“If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problemwill soon be solved. I have no doubt——”
He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head intothe air. The lamp beat upon his face， and so intent was it and sostill that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue， apersonification of alertness and expectation.
“What is it？” we both cried.
I could see as he looked down that he was repressing someinternal emotion. His features were still composed， but his eyesshone with amused exultation.
“Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur，” said he as he wavedhis hand towards the line of portraits which covered the oppositewall. “Watson won’t allow that I know anything of art， but thatis mere jealousy， because our views upon the subject differ. Now，these are a really very fine series of portraits.”
“Well， I’m glad to hear you say so，” said Sir Henry， glancing withsome surprise at my friend. “I don’t pretend to know much aboutthese things， and I’d be a better judge of a horse or a steer than ofa picture. I didn’t know that you found time for such things.”
“I know what is good when I see it， and I see it now. That’s aKneller， I’ll swear， that lady in the blue silk over yonder， and thestout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are allfamily portraits， I presume？”
“Every one.”
“Do you know the names？”
“Barrymore has been coaching me in them， and I think I can saymy lessons fairly well.”
“Who is the gentleman with the telescope？”
“That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville， who served under Rodney inthe West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paperis Sir William Baskerville， who was Chairman of Committees ofthe House of Commons under Pitt.”
“And this Cavalier opposite to me—the one with the blackvelvet and the lace？”
“Ah， you have a right to know about him. That is the cause ofall the mischief， the wicked Hugo， who started the Hound of theBaskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”
I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.
“Dear me！” said Holmes， “he seems a quiet， meek-manneredman enough， but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in hiseyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person.”
“There’s no doubt about the authenticity， for the name and thedate， 1647， are on the back of the canvas.”
Holmes said little more， but the picture of the old roystererseemed to have a fascination for him， and his eyes were continuallyfixed upon it during supper. It was not until later， when Sir Henryhad gone to his room， that I was able to follow the trend of histhoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall， his bedroomcandle in his hand， and he held it up against the time-stainedportrait on the wall.
“Do you see anything there？”
I looked at the broad plumed hat， the curling love-locks， thewhite lace collar， and the straight， severe face which was framedbetween them. It was not a brutal countenance， but it was prim，hard， and stern， with a firm-set， thin-lipped mouth， and a coldlyintolerant eye.
“Is it like anyone you know？”
“There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”
“Just a suggestion， perhaps. But wait an instant！” He stood upona chair， and， holding up the light in his left hand， he curved hisright arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.
“Good heavens！” I cried， in amazement.
The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.
“Ha， you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examinefaces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminalinvestigator that he should see through a disguise.”
“But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait.”
“Yes， it is an interesting instance of a throwback， which appearsto be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits isenough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. Thefellow is a Baskerville—that is evident.”
“With designs upon the succession.”
“Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one ofour most obvious missing links. We have him， Watson， we havehim， and I dare swear that before to-morrow night he will befluttering in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin，a cork， and a card， and we add him to the Baker Street collection！”
He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned awayfrom the picture. I have not heard him laugh often， and it hasalways boded ill to somebody.
I was up betimes in the morning， but Holmes was afoot earlierstill， for I saw him as I dressed， coming up the drive.
“Yes， we should have a full day to-day，” he remarked， and herubbed his hands with the joy of action. “The nets are all in place，and the drag is about to begin. We’ll know before the day is outwhether we have caught our big， lean-jawed pike， or whether hehas got through the meshes.”
“Have you been on the moor already？”
“I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to thedeath of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will betroubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with myfaithful Cartwright， who would certainly have pined away at thedoor of my hut， as a dog does at his master’s grave， if I had not sethis mind at rest about my safety.”
“What is the next move？”
“To see Sir Henry. Ah， here he is！”
“Good-morning， Holmes，” said the baronet. “You look like ageneral who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff.”
“That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders.”
“And so do I.”
“Very good. You are engaged， as I understand， to dine with ourfriends the Stapletons to-night.”
“I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitablepeople， and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you.”
“I fear that Watson and I must go to London.”
“To London？”
“Yes， I think that we should be more useful there at the presentjuncture.”
The baronet’s face perceptibly lengthened.
“I hoped that you were going to see me through this business.
The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one isalone.”
