t you think, Watson,
that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should
be at Baskerville Hall."

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had
settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a
violet sky.

"One last question, Holmes," I said, as I rose. "Surely there is
no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it
all? What is he after?"

Holmes's voice sank as he answered:----

"It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.
Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even
as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already
almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten
us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.
Another day--two at the most--and I have my case complete, but
until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother
watched her ailing child. Your mission to-day has justified
itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his
side. Hark!"

A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst
out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the
blood to ice in my veins.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?"

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic
outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head
thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.

"Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had
pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it
burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of
his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.
"Where is it, Watson?"

"There, I think." I pointed into the darkness.

"No, there!"

Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and
much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling
like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

"The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if
we are too late!"

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed
at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground
immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,
and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another
sound broke the heavy sil