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The Letter

The following day was dull and foggy.The Hall was sur rounded by heavy,low clouds,which opened now and then to show the grim,cold moor and its wet,grey rocks.The weather made us miserable.It was difficult to be cheerful when we felt danger all around us.I thougth of Sir Charles'death,and the awful sound of the hound,which I had now heard twice.Holmes did not believe that there was a supernatural hound.But facts are facts,and I had heard a hound.Was there a huge hound living on the moor?If so,where could it hide?Where did it get its food?Why was it never seen by day? It was almost as difficult to accept a natural explanation as a su pernatural explanation.
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That morning Sir Henry and Barrymore argued about Selden,the escaped prisoner.Barrymore said that it was wrong to try to catch Selden.

'But the man is dangerous,'said Sir Henry.'He'll do any thing.Nobody is safe until he is in prison again.We must tell the police.'

'I promise he won't break into any house,'said Barrymore,'and he won't cause any trouble.In a few days he will catch a boat for South America.Please don't tell the police about him.If you tell the police,my wife and I will be in serious trouble.'

'What do you say,Watson?' asked Sir Henry,turning to me.

'I don't think he will break into houses,or cause trouble.If he did,the police would know where to look for him and would catch him.He's not a stupid man.'

'I hope you're right,'said Sir Henry.'I'm sure we're breaking the law.But I don't want to get Barrymore and his wife into trouble,so I shall not tell the police.I shall leave Selden in peace.',ffxi gil,

Barrymore could not find the words to thank Sir Henry enough.Then he said:'You have been so kind to us that I want to do something for you in return.I have never told any one else.I know something more about poor Sir Charles'death.'

Sir Henry and I jumped up at once.

'Do you know how he died?'Sir Henry asked.

'No,sir,I don't know that,but I know why he was waiting at the gate He was going to meet a woman.'

'Sir Charles was meeting a woman?Who was the woman?'

'I don't know her name,'Barrymore said,'but it begins with L.L.'

'How do you know this,Barrymore?'I asked.
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'Well,Sir Charles got a letter on the morning of the day he died.It was from Newtown,and the address was in a woman's writing.I forgot all about it,but some time after Sir Charles died my wife was cleaning the fireplace in his study.She found a letter.Most of it was burned,but the bottom of one page was not burned.On it was written:“Please,please,burn this letter,and be at the gate by ten o'clock.L.L.”The paper fell into pieces as my wife went to move it.We don't know who L.L.is,but if you could find out,you might learn more about Sir Charles'death.We haven't told anyone else.We felt it would not be good for poor,kind Sir Charles.But we thought we ought to tell you,Sir Henry.'

The Barrymores left us and Sir Henry turned to me.'If we can find L.L.,the mystery may be at an end,'he said.'What do you think we should do,Watson?'

'I must write to Holmes at once,'I said,and I went straight to my room and wrote a letter to Holmes,which gave him all the details of Barrymore's story.

On the following day heavy rain fell without stopping.I put on my coat and went for a long walk on the moor.I thought of Selden out on the cold moor in this weather.And I thought of the other man,the mysterious watcher.

As I walked,Dr Mortimer drove past me.He stopped and said he would take me back to the Hall.

'I expect you know almost everybody living near here,'I said.'Do you know a woman whose names begin with the let ters L.L.?',wedding dresses,

Dr Mortimer thought for a minute,and then he said:'Yes,Mrs Laura Lyons.She lives in Newtown.'

'Who is she?'I asked.

'She's Mr Frankland's daughter.'

'What,old Frankland who has the large telescope?'

'Yes,'said Dr Mortimer.'Laura married a painter called Lyons who came to paint pictures of the moor.But he was cruel to her,and after a while he left her.Her father will not speak to her,because she married against his wishes.So her husband and her father have made her life very unhappy.'
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The Letter

The men of the twenty-ninth century live in a perpetual fairyland, though they do not seem to realise it. Bored with wonders, they are cold towards everything that progress brings them every day. It all seems only natural.
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If they compared it with the past, they would better appreciate what our civilisation is, and realise what a road it has traversed. What would then seem finer than our modern cities, with streets a hundred yards wide, with buildings a thousand feet high, always at an equable temperature, and the sky furrowed by thousands of aero-cars and aero-buses! Compared with these towns, whose population may include up to ten million inhabitants, what were those villages, those hamlets of a thousand years ago, that Paris, that London, that New York - muddy and badly ventilated townships, traversed by jolting contraptions, hauled along by horses - yes! by horses! it's unbelievable!
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If they recalled the erratic working of the steamers and the railways, their many collisions, and their slowness, how greatly would travellers value the aero-trains, and especially these pneumatic tubes laid beneath the oceans, which convey them with a speed of a thousand miles an hour? And would they not enjoy the telephone and the telephote even better if they recollected that our fathers were reduced to that antediluvial apparatus which they called the 'telegraph'?
It's very strange. These surprising transformations are based on principles which were quite well known to our ancestors,
World of warcraft gold although these, so to speak, made no use of them. Heat, steam, electricity are as old as mankind. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, did not the savants declare that the only difference between the physical and chemical forces consists of the special rates of vibration of the etheric particles?

As so enormous a stride had been made, that of recognising the mutual relationship of all these forces, it is incredible that it took so long to work out the rates of vibration that differentiate between them. It is especially surprising that the method of passing directly from one to another, and of producing one without the other, has only been discovered so recently.
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So it was, however, that things happened, and it was only in 2790, about a hundred years ago, that the famous Oswald Nyer succeeded in doing so.
A real benefactor of humanity, that great man! His achievement, a work of genius, was the parent of all the others! A constellation of inventors was born out of it, culminating in our extraordinary James Jackson. It is to him that we owe the new accumulators, some of which condense the force of the solar rays, others the electricity stored in the heart of our globe, and yet again others, energy coming from any source whatever, whether it be the waterfalls, winds, or rivers. It is to him that we owe no less the transformer which, at a touch on a simple switch, draws on the force that lives in the accumulators and releases it as heat, light, electricity, or mechanical power after it has performed any task we need.