eladyisnotthere?”HolmesaskedwhenIhadfinishedmyreport.
“No.”
“Wherecanshebe,then,sincethereisnolightinanyotherroomexceptthekitchen?”
“Icannotthinkwheresheis.”
IhavesaidthatoverthegreatGrimpenMiretherehungadense,whitefog.Itwasdriftingslowlyinourdirectionandbankeditselfuplikeawallonthatsideofus,lowbutthickandwelldefined.Themoonshoneonit,anditlookedlikeagreatshimmeringice-field,withtheheadsofthedistanttorsasrocksborneuponitssurface.Holmes’sfacewasturnedtowardsit,andhemutteredimpatientlyashewatcheditssluggishdrift.
“It’smovingtowardsus,Watson.”
“Isthatserious?”
“Veryserious,indeed—theonethinguponearthwhichcouldhavedisarrangedmyplans.Hecan’tbeverylong,now.Itisalreadyteno’clock.Oursuccessandevenhislifemaydependuponhiscomingoutbeforethefogisoverthepath.”
Thenightwasclearandfineaboveus.Thestarsshonecoldandbright,whileahalf-moonbathedthewholesceneinasoft,uncertainlight.Beforeuslaythedarkbulkofthehouse,itsserratedroofandbristlingchimneyshardoutlinedagainstthesilver-spangledsky.Broadbarsofgoldenlightfromthelowerwindowsstretchedacrosstheorchardandthemoor.Oneofthemwassuddenlyshutoff.Theservantshadleftthekitchen.Thereonlyremainedthelampinthedining-roomwherethetwomen,themurderoushostandtheunconsciousguest,stillchattedovertheircigars.
Everyminutethatwhitewoollyplainwhichcoveredone-halfofthemoorwasdriftingcloserandclosertothehouse.Alreadythefirstthinwispsofitwerecurlingacrossthegoldensquareofthelightedwindow.Thefartherwalloftheorchardwasalreadyinvisible,andthetreeswerestandingoutofaswirlofwhitevapour.Aswewatcheditthefog-wreathscamecrawlingroundbothcornersofthehouseandrolledslowlyintoonedensebankonwhichtheupperfloorandtherooffloatedlikeastrangeshipuponashadowysea.Holmesstruckhishandpassionatelyupontherockinfrontofusandstampedhisfeetinhisimpatience.
“Ifheisn’toutinaquarterofanhourthepath