“I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr.
James Mortimer.
“I observed it as you entered the room,” said
Holmes.
“It is an old manuscript.”
“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”
“How can you say that, sir?”
“You have presented an inch or two of it to my
examination all the time that you have been talking.
It would be a poor expert who could not give the
date of a document within a decade or so. You may
possibly have read my little monograph upon the
subject. I put that at 1730.”
“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew
it from his breast-pocket. “This family paper was
committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose sudden and tragic death some three months
ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I
may say that I was his personal friend as well as his
medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man,
sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am
myself. Yet he took this document very seriously,
and his mind was prepared for just such an end as
did eventually overtake him.”
Holmes stretched out his hand for