llowed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No,
no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the
passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught
up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we
see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of
the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open
this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in
hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange
and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of
this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an
upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the
old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a
figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been
used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it
was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of
the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a
dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off
the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in
front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear
red weal of a whiplash across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her
in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this v