an editorial is truly amazing.” How did you find out?

“I assume, Doctor, that you can tell a Negro’s skull from an Eskimo’s skull?”

- Certainly.

- But how?

- Because this is my specialty. The difference is striking. The supraorbital bulge, the personal angle, the curve of the jaw...

– Well, this is my specialty, and the difference is also striking. In my opinion there is as much difference between the split-veneer Borges type used in the Times articles and the sloppy type of a cheap evening paper as exists between your Negro and your Eskimo. Font recognition is one of the most basic skills of a crime expert, although I confess that I once mixed the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News when I was very young. But the Times editorial is very easy to spot, and the words couldn't have come from anywhere else. Since this was done yesterday, probability suggests that the words were cut out from yesterday's issue.

“As far as I can follow your thoughts, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Henry Baskerville, “someone cut out this message with scissors...

- That's true. And so, someone cut out the message with short scissors and pasted it with paste...

“Glue,” corrected Holmes.

- Glue it on paper. But I want to know why the word “swamp” is written in ink?

– Because they didn’t find it in print. The remaining words are very simple and could be found in any number, but “swamp” is less common.

– Yes, of course, that’s quite clear. Did you learn anything else from this message, Mr. Holmes?

“There are one or two instructions, but meanwhile all measures have been taken to hide the guiding thread. You notice that the address is printed in uneven letters. But The Times is a newspaper that is rarely found in the hands of anyone except highly educated people. Therefore, we can recognize that the letter was written by an educated person who wanted to be recognized as uneducated, and his effort to hide his handwriting suggests that this handwriting is familiar to you or may become familiar. Also notice that the words are not neatly pasted in one line and that some are much higher than others. The word “life,” for example, is completely out of place. This proves, perhaps, negligence, or perhaps excitement and haste on the part of the compiler. I am inclined to accept the latter opinion, because since the matter was so important, it cannot be thought that the writer of the letter was careless. If he was in a hurry, then the interesting question is why he was in a hurry, since any letter thrown into the mailbox before this early morning would have reached Sir Henry before he left the hotel. Was the writer of the letter afraid of interference and from whom?

“Here we are entering the realm of guesswork,” said Dr. Mortimer.

– Or rather, in the area in which we weigh the probabilities and choose the most possible of them. This is a scientific adaptation of the imagination, but we always have a material basis on which to build our reasoning. Now you, no doubt, will call this a guess, but I am almost sure that this address is written in the hotel.

– Tell me, for God’s sake, how can you say this?

– If you examine it carefully, you will see that both pen and ink caused a lot of trouble for the writer. The pen splashed twice in one word and dried three times while writing a short address, which serves

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proof that there was very little ink in the inkwell. A private pen and inkwell are rarely in such a deplorable condition, and for both of these writing utensils to be bad is a very rare circumstance. But you know what ink and pens are like in hotels in general. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that if we could search the waste bins of all the hotels in the neighborhood of Charing Cross until we came upon the remains of a cut-out Times editorial, we would at once lay hands on the man who sent this original letter. Hey! What is it?

He carefully examined the paper on which the words were pasted, holding it no more than an inch or two from his eyes.

-What's the matter?

“Nothing,” Holmes replied, putting down the paper. – This is a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a watermark. I think we have extracted all that we could from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything interesting happened to you since you were in London?

- No, Mr. Holmes. Don't think.

“Have you noticed anyone following you and guarding you?”

“It seems to me that I’m right in the middle of a cheap romance,” our guest replied. “Who the hell needs to watch me or watch over me?”

– We are approaching this issue. But before we get down to it, do you have anything else to tell us?

“It depends on what you think is worth reporting.”

– I consider everything that goes beyond the routine of life worth attention.

Sir Henry smiled.

– I am still not very familiar with British life, because I spent almost my entire life in the States and Canada. But I hope that here it is not considered a matter of everyday life to lose one boot.

-Have you lost one of your boots?

“Oh, dear sir,” exclaimed Doctor Mortimer, “he’s just not delivered to his place.” You will find it when you return to the hotel. There is no need to bother Mr. Holmes with such trifles.

“But he asked me to tell you about something that goes beyond everyday life.”

“Quite right,” said Holmes, “no matter how trivial the incident may seem.” You say you lost one boot?

“I put both boots outside the door last night, but in the morning there was only one there.” I couldn't get anything out of the guy who cleaned them. But the worst thing is that I just bought this pair in Strand last night and have never worn it.

- If you have never worn these boots, then why did you put them out for cleaning?

“They were tanned boots, and they were not covered with wax.” That's why I put them out.

– So, when you arrived in London yesterday, you immediately went to buy a pair of boots?

- I bought a lot of things. Dr. Mortimer walked with me. You see, since I have to be the owner there, I have to dress accordingly, and it is quite possible that in the West I have become somewhat careless in this regard. Among other things, I bought those brown boots (gave six dollars for them), and one of them was stolen before I could put them on.

“This seems a very useless theft,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I confess,” I share Dr. Mortimer’s opinion that the missing boot will soon be found.

“And now, gentlemen,” said the baronet decisively, “I think that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know.” It's time for you to fulfill your promise and give me a full account of what we are bothering about.

“Your demand is quite reasonable,” said Holmes. “Doctor Mortimer, I think it would be best if you told your story the way you told it to us.”

Encouraged by this invitation, our learned friend took the papers out of his pocket and laid out the whole matter as he had done the previous morning. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention, and from time to time exclamations of surprise escaped him.

“Apparently, I received the inheritance with vengeance,” he said when the long story was finished. – Of course, I heard about the dog when I was a child. This is a favorite story in our family, although I have never taken it seriously before. But since my uncle’s death, this story has been bubbling in my head, and I still can’t figure it out. It’s as if you haven’t yet decided whose competence this matter is: the police or the church.

- Absolutely right.

- And now this letter has appeared. I believe it's there.

“It proves that someone knows more than we do about what is happening in the swamp,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“And also,” Holmes added, “that someone is disposed towards you, since he warns you against danger.”

– Or maybe they want to remove me for personal reasons?

- Of course, this is also possible. I am greatly obliged to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several interesting solutions. But we must now decide the practical question of whether it would be prudent for you, Sir Henry, to go to Baskerville Hall.

- Why don’t I go there?

“There appears to be danger there.”

– What danger do you mean - from our family enemy or from human beings?

- This is what we need to find out.

- Whatever it is, my answer is ready. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, or man on earth, who would prevent me from going to the country of my people, and you may take this as my final answer.

His dark brows furrowed and his face turned purple. The fiery temperament of the Baskervilles obviously did not fade away in this last of their descendants.

“Meanwhile,” he spoke again, “I didn’t even have time to think about what you told me.” It is difficult for a person to understand and solve a matter in one sitting. I would like to spend a quiet hour with myself to think things over. Listen, Mr. Holmes, it's half past eleven and I'm heading straight to my hotel. What would you say if I asked you and your friend Dr. Watson to come and have breakfast with us at two o'clock? Then I will be able to tell you more clearly how this story affected me.

– Is this convenient for you, Watson?

- Absolutely.

- So you can expect us. Should I order a cab to be called for you?

– I prefer to walk because all this has excited me.

“I’ll be happy to take a walk with you,” said his companion.

- So we'll see you again at two o'clock. Goodbye!

We heard our guests descend the stairs and the front door slam behind them. In an instant, Holmes transformed from a sleepy dreamer into a man of action.

- Your hat and boots, Watson, quickly! Don't waste a single minute!

With these words, he rushed into his room in a dressing gown and a few seconds later returned from there in a frock coat. We ran down the stairs and out into the street. Doctor Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us, towards Oxford Street.

– Should I run and stop them?

- Not for anything in the world, my dear Watson. I am quite content with your company if you can tolerate mine. Our friends are smart people because the morning is really beautiful for a walk.

He quickened his pace until we had halved the distance separating us from our visitors. Then, remaining constantly a hundred yards behind them, we followed them into Oxford Street, and thence further into

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Regent Street. One day our friends stopped and began to look out the window of the store. Holmes followed suit. Then he uttered a slight exclamation of surprise and, following his penetrating gaze, I saw a cab with a coachman's seat in the back and in this cab a man; he stopped the carriage on the other side of the street, and now again slowly drove forward.

- This is our man, Watson, let's go! We will at least take a closer look at it if we are unable to do anything better.

At that moment I clearly saw a thick black beard and a pair of piercing eyes looking at us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the opening at the top opened, something was said to the driver, and the cab flew madly down Regent Street. Holmes eagerly began to look around, looking for another cab, but not a single empty one was visible. Then he rushed into a frantic pursuit into the very middle of the traffic on the street, but the distance was too great, and the cab had already disappeared from sight.

- Here you go! - Holmes exclaimed bitterly when, out of breath and pale with frustration, he emerged from the stream of carriages. - Such a failure can happen and you can act so badly! Watson, Watson, if you are an honest person, you will tell this too and make it look like a failure on my part!

-Who was this man?

– I have no idea.

“From what we've heard, it's obvious that someone has been keeping a very close eye on Baskerville since he's been in town. How else could it have been known so quickly that he was staying at the Northumberland Hotel? From the fact that he was followed on the first day, I conclude that he will be followed on the second day. You must have noticed that I went to the window twice while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend.

- Yes, I remember.

“I looked to see if I could see anyone loitering on the street, but I didn’t see a single one. We're dealing with a smart man, Watson. Everything here is very deeply conceived and, although I have not yet finally decided whether we are dealing with a well-wisher or an enemy, I see that there is power and a definite purpose here. When our friends came out, I immediately followed them, hoping to notice their invisible companion. He was cunning enough not to walk, but to stock up on a cab in which he could either slowly follow them or quickly fly by so as not to be noticed by them. He also had the advantage that if they also took a cab, he would not lag behind them. However, this has one big inconvenience.

- This puts him under the power of the cabman.

- Exactly.

- What a pity that we didn’t look at the number.

“My dear Watson, no matter how clumsy I turned out to be here, do you really seriously assume that I didn’t pay attention to the number?” This number is 2704. But at the moment it is useless to us.

“I don’t see that you could have done more.”

– Having noticed the cab, I had to immediately turn back and go in the opposite direction. Then I could freely hire another cab and follow the first at a respectful distance, or, better yet, go straight to the Northumberland Hotel and wait there for him. When our stranger followed Baskerville to his house, we would have the opportunity to repeat his game on him and see for what purpose he started it. And now, through our thoughtless haste, which our enemy took advantage of unusually quickly, we gave ourselves away and lost track of our man.

Conversing in this manner, we moved slowly along Regent Street, and Dr. Mortimer and his companion had long since disappeared from our sight.

“There is no need to follow them,” said Holmes. “Their shadow has disappeared and will not return. Now all we have to do is look at what cards we have left in our hands and decisively play with them. Are you sure that you would recognize the person sitting in the cab?

“All I'm sure of is that I would have recognized his beard.”

- And I also, from which I draw the conclusion that she is attached. An intelligent person who has undertaken such a delicate task has no other need for a beard than to hide his features. Let's come in here, Watson!

He turned into one of the district commission offices, where the manager warmly greeted him.

“Ah, Wilson, I see that you have not forgotten the small matter in which I had the good fortune to help you?”

“Oh, of course, sir, I haven’t forgotten him.” You saved my good name, and maybe my life.

- My dear, you are exaggerating. I remember, Wilson, that among your boys there was a fellow named Cartwright, who turned out to be quite capable during the investigation.

- We still have it, sir.

-Can you call him here? Thank you! And please change these five pounds for me.

A young man of about fourteen, handsome and seemingly intelligent, came to the call. He stood motionless and looked with great respect at the famous detective.

“Give me a list of hotels,” said Holmes. - Thank you! Here, Cartwright, are the names of twenty-three hotels located in the immediate vicinity of Charing Cross. Do you see?

- Yes, sir.

– You will go to all these hotels.

- Yes, sir.

“In each of them you will begin by giving the gatekeeper one shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings.

- Yes, sir.

– You will tell him that you want to review yesterday’s abandoned newspapers. You explain your desire by saying that a very important telegram has been lost and that you are looking for it. Do you understand?

- Yes, sir.

“But in reality you will be looking for the middle page of The Times, with holes cut in it with scissors.” Here is the number of the Times and here is the page. You will recognize her easily, won't you?

- Yes, sir.

“In every hotel the porter will send for the lobby porter, and you will also give each of them a shilling.” Here's another twenty-three shillings. It is very likely that in twenty out of twenty-three cases you will be told that yesterday's newspapers were burned or thrown away. In the other three cases, you will be shown a pile of newspapers, and you will find this page of the Times in it. The odds are stacked against you finding it. Here's another ten shillings for emergencies. By this evening you will inform me of the results at Becker Street by telegraph. And now, Watson, all we have to do is find out by telegraph the identity of the driver of cab No. 2704, and then we will go to one of the art galleries of Bond Street to pass the time until the hour of our appointment at the hotel.

V. Three broken threads

Sherlock Holmes had an amazing ability to distract his thoughts at will. The strange business in which we were involved seemed to be completely forgotten by him for two hours, and he was completely absorbed in the paintings of the latest Belgian masters. On leaving the gallery he did not want to talk about anything except art (of which we had the most elementary understanding) until we reached the Northumberland Hotel.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is waiting for you upstairs,” said the clerk. “He asked me to take you to him as soon as you arrived.”

“Would you mind me looking at your record book?” – Holmes asked.

- Do me a favor.

Two more were listed in the book after Baskerville's name. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, from Newcastle, and the other was Mrs. Oldmar, with her maid, from Guy Lodge, Alton.

“This is probably the same Johnson I knew,” said Holmes. “He’s a lawyer, isn’t he, gray-haired and with a limp?”

- No, sir, this Johnson is the owner of the coal mines, very active

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a gentleman, no older than you.

“You must be mistaken about his specialty.”

- No, sir. He has been staying at our hotel for many years and we know him very well.

- This is a different matter. And Mrs. Oldmar? I remember something, as if her name was familiar to me. Forgive me for my curiosity, but it often happens that when you visit one friend, you find another.

- She is a sick lady, sir. Her husband was a major, and she always stays with us when she is in town.

- Thank you. It seems that I cannot pretend to know her. With these questions, Watson,” he continued in a low voice as we climbed the stairs, “we have established an extremely important fact. We now know that the person interested in our friend was not staying in the same hotel as him. This means that, as we have seen, trying to keep an eye on him, he is at the same time afraid of being noticed. Well, this is a very significant fact.

- And that... Hey, dear friend, what’s the matter?

Rounding the railing at the top of the stairs, we came across Henry Baskerville himself. His face was red with anger, and he held an old dusty boot in his hand. He was so furious that words would not come out of his throat; when he caught his breath, he spoke in a much freer and more Western dialect than the one he had spoken in the morning.

“It seems to me that in this hotel they are fooling me like a milksucker!” - he exclaimed. “I advise them to be careful, otherwise they will see that they attacked the wrong person.” Damn it, if this boy doesn't find my boot, he won't be happy with it! I understand jokes, Mr. Holmes, but this time they were too much.

-Are you still looking for your boot?

“Yes, sir, and I intend to find him.”

“But you said it was a new brown boot.”

- Yes, sir. And now it's old black.

- What! Really?..

- Exactly. I only had three pairs of boots: new brown ones, old black ones, and these patent leather ones that I'm wearing. Last night they took one of my brown boots, and today they took off my black one. Well, did you find him? Yes, speak up and don’t stand there with your eyes bulging.

An excited German footman appeared on the stage.

- No, sir. I checked around the hotel and couldn't find out anything.

- Fine! Either the boot will be returned to me before sunset, or I will go to the owner and tell him that I am immediately leaving his hotel.

“He will be found, sir... I promise you that if you just be patient, he will be found.”

“I hope so, otherwise this will be the last thing I lose in this den of thieves.” However, forgive me, Mr. Holmes, for bothering you with such trifles.

“I think it's worth worrying about.”

“You seem to be looking at this matter seriously.”

– How do you explain all this?

– I’m not even trying to explain this case. It seems extremely ridiculous and strange to me.

“Yes, strange, perhaps,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

– What do you think about him?

“I won’t say that I understand him at the moment.” This is a very complicated thing, Sir Henry. If you connect your uncle's death with this, then I will say that of the five hundred matters of the first importance with which I had to deal, not one affected me so deeply. But we have several threads in our hands and every chance is that one or the other will lead us to the truth. We may waste time following the wrong path, but sooner or later we will fall on the right path.

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Notes

Nouveau riche, lit. "new rich" (French)

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Illustration by Sebastien Ecosse

The famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his friend, assistant Dr. Watson, examine a cane that was forgotten in an apartment on Baker Street by a visitor who came in their absence. Soon the owner of the cane appears, the doctor James Mortimer, a tall young man with close-set gray eyes and a long protruding nose. Mortimer reads to Holmes and Watson an old manuscript - a legend about the terrible curse of the Baskerville family - entrusted to him not so long ago by his patient and friend Sir Charles Baskerville, who suddenly died. Powerful and intelligent, not at all given to fantasy, Sir Charles took this legend seriously and was ready for the end that fate had in store for him.

In ancient times, one of Charles Baskerville's ancestors, the owner of the Hugo estate, was distinguished by his unbridled and cruel temper. Inflamed with an unholy passion for the daughter of a farmer, Hugo kidnapped her. Having locked the girl in the upper chambers, Hugo and his friends sat down to feast. The unfortunate woman decided on a desperate act: she climbed down the ivy from the castle window and ran home through the swamps. Hugo rushed after her, setting dogs on the trail, his comrades following him. On a wide lawn among the swamps, they saw the body of a fugitive who died of fear. Nearby lay the corpse of Hugo, and above him stood a vile monster, similar to a dog, but much larger. The monster tore at the throat of Hugo Baskerville and sparkled with burning eyes. And, although the one who wrote down the legend hoped that Providence would not punish the innocent, he still warned his descendants to beware of “going out into the swamps at night, when the forces of evil reign supreme,”

James Mortimer says that Sir Charles was found dead in a yew avenue, not far from the gate leading to the moors. And nearby the doctor noticed fresh and clear footprints... of a huge dog. Mortimer asks Holmes for advice, since the heir to the estate, Sir Henry Baskerville, arrives from America. The day after Henry's arrival, Baskerville, accompanied by Mortimer, visits Holmes. Sir Henry's adventures began immediately upon arrival: firstly, his shoe went missing in the hotel, and secondly, he received an anonymous message warning him to “stay away from the peat bogs.” Nevertheless, he is determined to go to Baskerville Hall, and Holmes sends Dr. Watson with him. Holmes himself remains in London on business. Dr. Watson sends Holmes detailed reports about life on the estate and tries not to leave Sir Henry alone, which soon becomes difficult, as Baskerville falls in love with Miss Stapleton, who lives nearby. Miss Stapleton lives in a house on the moors with her entomologist brother and two servants, and her brother jealously protects her from the advances of Sir Henry. Having created a scandal about this, Stapleton then comes to Baskerville Hall with an apology and promises not to interfere with the love of Sir Henry and his sister if, within the next three months, he agrees to be content with her friendship.

At night in the castle, Watson hears a woman's sobs, and in the morning he finds the wife of the butler Barrymore in tears. He and Sir Henry manage to catch Barrymore himself making signs out the window with a candle at night, and the swamps answer him in the same way. It turns out that an escaped convict is hiding in the swamps - this is the younger brother of Barrymore's wife, who for her remained only a mischievous boy. One of these days he should leave for South America. Sir Henry promises not to betray Barrymore and even gives him some clothes. As if in gratitude, Barrymore says that a piece of a half-burnt letter to Sir Charles with a request to be “at the gate at ten o’clock in the evening” survived in the fireplace. The letter was signed “L. L." Next door, in Coombe Treacy, there lives a lady with those initials - Laura Lyons. Watson goes to her the next day. Laura Lyons admits that she wanted to ask Sir Charles for money to divorce her husband, but at the last moment she received help “from other hands.” She was going to explain everything to Sir Charles the next day, but learned from the newspapers about his death.

On the way back, Watson decides to go to the swamps: even earlier he noticed a man there (not a convict). Stealthily, he approaches the stranger's supposed home. Much to his surprise, he finds a note scrawled in pencil in an empty hut: “Dr. Watson has left for Coombe Trecy.” Watson decides to wait for the occupant of the hut. Finally he hears footsteps approaching and cocks his revolver. Suddenly a familiar voice is heard: “Today is such a wonderful evening, dear Watson. Why sit in the stuffiness? It’s much nicer outside.” The friends barely have time to exchange information (Holmes knows that the woman whom Stapleton is passing off as his sister is his wife, moreover, he is sure that it is Stapleton who is his opponent), when they hear a terrible scream. The cry is repeated, Holmes and Watson rush to the rescue and see the body... of an escaped convict dressed in Sir Henry's costume. Stapleton appears. Judging by his clothes, he also mistakes the deceased for Sir Henry, then with a huge effort of will he hides his disappointment.

The next day, Sir Henry goes alone to visit Stapleton, while Holmes, Watson and detective Lestrade, who has arrived from London, wait in hiding in the swamps not far from the house. Holmes's plans are almost thwarted by the fog creeping from the side of the bog. Sir Henry leaves Stapleton and heads home. Stapleton sets a dog in his wake: a huge, black one, with a burning mouth and eyes (they were smeared with a phosphorescent composition). Holmes manages to shoot the dog, although Sir Henry still suffered a nervous shock. Perhaps an even greater shock for him was the news that the woman he loved was Stapleton's wife. Holmes finds her tied up in the back room - she finally rebelled and refused to help her husband in the hunt for Sir Henry. She accompanies the detectives deep into the quagmire where Stapleton hid the dog, but no trace of him can be found. Obviously, the swamp swallowed the villain.

To improve their health, Sir Henry and Doctor Mortimer go on a trip around the world, and before sailing they visit Holmes. After they leave, Holmes tells Watson the details of this case: Stapleton, a descendant of one of the branches of the Baskervilles (Holmes guessed this from his resemblance to the portrait of the wicked Hugo), was noticed more than once in fraud, but he managed to safely hide from justice. It was he who suggested that Laura Lyons first write to Sir Charles, and then forced her to refuse the date. Both she and Stapleton's wife were entirely at his mercy. But at the decisive moment, Stapleton's wife stopped obeying him.

Having finished the story, Holmes invites Watson to go to the opera - to see Les Huguenots.

Retold

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was in the habit of getting up very late, except on those frequent occasions when he did not go to bed at all, was sitting at breakfast. I stood on the rug in front of the fireplace and held in my hands the cane that our visitor had forgotten the night before. It was a beautiful, thick stick with a round knob. Just below it, a wide (an inch wide) silver ribbon was wrapped around the stick, and on this ribbon was engraved: “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S. from his friends in the S.S.N.” and the year "1884". It was just the kind of cane that old-fashioned family doctors usually carry - venerable, strong and reliable.

What are you doing with her, Watson?

Holmes sat with his back to me, and I showed nothing of what I was doing.

Why did you know what I was doing? You must have eyes in the back of your head.

“At least I have a well-polished coffee pot sitting in front of me,” he replied. - But tell me, Watson, what are you doing with our visitor’s cane? Since we unfortunately missed his visit and have no idea why he came, this sign of memory takes on a certain significance. Let's hear what idea you get about a person after examining his cane.

I think,” I said, using as best I could my friend’s method, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful elderly doctor, respected, since his acquaintances showed him the attention of this gift.

Fine! - Holmes approved. - Wonderful!

I also think he is probably the village doctor and makes a lot of visits on foot.

Because this cane, very beautiful when it was new, is so scratched that it is unlikely that a city doctor could use it. The iron tip is so worn out that, obviously, quite a few walks have been made with it.

Absolutely sane! - Holmes noted.

It is then engraved with "from friends at S.S.N." I believe that these letters stand for some kind of hunt, some local hunting society, to whose members he may have provided medical assistance, for which they gave him this little gift.

Really, Watson, you surpass yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I must say that in all your kind stories about my insignificant actions, you estimated your own abilities too low. You may not be the illuminator, but you are the conductor of light. Some people, without possessing genius themselves, have the remarkable ability to bring it out in others. I confess, dear comrade, that I am greatly indebted to you.

He had never spoken so much before, and I must confess that his words gave me great pleasure, because I was often offended by his indifference to my admiration for him and to my attempts to publicize his method. I was also proud that I had mastered his system so much that by using it I had earned his approval. Holmes took the cane from my hands and examined it with his naked eye for several minutes. Then, with an expression of excited interest on his face, he put down the cigarette and, going up to the window with his cane, began to examine it again through the magnifying glass.

Interesting, but elementary,” he said, sitting down in his favorite corner on the sofa. - There are, of course, one or two correct instructions regarding the cane. They give us the basis for several conclusions.

Have I missed anything? - I asked with some arrogance. - I guess - nothing important?

I'm afraid, dear Watson, that most of your conclusions are wrong. I said quite sincerely that you provoked thoughts in me, and, noticing your delusions, I accidentally fell on the true trail. I'm not saying you're completely wrong. This man is, without a doubt, the village doctor, and he walks a lot.

So I was right.

So much so, yes.

But that's all.

No, no, dear Watson, not all, far from all. I would say, for example, that the gift to the doctor was made rather from the hospital than from the hunting society, and since the letters C. C. are placed in front of this hospital, then the words “Charing-Cross Hospital” naturally come to mind. .

You may be right.

Everything speaks for such an interpretation. And if we accept it as the main hypothesis, then we will have new data to restore the identity of this unknown visitor.

Well, assuming that the letters S.S.N. should stand for Charing Cross Hospital, what further conclusions can we draw?

Don't you feel how they are asking themselves? You are familiar with my system - apply it.

The only obvious conclusion that is clear to me is that this man practiced in the city before moving to the village.

It seems to me that we can go a little further. Continue in the same direction. On what occasion could this gift most likely be given? When could his friends conspire to prove their affection to him? Obviously, at the moment when Dr. Mortimer left the hospital in order to enter private practice. We know that a gift was made. We believe that Dr. Mortimer has exchanged service in the city hospital for country practice. So is it too bold to conclude from these two premises that the doctor received a gift on the occasion of this change?

Of course, this apparently was the case.

Now notice that he could not be on the staff of the hospital, because only a person with a well-established practice in London could occupy such a position, and such a person would not go to the country. Who was he? If he occupied a position in a hospital, and yet was not part of its staff, then he could only be a doctor or surgeon-supervisor - little more than a senior student. He left the hospital five years ago - the year is marked on the cane. Thus, dear Watson, your venerable, elderly family doctor disappears, and a young man no older than thirty years of age appears, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded and the owner of a beloved dog, about which I will say in general terms that it is larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.

I laughed incredulously when Sherlock Holmes, having said this, leaned against the sofa and began to blow smoke rings towards the ceiling.

As for your last assumption, I have no means of verifying it, I said, but at least it is not difficult to find some information about the age and professional career of this person.

From my small shelf of medical books I took the doctor's index and opened it to the name Mortimer; There were several of them, but only one of them could relate to our visitor. I read aloud the following information about him:

"Mortimer, James, M.R.S.L., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon, medical curator, from 1882 to 1884 at Charing Cross Hospital. He received the Jackson Prize for Comparative Pathology with a study entitled: “Is Disease Hereditary?” Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society, author of the articles: “Several quirks of atavism” (Lancet, 1882), “Are we progressing?” (Psychological Journal, March, 1883). Serves in the parishes of Grimpen, Torelei and Guy Barrot.”

“Not the slightest hint, Watson, of the local society of hunters,” said Holmes with a sarcastic smile, “but the village doctor, as you astutely noted. I think my findings are sufficiently confirmed. As for the adjectives I cited, if I’m not mistaken, they were: amiable, unambitious and absent-minded. I know from experience that in this world only an amiable person receives attention, only an unambitious one leaves a London career for country practice, and only an absent-minded one leaves his cane instead of a calling card, after waiting for you in your room for an hour.

And the dog?

She used to carry this cane for her master. Since this cane is heavy, the dog held it tightly by the middle, where the marks of its teeth are clearly visible. The space occupied by these marks shows that the dog's jaw is large for a terrier and small for a mastiff. This must be... well, yes, of course, this is a curly spaniel.

Holmes got up from the sofa and, speaking in this way, walked around the room. Then he stopped at the window. There was such confidence in his voice that I looked at him in surprise.

Dear friend, how can you be so sure of this?

For the simple reason that I see a dog on the threshold of our door, and here comes the call from its master. Please don't go, Watson. He is your colleague, and your presence may be useful to me. The dramatic moment has come, Watson, when you hear the footsteps of a person on the stairs who is about to bring something into your life, and you don’t know whether it’s for good or not. What does Dr. James Mortimer, a man of science, need from Sherlock Holmes, an expert on crimes? - Come in.

The appearance of our visitor surprised me, because I was expecting a typical village doctor. He was very tall, thin, with a long beak-like nose protruding between two sharp, gray eyes, set close together and shining brightly behind gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a professional, but sloppy suit: his frock coat was a bit dirty and his trousers were shabby. Although he was still young, his back was already hunched, and he walked with his head bent forward, with a general expression of inquisitive benevolence. As he entered, his gaze fell on the cane in Holmes's hands, and he ran up to it with a joyful exclamation:

How pleased I am! I wasn't sure whether I left it here or at the shipping office. I wouldn't want to lose this cane for anything in the world.

This appears to be a gift,” Holmes said.

Yes sir...

From Charing Cross Hospital?

From several friends serving there on the occasion of my wedding.

“Oh, oh, this is bad,” said Holmes, shaking his head.

Doctor Morthamer's eyes flashed through his glasses with gentle surprise.

Why is this bad?

Only because you ruined our little conclusions. On the occasion of your wedding, you say?

Yes sir. I got married and left the hospital, and with it any hopes of practicing as a consultant. This was necessary so that I could start my own home.

“Yeah, so we’re not really that wrong,” Holmes said. So, Dr. James Mortimer...

Mister, sir, mister... humble doctor.

And obviously a person with precise thinking.

A scoundrel in science, Mr. Holmes, a shell collector on the shores of the great unexplored ocean. I suppose I'm addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not...

No, this is my friend, Dr. Watson.

I'm very glad to have met you, sir. I heard your name in connection with your friend's name. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I was looking forward to seeing such a dolicocephalic skull and such well-defined development of the supraorbital bone. It won't matter to you if I run my finger along your parietal suture? A photograph of your skull, while the original is still active, would be an adornment to any anthropological museum. I have no intention of being indelicate, but I confess that I covet your skull.

Sherlock Holmes pointed the strange visitor to a chair and said:

I see, sir, that you are an enthusiastic fan of your idea, just as I am of mine. I see from your index finger that you roll your own cigarettes. Feel free to smoke.

The visitor took tobacco and a piece of paper from his pocket, and with amazing dexterity he rolled the cigarette. He had long, trembling fingers, as mobile and restless as the tentacles of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his quick glances proved to me how interested he was in our amazing guest.

I suppose, sir,” he said at last, “that you did me the honor of coming here last night and again today, not for the exclusive purpose of examining my skull?”

No sir, no, although I am happy that I got this opportunity too. I come to you, Mr. Holmes, because I admit that I am an impractical person and because I suddenly found myself face to face with a very serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing you as the second expert in Europe...

Really, sir! Can I ask you who has the honor of being first? - Holmes asked somewhat sharply.

But Bertillon’s scientific mind will always have a strong influence.

So wouldn't it be better for you to consult him?

I spoke, sir, about a scientific mind. As for the practical business person, it is recognized by everyone that you are the only one in this regard. I hope, sir, that I have not inadvertently...

“A little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, that you will do better if, without further discussion, you will be kind enough to simply tell me what the problem is that requires my help.”