The Hound of the Baskervilles

Une malédiction familiale, un chien monstrueux sur la lande, et Holmes qui n'y croit pas une seconde.

Extrait

It was to your account of a West-Country legend that this tale owes its inception. For this and for your help in the details all thanks. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring. Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

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