One of Sherlock Holmes's defects -- if, indeed, one may call it adefect -- was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate hisfull plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, whichloved to dominate and surprise those who were around him.Partly also from his professional caution, which urged him neverto take any chances. The result, however, was very trying forthose who were acting as his agents and assistants. I had oftensuffered under it, but never more so than during that long drivein the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last wewere about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had saidnothing, and I could only surmise what his course of actionwould be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last thecold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either sideof the narrow road told me that we were back upon the mooronce again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of thewheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driverof the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivialmatters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when weat last passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawingnear to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive upto the door but got down near the gate of the avenue. Thewagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Traceyforthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled.

"As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and aslong as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

"Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What'sthe game now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said thedetective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopesof the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over theGrimpen Mire. "I see the lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I mustrequest you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound forthe house, but Holmes halted us when we were about twohundred yards from it.

"This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make anadmirable screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into thishollow, Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not,Watson? Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are thoselatticed windows at this end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creepforward quietly and see what they are doing -- but for heaven'ssake don't let them know that they are watched!"

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall whichsurrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reacheda point whence I could look straight through the uncurtainedwindow.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of theround table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee andwine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thoughtof that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighingheavily upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while SirHenry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffingat his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound ofboots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on the otherside of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw thenaturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of theorchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was acurious scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or soinside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passedme and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest, and Icrept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tellthem what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes askedwhen I had finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any otherroom except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung adense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction andbanked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick andwell defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a greatshimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocksborne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, andhe muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed -- the one thing upon earth which couldhave disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It isalready ten o'clock. Our success and even his life may dependupon his coming out before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone coldand bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, itsserrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against thesilver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lowerwindows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of themwas suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. Thereonly remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men,the muderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted overtheir cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-halfof the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Alreadythe first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square ofthe lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was alreadyinvisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of whitevapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling roundboth corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bankon which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange shipupon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately uponthe rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will becovered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands infront of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it untilwe were half a mile from the house, and still that dense whitesea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly andinexorably on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take thechance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At allcosts we must hold our ground where we are." He dropped onhis knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, Ithink that I hear him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bankin front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, asthrough a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into theclear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passedclose to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us.As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like aman who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol. "Look out! It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere inthe heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yardsof where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain whathorror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes'selbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale andexultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lipsparted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell ofterror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. Isprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mindparalyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon usfrom the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormouscoal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have everseen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with asmouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap wereoutlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of adisordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling,more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage facewhich broke upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creatwe was leaping downthe track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. Soparalyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to passbefore we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I bothfired together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, whichshowed that one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however,but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henrylooking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised inhorror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down.

But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears tothe winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we couldwound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run asHolmes ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but heoutpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional. Infront of us as we flew up the track we heard scream after screamfrom Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in time tosee the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, andworry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied fivebarrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a lasthowl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon itsback, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon itsside. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful,shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. Thegiant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore awayhis collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when wesaw. that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue hadbeen in time. Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he madea feeble effort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask betweenthe baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up atus.

"My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven'sname, was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid thefamily ghost once and forever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which waslying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and itwas not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of thetwo -- gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even nowin the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be drippingwith a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes wereringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, andas I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in thedarkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at thedead animal. "There is no smell which might have interferedwith his power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry,for having exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for ahound, but not for such a creature as this. And the fog gave uslittle time to receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be readyfor anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do youpropose to do?"

"To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventuresto-night. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back withyou to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale andtrembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he satshivering with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of ourwork must be done, and every moment is of importance. Wehave our case, and now we only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house,"he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path."Those shots must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadenedthem."

"He followed the hound to call him off -- of that you may becertain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search thehouse and make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried fromroom to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant,who met us in the passage. There was no light save in thedining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no cornerof the house unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whomwe were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of thebedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear amovement. Open this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struckthe door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flewopen. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiantvillain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by anobject so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a momentstaring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and thewalls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of thatcollection of butterflies and moths the formation of which hadbeen the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In thecentre of this room there was an upright beam, which had beenplaced at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulkof timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied,so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used tosecure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it wasthat of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throatand was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered thelower part of the face, and over it two dark eyes -- eyes full ofgrief and shame and a dreadful questioning -- stared back at us.In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, andMrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As herbeautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of awhiplash across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage andexhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he hastreated me!" She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and wesaw with horror that they were all mottled with bruises. "Butthis is nothing -- nothing! It is my mind and soul that he hastortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, alife of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to thehope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I havebeen his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate sobbingas she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell usthen where we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil,help us now and so atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of themire. It was there that he kept his hound and there also he hadmade preparations so that he might have a refuge. That is wherehe would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmesheld the lamp towards it.

"See," said he. "No one could find his way into the GrimpenMire to-night."

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamedwith fierce merriment

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "Howcan he see the guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if Icould only have plucked them out to-day. Then indeed youwould have had him at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the foghad lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of thehouse while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to BaskervilleHall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheldfrom him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned thetruth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of thenight's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morninghe lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer.The two of them were destined to travel together round the worldbefore Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty manthat he had been before he became master of that ill-omenedestate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singularnarrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share thosedark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so longand ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the deathof the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs.Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway throughthe bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's lifewhen we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us onher husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsulaof firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog.From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showedwhere the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among thosegreen-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way tothe stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent anodour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces,while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into thedark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulationsaround our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as wewalked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignanthand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grimand purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only wesaw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us.From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of theslime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waistas he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been thereto drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm landagain. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto,"was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend SirHenry's missing boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set thehound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up,still clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight.We know at least that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, thoughthere was much which we might surmise. There was no chanceof finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftlyin upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond themorass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign ofthem ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, thenStapleton never reached that island of refuge towards which hestruggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in theheart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of thehuge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where hehad hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shafthalf-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandonedmine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of theminers, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surroundingswamp. In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity ofgnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. Askeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among thedebris.

"A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. PoorMortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know thatthis place contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice,and hence came those cries which even in daylight were notpleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound inthe out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it wasonly on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all hisefforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt theluminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It wassuggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, andby the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder thepoor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did,and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such acreature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon histrack. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance ofdriving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture toinquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight of it,as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson,and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to huntdown a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder" -- heswept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of greensplotched bog which stretched away until it merged into therusset slopes of the moor.