Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor

ntheblueheaven.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.Hehadnotfollowedmehimself,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.”