Собака Баскервіллів
The Man on the Tor
Hehadnotfollowedmehimself,buthehadsetanagent—theboy,perhaps—uponmytrack,andthiswashisreport. PossiblyIhadtakennostepsinceIhadbeenuponthemoorwhichhadnotbeenobservedandreported. Alwaystherewasthisfeelingofanunseenforce,afinenetdrawnrounduswithinfiniteskillanddelicacy, holdingussolightlythatitwasonlyatsomesuprememomentthatonerealizedthatonewasindeedentangledinitsmeshes.
Iftherewasonereporttheremightbeothers,soIlookedroundthehutinsearchofthem. Therewasnotrace,however,ofanythingofthekind,norcouldIdiscoveranysignwhichmightindicatethecharacterorintentionsofthemanwholivedinthissingularplace, savethathemustbeofSpartanhabitsandcaredlittleforthecomfortsoflife. WhenIthoughtoftheheavyrainsandlookedatthegapingroofIunderstoodhowstrongandimmutablemustbethepurposewhichhadkepthiminthatinhospitableabode. Washeourmalignantenemy,orwashebychanceourguardianangel? IsworethatIwouldnotleavethehutuntilIknew.
Outsidethesunwassinkinglowandthewestwasblazingwithscarletandgold. ItsreflectionwasshotbackinruddypatchesbythedistantpoolswhichlayamidthegreatGrimpenMire. TherewerethetwotowersofBaskervilleHall,andthereadistantblurofsmokewhichmarkedthevillageofGrimpen. Betweenthetwo,behindthehill,wasthehouseoftheStapletons. Allwassweetandmellowandpeacefulinthegoldeneveninglight, andyetasIlookedatthemmysoulsharednoneofthepeaceofnaturebutquiveredatthevaguenessandtheterrorofthatinterviewwhicheveryinstantwasbringingnearer. Withtinglingnerves,butafixedpurpose,Isatinthedarkrecessofthehutandwaitedwithsombrepatienceforthecomingofitstenant.
