OCTOBER 17TH. All day to-day the rain poured down， rustlingon the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convictout upon the bleak， cold， shelterless moor. Poor devil！ Whateverhis crimes， he has suffered something to atone for them. And thenI thought of that other one—the face in the cab， the figure againstthe moon. Was he also out in that deluged—the unseen watcher，the man of darkness？ In the evening I put on my waterproof andI walked far upon the sodden moor， full of dark imaginings， therain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears.
God help those who wander into the great mire now， for even thefirm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor uponwhich I had seen the solitary watcher， and from its craggy summitI looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squallsdrifted across their russet face， and the heavy， slate-colouredclouds hung low over the landscape， trailing in gray wreathsdown the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on theleft， half hidden by the mist， the two thin towers of BaskervilleHall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of humanlife which I could see， save only those prehistoric huts which laythickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any traceof that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nightsbefore.
As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer drivingin his dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from theoutlying farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive tous， and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hallto see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbinginto his dog-cart， and he gave me a lift homeward. I found himmuch troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It hadwandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave himsuch consolation as I might， but I thought of the pony on theGrimpen Mire， and I do not fancy that he will see his little dogagain.
“By the way， Mortimer，” said I as we jolted along the rough road，“I suppose there are few people living within driving distance ofthis whom you do not know？”
“Hardly any， I think.”
“Can you， then， tell me the name of any woman whose initialsare L. L.？”
He thought for a few minutes.
“No，” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk forwhom I can’t answer， but among the farmers or gentry there is noone whose initials are those. Wait a bit though，” he added after apause. “There is Laura Lyons—her initials are L. L.—but she livesin Coombe Tracey.”
“Who is she？” I asked.
“She is Frankland’s daughter.”
“What！ Old Frankland the crank？”
“Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons， who camesketching on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and desertedher. The fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on oneside. Her father refused to have anything to do with her becauseshe had married without his consent， and perhaps for one or twoother reasons as well. So， between the old sinner and the youngone the girl has had a pretty bad time.”
“How does she live？”
“I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance， but it cannot bemore， for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever shemay have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly tothe bad. Her story got about， and several of the people here didsomething to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did forone， and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to sether up in a typewriting business.”
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries， but I managedto satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much， for there isno reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrowmorning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey， and if Ican see this Mrs. Laura Lyons， of equivocal reputation， a long stepwill have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain ofmysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent，for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenientextent I asked him casually to what type Frankland’s skullbelonged， and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of ourdrive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuousand melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymorejust now， which gives me one more strong card which I can play indue time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner， and he and the baronet playedecarté afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into thelibrary， and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.
“Well，” said I， “has this precious relation of yours departed， or ishe still lurking out yonder？”
“I don’t know， sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone， for he hasbrought nothing but trouble here！ I’ve not heard of him since Ileft out food for him last， and that was three days ago.”
“Did you see him then？”
“No， sir， but the food was gone when next I went that way.”
“Then he was certainly there？”
“So you would think， sir， unless it was the other man who tookit.”
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared atBarrymore.
“You know that there is another man then？”
“Yes， sir； there is another man upon the moor.”
“Have you seen him？”
“No， sir.”
“How do you know of him then？”
“Selden told me of him， sir， a week ago or more. He’s in hiding，too， but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t like it，Dr. Watson—I tell you straight， sir， that I don’t like it.” He spokewith a sudden passion of earnestness.
“Now， listen to me， Barrymore！ I have no interest in this matterbut that of your master. I have come here with no object except tohelp him. Tell me， frankly， what it is that you don’t like.”
Barrymore hesitated for a moment， as if he regretted hisoutburst， or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.
“It’s all these goings-on， sir，” he cried at last， waving his handtowards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. “There’sfoul play somewhere， and there’s black villainy brewing， to that I’llswear！ Very glad I should be， sir， to see Sir Henry on his way backto London again！”