Собака Баскервіллів
Death on the Moor
Hehadutteredacryandbentoverthebody. Nowhewasdancingandlaughingandwringingmyhand. Couldthisbemystern,self-containedfriend? Thesewerehiddenfires,indeed!
"Abeard!Abeard! Themanhasabeard!"
"Abeard?"
"Itisnotthebaronet—itis—why,itismyneighbour,theconvict!"
Withfeverishhastewehadturnedthebodyover,andthatdrippingbeardwaspointinguptothecold,clearmoon. Therecouldbenodoubtaboutthebeetlingforehead,thesunkenanimaleyes. Itwasindeedthesamefacewhichhadglareduponmeinthelightofthecandlefromovertherock—thefaceofSelden,thecriminal.
Theninaninstantitwasallcleartome. IrememberedhowthebaronethadtoldmethathehadhandedhisoldwardrobetoBarrymore. BarrymorehadpasseditoninordertohelpSeldeninhisescape. Boots,shirt,cap—itwasallSirHenry’s. Thetragedywasstillblackenough,butthismanhadatleastdeserveddeathbythelawsofhiscountry. ItoldHolmeshowthematterstood,myheartbubblingoverwiththankfulnessandjoy.
"Thentheclotheshavebeenthepoordevil’sdeath,"saidhe. "ItisclearenoughthatthehoundhasbeenlaidonfromsomearticleofSirHenry’s—thebootwhichwasabstractedinthehotel,inallprobability—andsoranthismandown. Thereisoneverysingularthing,however: HowcameSelden,inthedarkness,toknowthatthehoundwasonhistrail?"
"Heheardhim."
