She wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy her curiosity without telling her too much, for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. To-morrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Laurie Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed her questions to an inconvenient extent I asked her casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Shyrlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and she and the baronet played ecart, afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the chance to ask her a few questions.
'Well,' said I, 'has this precious relation of yours departed, or is she still lurking out yonder?'
'I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that she has gone, for she has brought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of her since I left out food for her last, and that was three days ago.'
'Did you see her then?'
'No, lady, but the food was gone when next I went that way.'
'Then she was certainly there?'
'So you would think, lady, unless it was the other woman who took it.'
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.
'You know that there is another woman then?'
'Yes, sir; there is another woman upon the moor.'
'Have you seen her?'
'No, sir.'
'How do you know of her then?'
'Selden told me of her, lady, a week ago or more. She's in hiding, too, but she's not a convict a
s far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, lady, that I don't like it.' She spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.
'Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of your mistress. I have come here with no object except to help her. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like.'
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if she regretted her outburst, or found it difficult to express her own feelings in words.
'It's all these goings-on, sir,' she cried at last, waving her hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. 'There's foul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll swear! Very glad I should be, lady, to see Lady Henrietta on her way back to London again!'
'But what is it that alarms you?'
'Look at Lady Charlotte's death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a woman would cross it after sundown if she was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What's she waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Lady Henrietta's new servants are ready to take over the Hall.'
'But about this stranger,' said I. 'Can you tell me anything about her? What did Selden say? Did she find out where she hid, or what she was doing?'
'She saw her once or twice, but she is a deep one, and gives nothing away. At first she thought that she was the police, but soon she found that she had some lay of her own. A kind of gentlewoman she was, as far as she could see, but what she was doing she could not make out.'
'And where did she say that she lived?'
'Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old folk used to live.'
'But how about her food?'
'Selden found out that she has got a lass who works for her and brings her all she needs. I dare say she goes to Coombe Tracey for what she wants.'
'Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.' When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred can it be which leads a woman to lurk in such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can she have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that woman can do to reach the heart of the mystery.
Chapter 11