He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he wasdancing and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be mystern， self-contained friend？ These were hidden fires， indeed！
“A beard！ A beard！ The man has a beard！”
“A beard？”
“It is not the baronet—it is—why， it is my neighbour， the convict！”
With feverish haste we had turned the body over， and thatdripping beard was pointing up to the cold， clear moon. There couldbe no doubt about the beetling forehead， the sunken animal eyes. Itwas indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light ofthe candle from over the rock—the face of Selden， the criminal.
Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered howthe baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe toBarrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden inhis escape. Boots， shirt， cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedywas still black enough， but this man had at least deserved death bythe laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood， myheart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.
“Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death，” said he. “Itis clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some articleof Sir Henry’s—the boot which was abstracted in the hotel， in allprobability—and so ran this man down. There is one very singularthing， however： How came Selden， in the darkness， to know thatthe hound was on his trail？”
“He heard him.”
“To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard manlike this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would riskrecapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must haverun a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How didhe know？”
“A greater mystery to me is why this hound， presuming that allour conjectures are correct—”
“I presume nothing.”
“Well， then， why this hound should be loose to-night. I supposethat it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton wouldnot let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would bethere.”
“My difficulty is the more formidable of the two， for I thinkthat we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours， while minemay remain forever a mystery. The question now is， what shall wedo with this poor wretch’s body？ We cannot leave it here to thefoxes and the ravens.”
“I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we cancommunicate with the police.”
“Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
Halloa， Watson， what’s this？ It’s the man himself， by all that’swonderful and audacious！ Not a word to show your suspicions—not a word， or my plans crumble to the ground.”
A figure was approaching us over the moor， and I saw thedull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him， and I coulddistinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. Hestopped when he saw us， and then came on again.
“Why， Dr. Watson， that’s not you， is it？ You are the last manthat I should have expected to see out on the moor at this timeof night. But， dear me， what’s this？ Somebody hurt？ Not—don’ttell me that it is our friend Sir Henry！” He hurried past me andstooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breathand the cigar fell from his fingers.
“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 efforthe had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. Helooked 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 uneasyabout Sir Henry.”
“Why about Sir Henry in particular？” I could not help asking.
“Because I had suggested that he should come over. When hedid not come I was surprised， and I naturally became alarmed forhis safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way” —his eyesdarted again from my face to Holmes’s— “did you hear anythingelse besides a cry？”
“No，” said Holmes； “did you？”
“No.”
“What do you mean， then？”
“Oh， you know the stories that the peasants tell about aphantom hound， and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon themoor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a soundto-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 himoff his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state andeventually fallen over here and broken his neck.”
“That seems the most reasonable theory，” said Stapleton， and hegave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you thinkabout 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. Watsoncame down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”
“Yes， indeed. I have no doubt that my friend’s explanation willcover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back toLondon with me to-morrow.”
“Oh， you return to-morrow？”
“That is my intention.”
“I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrenceswhich have puzzled us？”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. Aninvestigator needs facts， and not legends or rumours. It has notbeen 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 itwould give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified indoing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will besafe until morning.”
And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton’s offer of hospitality，Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall， leaving the naturalist toreturn alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly awayover the broad moor， and behind him that one black smudge onthe silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who hadcome so horribly to his end.