The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

the London newspapers about the much talked-of exhibition and had inwardly heaved a regretful sigh, thinking that I would be hard-pressed to find any free time to visit it and highly unlikely to ever persuade Holmes to take time away from his work to join me.
    Startled by his suggestion, I met his enquiring gaze. "But you don't like ... that is, you have never given the impression of knowing or caring very much about art."
    He shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know much, but I know what is good when I see it."
    His gaze slid sideways to me and, not knowing how to respond, I had to turn away.
    Later on, in Sir Henry's hotel room, the baronet was scowling worriedly as he spoke with Holmes.
    "Are you sure you can't come yourself, Mr. Holmes? I'd feel much better about it if I could have your opinion."
    As Holmes started to refuse again, I had a sudden longing to escape London for a spell. My life here seemed to be in a hopeless tangle – I had felt Holmes's gaze on me as we strolled round the exhibition and it had only made me acutely uncomfortable – and some distance sounded like a blissful escape.
    "I will go with you," I said abruptly, not daring to look at Holmes's face as I made my offer.
    The next instant Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.
    "Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll never forget it."
    We made arrangements to meet at the train station the following day but in truth I was going through the motions mechanically; the greater part of my attention was taken up by Holmes, whose gaze I could feel boring into the side of my head as though he hoped to read my thoughts imprinted on my skull.
    * * * *
    Much later, I left Coombe Tracey and began walking towards the moor. I had been moderately successful in my quest, in that I had been directed to a particular hut on the moor to which a boy had been seen making regular visits, presumably to leave food for the convict living there. I was determined to find out more, and so it was there that I turned my steps.
    The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest skyline, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding-place – his secret was within my grasp.
    As I approached the hut, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver, and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty.
    The sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the Great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature, but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves, but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.
    And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp