"How's that? But is he? I never heard that before. What's Buston Hall
worth?" Then Mr. Baskerville made up his mind to be doubly civil to
Harry Annesley the next time he saw him.

Harry had to consider on that night in what manner he would endeavor to
see Florence Mountjoy on the next day. He was thoroughly discontented
with himself as he walked about the streets of Cheltenham. He had now
not only allowed the disappearance of Scarborough to pass by without
stating when and where, and how he had last seen him, but had directly
lied on the subject. He had told the man's brother that he had not seen
him for some weeks previous, whereas to have concealed his knowledge on
such a subject was in itself held to be abominable. He was ashamed of
himself, and the more so because there was no one to whom he could talk
openly on the matter. And it seemed to him as though all whom he met
questioned him as to the man's disappearance, as if they suspected him.
What was the man to him, or the man's guilt, or his father, that he
should be made miserable? The man's attack upon him had been ferocious
in its nature,--so brutal that when he had escaped from Mountjoy
Scarborough's clutches there was nothing for him but to leave him lying
in the street where, in his drunkenness, he had fallen. And now, in
consequence of this, misery had fallen upon himself. Even this
empty-headed fellow Baskerville, a man the poverty of whose character
Harry perfectly understood, had questioned him about Mountjoy
Scarborough. It could not, he thought, be possible that Baskerville
could have had any reasons for suspicion, and yet the very sound of the
inquiry stuck in his ears.

On the next morning, at eleven o'clock, he knocked at Mrs. Mountjoy's
house in Mountpellier Place and asked for the elder lady. Mrs. Mountjoy