The Hound of the Baskervilles
not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again, with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within us—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 and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness.
“The brute! The brute!” I cried, with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”
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