We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turningthe horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew backalong the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch ofroad between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I graspedHolmes’s arm.
“That’s the man!” I gasped. A solitary cyclist was comingtowards us. His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as heput every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the pedals. Hewas flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, sawus close to him, and pulled up, springing from his machine. Thatcoal-black beard was in singular contrast to eyes were as bright ashe had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a lookof amazement came over his face.
“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to blockour road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” heyelled, drawing a pistol from his side “Pull up, I say, or, by George,I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from thecart.
“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?”
he said, in his quick, clear way.
“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You oughtto know where she is.”
“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. Wedrove back to help the young lady.”
“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger,in an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodleyand the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are herfriend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my carcassin Charlington Wood.”
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in thehedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazingbeside the road, followed Holmes.
“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to themarks of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop aminute! Who’s this in the bush?”
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,The Return of Sherlock Holmes 919
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his kneesdrawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive.
A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. Thebeasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’tdo him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate thatcan befall a woman.”
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among thetrees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the housewhen Holmes pulled up.
“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”
As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibratedwith a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump ofbushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with achoke and a gurgle.
“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried thestranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs!
Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greenswardsurrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, underthe shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group ofthree people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint,a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs partedwide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his wholeattitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them anelderly, gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a lighttweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service,for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped thesinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.
“They’re married!” I gasped.
“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across theglade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the ladystaggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully,Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant laughter.
“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, rightenough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me tobe able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”
Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off thedark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raisedhis revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was advancingupon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his hand.
920 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
“Yes,” said our ally, “I am Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see thiswoman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do ifyou molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my word.”
“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”
“No, she’s your widow.”
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the frontof Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fellupon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadfulmottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst intosuch a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out arevolver of his own, but, before he could raise it, he was lookingdown the barrel of Holmes’s weapon.
“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol!
Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You, Carruthers,give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence. Come, hand itover!”
“Who are you, then?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good Lord!”
“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official policeuntil their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a frightened groom,who had appeared at the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take thisnote as hard as you can ride to Farnham.” He scribbled a few wordsupon a leaf from his notebook. “Give it to the superintendent atthe police-station. Until he comes, I must detain you all under mypersonal custody.”
