ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay
some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A
litter of empty tins showed that the place had been
occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became
accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a halffull
bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle
of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and
upon this stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt,
which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder
of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue,
and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again,
after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that
beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I
raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in
pencil:—
Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.
For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands
thinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I,
then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this
secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had
set an agent—the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and this
was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had
been upon the moor which had not been observed and
reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force,
ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it laysome cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. Alitter of empty tins showed that the place had beenoccupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes becameaccustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a halffullbottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middleof the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, andupon this stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt,which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulderof the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue,and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again,after having examined it, my heart leaped to see thatbeneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. Iraised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled inpencil:—Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.For a minute I stood there with the paper in my handsthinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I,then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by thissecret man. He had not followed me himself, but he hadset an agent—the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and thiswas his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I hadbeen upon the moor which had not been observed andreported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force,
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