otfollowedmehimself,buthehadsetanagent—theboy,perhaps—uponmytrack,andthiswashisreport.PossiblyIhadtakennostepsinceIhadbeenuponthemoorwhichhadnotbeenobservedandreported.Alwaystherewasthisfeelingofanunseenforce,afinenetdrawnrounduswithinfiniteskillanddelicacy,holdingussolightlythatitwasonlyatsomesuprememomentthatonerealisedthatonewasindeedentangledinitsmeshes.
Iftherewasonereporttheremightbeothers,soIlookedroundthehutinsearchofthem.Therewasnotrace,however,ofanythingofthekind,norcouldIdiscoveranysignwhichmightindicatethecharacterorintentionsofthemanwholivedinthissingularplace,savethathemustbeofSpartanhabitsandcaredlittleforthecomfortsoflife.WhenIthoughtoftheheavyrainsandlookedatthegapingroofIunderstoodhowstrongandimmutablemustbethepurposewhichhadkepthiminthatinhospitableabode.Washeourmalignantenemy,orwashebychanceourguardianangel?IsworethatIwouldnotleavethehutuntilIknew.
Outsidethesunwassinkinglowandthewestwasblazingwithscarletandgold.ItsreflectionwasshotbackinruddypatchesbythedistantpoolswhichlayamidthegreatGrimpenMire.TherewerethetwotowersofBaskervilleHall,andthereadistantblurofsmokewhichmarkedthevillageofGrimpen.Betweenthetwo,behindthehill,wasthehouseoftheStapletons.Allwassweetandmellowandpeacefulinthegoldeneveninglight,andyetasIlookedatthemmysoulsharednoneofthepeaceofNaturebutquiveredatthevaguenessandtheterrorofthatinterviewwhicheveryinstantwasbringingnearer.Withtinglingnervesbutafixedpurpose,Isatinthedarkrecessofthehutandwaitedwithsombrepatienceforthecomingofitstenant.
AndthenatlastIheardhim.Farawaycamethesharpclinkofabootstrikinguponastone.Thenanotherandyetanother,comingnearerandnearer.Ishrankbackintothedarkestcornerandcockedthepistolinmypocket,determinednottodiscovermyselfuntilIhadanopportunityofseeingsomethingofthestranger.Therewasalongpausewhichshowedthathehadstopped.Thenoncemorethefootstepsapproachedandashadowfellacrosstheopeningofthehut.
“Itisalovelyevening,mydearWatson,”saidawell-knownvoice.“Ireallythinkthatyouwillbemorecomfortableoutsidethanin.”