Холмс приезжает в Баскервиль Холл. Часть-17

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Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, because he had been expecting for some days that recent events would bring him down from London. At supper that evening I told him about the events on the moor, but did not speak of the hound.
When Barrymore learned that Selden was dead he seemed relieved but poor Mrs Barrymore cried bitterly. For her he always remained the little brother she had nursed and loved.

Sir Henry told Sherlock Holmes that he had received a letter from Stapleton inviting him to dinner that evening, but as he had promised me not to go out alone upon the moor he had stayed at home.
"If I hadn't sworn not to go out alone upon the moor I might have had a more interesting evening." "I have no doubt that you would have had a more interesting evening," said Holmes dryly. "But how about the case? Have you made anything out of it?" asked Sir Henry.
"I have...It's very complicated, but in a day or two the mystery will be solved." "And what do you think about the hound of the Baskervilles?"

Sir Henry asked Holmes, when we sat smoking our cigars after supper. "I think I'll soon muzzle and chain that supernatural animal if you help me," answered Holmes. "I'll do whatever you tell me." "Very good, and you must do what I demand blindly, without asking the reason." "I promise it." "Then I have no doubt -" Holmes stopped suddenly and looked fixedly over my head at the opposite wall. "What is it?" cried Sir Henry.
"Oh, nothing, you must excuse me, but I love art, and those portraits on the wall are really very fine." His eyes were fixed on the row of family portraits hanging on the opposite wall. "They are all members of your family, I suppose?" "Every one of them." One picture especially seemed to interest Holmes. His face was still, but his eyes were shining with excitement. "Who is this seventeenth-century gentleman opposite me?" he asked Sir Henry.
"Ah, that is the cause of all trouble, the wicked Hugo, who started the hound of the Baskervilles." "Really?" said Holmes.
"He seems like a quiet and harmless person.I had imagined him as looking more evil."
"There is no doubt about it. The name and the date, 1647, are written on the back of the picture."
So it was the portrait of the wicked Hugo Baskerville with whom the legend of the hound was connected. Sir Henry told us what he knew about his ancestors, and then the conversation passed on to another subject.
But when Sir Henry had said good night and gone to his room Holmes took a candle and held it to the portrait that had interested him so much. "Look, Watson," he exclaimed. "Do you see anything there?" I looked at the wide hat with a feather in it, long curly hair, the broad white collar and the cold eyes. "Wait!" Holmes stood upon a chair, held the candle up in his left hand and put his right arm on the broad hat and the long hair that covered the head of the wicked Hugo. "Good heavens!" I cried in amazement. The face of Stapleton had appeared on the canvas. "Ha! You see now." "What a likeness!" I exclaimed.
"That's what struck me at supper," said Holmes."Now it's clear that Stapleton is a Baskerville and the purpose of his crimes is to get the estate.
We have got him now, Watson! I swear that we'll soon catch him in our net just as he catches his butterflies. Now to bed, Watson, for we have a busy day before us tomorrow."