Собака Баскервіллів
The Hound of the Baskervilles
"Wherecanshebe,then,sincethereisnolightinanyotherroomexceptthekitchen?"
"Icannotthinkwheresheis."
IhavesaidthatoverthegreatGrimpenMiretherehungadense,whitefog. Itwasdriftingslowlyinourdirection,andbankeditselfuplikeawallonthatsideofus,low,butthickandwelldefined. 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.
Everyminutethatwhitewoollyplainwhichcoveredonehalfofthemoorwasdriftingcloserandclosertothehouse.
