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“You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?” Holmes asked when I had finished my report.

“No.”

“Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room except the kitchen?”

“I cannot think where she is.”

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction, and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering icefield, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes’s face was turned towards it, and he 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 could have disarranged my plans. He can’t be very long, now. It