blueheaven.HeandIseemedtobetheonlylivingthingsbetweenthehugearchoftheskyandthedesertbeneathit.Thebarrenscene,thesenseofloneliness,andthemysteryandurgencyofmytaskallstruckachillintomyheart.Theboywasnowheretobeseen.Butdownbeneathmeinacleftofthehillstherewasacircleoftheoldstonehuts,andinthemiddleofthemtherewasonewhichretainedsufficientrooftoactasascreenagainsttheweather.MyheartleapedwithinmeasIsawit.Thismustbetheburrowwherethestrangerlurked.Atlastmyfootwasonthethresholdofhishidingplace—hissecretwaswithinmygrasp.
AsIapproachedthehut,walkingaswarilyasStapletonwoulddowhenwithpoisednethedrewnearthesettledbutterfly,Isatisfiedmyselfthattheplacehadindeedbeenusedasahabitation.Avaguepathwayamongthebouldersledtothedilapidatedopeningwhichservedasadoor.Allwassilentwithin.Theunknownmightbelurkingthere,orhemightbeprowlingonthemoor.Mynervestingledwiththesenseofadventure.Throwingasidemycigarette,Iclosedmyhanduponthebuttofmyrevolverand,walkingswiftlyuptothedoor,Ilookedin.Theplacewasempty.
ButtherewereamplesignsthatIhadnotcomeuponafalsescent.Thiswascertainlywherethemanlived.SomeblanketsrolledinawaterprooflayuponthatverystoneslabuponwhichNeolithicmanhadonceslumbered.Theashesofafirewereheapedinarudegrate.Besideitlaysomecookingutensilsandabuckethalf-fullofwater.Alitterofemptytinsshowedthattheplacehadbeenoccupiedforsometime,andIsaw,asmyeyesbecameaccustomedtothecheckeredlight,apannikinandahalf-fullbottleofspiritsstandinginthecorner.Inthemiddleofthehutaflatstoneservedthepurposeofatable,anduponthisstoodasmallclothbundle—thesame,nodoubt,whichIhadseenthroughthetelescopeupontheshoulderoftheboy.Itcontainedaloafofbread,atinnedtongue,andtwotinsofpreservedpeaches.AsIsetitdownagain,afterhavingexaminedit,myheartleapedtoseethatbeneathittherelayasheetofpaperwithwritinguponit.Iraisedit,andthiswaswhatIread,roughlyscrawledinpencil:“Dr.WatsonhasgonetoCoombeTracey.”
ForaminuteIstoodtherewiththepaperinmyhandsthinkingoutthemeaningofthiscurtmessage.ItwasI,then,andnotSirHenry,whowasbeingdoggedbythissecretman.Hehadn