It is the year 1889, it is night, and we see a man running across the moors, breathless, frightened. Behind him we hear the baying of a hound, a sound so fearful it chills the soul. The man falls. From the desolate rocky nightscape another man peers: he is bearded and rough looking, perhaps a convict from the nearby prison. At the great house which looms in the darkness, Baskerville Hall, a servant woman opens the door, lantern in hand and finds her master Sir Charles Baskerville dead.