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 for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way”—his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes’s—”did you hear anything else besides a cry?”

“No,” said Holmes; “did you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night.”

“We heard nothing of the kind,” said I.

“And what is your theory of this poor fellow’s death?”

“I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck.”

“That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”