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 long andended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death ofthe hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapletonto the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. Ithelped us to realize the horror of this woman’s life when we sawthe eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband’strack. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm， peatysoil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end ofit a small wand planted here and there showed where the pathzigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummedpits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger.
Rank reeds and lush， slimy water-plants sent an odour of decayand a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces， while a false stepplunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark， quiveringmire， which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet.
Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked， and whenwe sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging usdown into those obscene depths， so grim and purposeful was theclutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someonehad passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft ofcotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing wasprojecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path toseize it， and had we not been there to drag him out he could neverhave set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot inthe air. “Meyers， Toronto，” was printed on the leather inside.
“It is worth a mud bath，” said he. “It is our friend Sir Henry’smissing 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 beyondthe morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest signof them 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-heartedman 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 shaft half-filledwith rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside itwere the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners， drivenaway no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. Inone of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bonesshowed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with atangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the débris.
“A dog！” said Holmes. “By Jove， a curly-haired spaniel. PoorMortimer will never see his pet again. Well， I do not knowthat this place contains any secret which we have not alreadyfathomed. He could hide his hound， but he could not hush itsvoice， and hence came those cries which even in daylight were notpleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in theout-house at Merripit， but it was always a risk， and it was only onthe supreme day， which he regarded as the end of all his efforts，that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminousmixture with which the creature was daubed. It was suggested， ofcourse， by the story of the family hell-hound， and by the desireto frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devilof a convict ran and screamed， even as our friend did， and as weourselves might have done， when he saw such a creature boundingthrough the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunningdevice， for， apart from the chance of driving your victim to hisdeath， what peasant would venture to inquire too closely into sucha creature should he get sight of it， as many have done， upon themoor？ I said it in London， Watson， and I say it again now， thatnever yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous manthan he who is lying yonder”—he swept his long arm towards thehuge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretchedaway until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.
A Retrospection
It was the end of November and Holmes and I sat， upon a rawand foggy night， on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-roomin Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshirehe had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance，in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct ofColonel Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal ofthe Nonpareil Club， while in the second he had defended theunfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of murder whichhung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter，Mlle. Carère， the young lady who， as it will be remembered， wasfound six months later alive and married in New York. My friendwas in excellent spirits over the success which had attended asuccession of difficult and important cases， so that I was able toinduce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. Ihad waited patiently for the opportunity， for I was aware that hewould never permit cases to overlap， and that his clear and logicalmind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell uponmemories of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were， however，in London， on their way to that long voyage which had beenrecommended for the restoration of his shattered nerves. Theyhad called upon us that very afternoon， so that it was natural thatthe subject should come up for discussion.