`Whoishe，then？’
`ItisSelden，theNottingHillmurderer。’
Irememberedthecasewell，foritwasoneinwhichHolmeshadtakenaninterestonaccountofthepeculiarferocityofthecrimeandthewantonbrutalitywhichhadmarkedalltheactionsoftheassassin。
Thecommutationofhisdeathsentencehadbeenduetosomedoubtsastohiscompletesanity，soatrociouswashisconduct。Ourwagonettehadtoppedariseandinfrontofusrosethehugeexpanseofthemoor，mottledwithgnarledandcraggycairnsandtors。Acoldwindsweptdownfromitandsetusshivering。Somewherethere，onthatdesolateplain，waslurkingthisfiendishman，hidinginaburrowlikeawildbeast，hisheartfullofmalignancyagainstthewholeracewhichhadcasthimout。Itneededbutthistocompletethegrimsuggestivenessofthebarrenwaste，thechillingwind，andthedarklingsky。EvenBaskervillefellsilentandpulledhisovercoatmorecloselyaroundhim。
Wehadleftthefertilecountrybehindandbeneathus。Welookedbackonitnow，theslantingraysofalowsunturningthestreamstothreadsofgoldandglowingontheredearthnewturnedbytheploughandthebroadtangleofthewoodlands。Theroadinfrontofusgrewbleakerandwilderoverhugerussetandoliveslopes，sprinkledwithgiantboulders。Nowandthenwepassedamoorlandcottage，walledandroofedwithstone，withnocreepertobreakitsharshoutline。Suddenlywelookeddownintoacuplikedepression，patchedwithstuntedoaksandfirswhichhadbeentwistedandbentbythefuryofyearsofstorm。Twohigh，narrowtowersroseoverthetrees。Thedriverpointedwithhiswhip。