Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles

One of Sherlock Holmes' defects, if indeed one may call it a defect, was that he was exceedingly

loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfillment.

Partly, it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and surprise

those who were around him.

Partly also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances.

The result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants.

I'd often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness.

The great ordeal was in front of us.

At last we were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could

only surmise what his course of action would be.

My nerves thrilled with anticipation, when at last the cold wind upon our faces and the

dark void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the

more once again.

Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our

supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired wagonette, so

that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and

anticipation.

It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Franklin's

house, and knew that we were drawing near to the hall and to the scene of action.

We did not drive up to the door, but got down near the gate of the avenue.

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