The dense white fog that hung over the Mire was drifting slowly in
our direction and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us.
The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field,
with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. 
It was ten o'clock already, and Holmes was concerned that the fog would
disarrange our plans and that life itself might depend upon something
happening before the fog covered the path.
A light in the kitchen went out, and we guessed the servants had left
that room.  But in the other room, the two figures still chatted over 
their drinks.  Already the first wisps of fog were curling across the 
golden square of the lighted window.  The fog-wreaths came crawling round
both corners of the house, and rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which
the upper floor & the roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea.
