angle, the shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the
act of throwing a somersault. The gleam of the match which Holmes struck
shone upon his clotted fingers, where he had touched the body, and upon
the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the
victim. It was the body of Sir Henry Baskerville.
There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed
suit - the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had
seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then
the match flickered out. We cried out, both of us, blaming ourselves for
what had happened, I for leaving him to his fate, Holmes for throwing away
the life of a client in order to have his case well-rounded & complete.
We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, thinking
of the uncle, frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he
