The driver pointed with his whip.
"Baskerville Hall," said he.
Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the Baskervilles.

The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold.
Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads.

Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end.
"Was it here ?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, no, the yew alley is on the other side." The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.
"It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this," said he.

"It's enough to scare any man.