"Watson," he said, "it was the cry of a hound."
My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. He demanded
to know what the local folk called this sound. I hesitated but could
not escape the question.
"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."
I added that Stapleton thought it might be the call of a strange
bird, but Sir Henry knew it was a hound. He wanted reassurance that
I did not believe the storied. He said how it was one there in the
darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that and to know about
the footprint beside his uncle's body. His hand, when I felt it, was
as cold as a block of marble, but he would not turn back. He had come
to get his man and he would do it, whether or not a hell-hound was
