A moonless night, a fog-drenched moor, a silent path, a solitary man picking his apprehensive way. Distantly, distantly a primeval howl. The man freezes. It comes again, closer. What can it be? Moments later an apparition flashes at him out of the ...
blackness, huge, tearing. Then nothing.
When Conan Doyle imagined this scene he was 43, 15 years into his Sherlock cycle, vastly rich and famous. Many consider this book the best of his work; all agree it's the most terrifying.
Trained as a physician, knighted for his medical service in the Boer War, author of an acknowledged military classic and a convert in his later years to spiritualism, Conan Doyle would have been just another accomplished Victorian gentleman.