A very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the
introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt,
as I looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy,
that it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.
And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high
hopes we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with
a thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green
belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.
Certainly, if the lad had gone homewards, he must have passed
this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces.
But no sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening
face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of
every muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there
were in profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had
left their tracks. Nothing more.
"Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over the
rolling expanse of the moor. "There is another morass down
yonder and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa!
what have we here?"
We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway.
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