The Blue Carbuncle (Musaicum Christmas Specials). Arthur Conan Doyle

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      "Who—who's this?" he stammered.

      "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

      Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me.

      "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?"

      "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

      "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry."

      "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.

      "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"—his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's—"did you hear anything else besides a cry?"

      "No," said Holmes; "did you?"

      "No."

      "What do you mean, then?"

      "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night."

      "We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

      "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

      "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck."

      "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

      My friend bowed his compliments.

      "You are quick at identification," said he.

      "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy."

      "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me to-morrow."

      "Oh, you return to-morrow?"

      "That is my intention."

      "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?"

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

      "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case."

      My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

      "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning."

      And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end.