rdthroughdeeplaneswornbycenturiesofwheels,highbanksoneitherside,heavywithdrippingmossandfleshyhart’s-tongueferns.Bronzingbrackenandmottledbramblegleamedinthelightofthesinkingsun.Stillsteadilyrising,wepassedoveranarrowgranitebridgeandskirtedanoisystreamwhichgushedswiftlydown,foamingandroaringamidthegreyboulders.Bothroadandstreamwoundupthroughavalleydensewithscruboakandfir.AteveryturnBaskervillegaveanexclamationofdelight,lookingeagerlyabouthimandaskingcountlessquestions.Tohiseyesallseemedbeautiful,buttomeatingeofmelancholylayuponthecountryside,whichboresoclearlythemarkofthewaningyear.Yellowleavescarpetedthelanesandfluttereddownuponusaswepassed.Therattleofourwheelsdiedawayaswedrovethroughdriftsofrottingvegetation—sadgifts,asitseemedtome,forNaturetothrowbeforethecarriageofthereturningheiroftheBaskervilles.
“Halloa!”criedDr.Mortimer,“whatisthis?”
Asteepcurveofheath-cladland,anoutlyingspurofthemoor,layinfrontofus.Onthesummit,hardandclearlikeanequestrianstatueuponitspedestal,wasamountedsoldier,darkandstern,hisriflepoisedreadyoverhisforearm.Hewaswatchingtheroadalongwhichwetravelled.
“Whatisthis,Perkins?”askedDr.Mortimer.
Ourdriverhalfturnedinhisseat.“There’saconvictescapedfromPrincetown,sir.He’sbeenoutthreedaysnow,andthewarderswatcheveryroadandeverystation,butthey’vehadnosightofhimyet.Thefarmersaboutheredon’tlikeit,sir,andthat’safact.”
“Well,Iunderstandthattheygetfivepoundsiftheycangiveinformation.”
“Yes,sir,butthechanceoffivepoundsisbutapoorthingcomparedtothechanceofhavingyourthroatcut.Yousee,itisn’tlikeanyordinaryconvict.Thisisamanthatwouldstickatnothing.”
“Whoishe,then?”
“ItisSelden,theNottingHillmurderer.”
Irememberedthecasewell,foritwasoneinwhichHolmeshadtakenaninterestonaccountofthepeculiarferocityofthecrimeandthewantonbrutalitywhichhadmarkedalltheactionsoftheassassin.Thecommutationofhisdeathsentencehadbeenduetosomedoubtsastohiscompletesanity,soatrociouswashisconduct.Ourwagonettehadtoppedariseandinfron