The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist

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THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST


      From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a
      very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of
      any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight
      years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of
      the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he
      played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few
      unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of
      continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these
      cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may
      be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select
      to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former
      rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their
      interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the
      ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I
      will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss
      Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the
      curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in
      unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not
      admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
      friend was famous, but there were some points about the case
      which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which
      I gather the material for these little narratives.

      On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was
      upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss
      Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to
      Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and
      complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which
      John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been
      subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and
      concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his
      attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness
      which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to
      listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,
      graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late
      in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was
      vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the
      young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and
      it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of
      the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a
      somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to
      take a seat, and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.

      “At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes
      darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”

      She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
      slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction
      of the edge of the pedal.

      “Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something
      to do with my visit to you to-day.”

      My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as
      close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would
      show to a specimen.

      “You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as
      he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that
      you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.
      You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to
      both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,
      however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the
      typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

      “In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”

      “Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”

      “A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
      associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that
      we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has
      happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”

      The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
      following curious statement:

      “My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted
      the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were
      left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph
      Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have
      never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left
      very poor, but one day we were told that there was an
      advertisement in _The Times_, inquiring for our whereabouts. You
      can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had
      left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was
      given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers
      and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They
      said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some
      months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had
      asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations, and see
      that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle
      Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so
      careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers
      explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the
      death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”

      “Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”

      “Last December—four months ago.”

      “Pray proceed.”

      “Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for
      ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached
      young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his
      forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure
      that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”

      “Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.

      The young lady blushed and laughed.

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we
      hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how _did_ I
      get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley
      was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much
      older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,
      clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a
      pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that
      we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach
      music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like
      to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home
      to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which
      was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I
      went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr.
      Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,
      a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look
      after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything
      promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and
      we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went
      home to my mother in town.

      “The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the
      red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and
      oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a
      bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He
      made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I
      married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and
      finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me
      in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and
      swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.
      Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon
      his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That
      was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers
      apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be
      exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley
      since.

      “And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which
      has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every
      Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in
      order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is
      a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies
      for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the
      woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could
      not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite
      rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the
      high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this
      place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about
      two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He
      seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I
      looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I
      thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I
      was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same
      man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased
      when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the
      following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and
      did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very
      odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in
      what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so
      that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without
      some companion.

      “The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some
      reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the
      station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out
      when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the
      man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept
      so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was
      certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark
      suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could
      clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I
      was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he
      was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed
      down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I
      laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I
      pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited.
      I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop.
      But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the
      corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make
      it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point
      down which he could have gone.”

      Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly
      presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time
      elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that
      the road was clear?”

      “Two or three minutes.”

      “Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that
      there are no side roads?”

      “None.”

      “Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”

      “It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should
      have seen him.”

      “So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he
      made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is
      situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything
      else?”

      “Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I
      should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”

      Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

      “Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked at
      last.

      “He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”

      “He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

      “Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”

      “Have you had any other admirers?”

      “Several before I knew Cyril.”

      “And since?”

      “There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an
      admirer.”

      “No one else?”

      Our fair client seemed a little confused.

      “Who was he?” asked Holmes.

      “Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
      sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of
      interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his
      accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is
      a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”

      “Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”

      “He is a rich man.”

      “No carriages or horses?”

      “Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the
      city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South
      African gold shares.”

      “You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am
      very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries
      into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me
      know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good
      news from you.”

      “It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl
      should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his
      meditative pipe, “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely
      country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there
      are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”

      “That he should appear only at that point?”

      “Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
      Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
      Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a
      different type? How came they _both_ to be so keen upon looking
      up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a
      _ménage_ is it which pays double the market price for a governess
      but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station?
      Odd, Watson—very odd!”

      “You will go down?”

      “No, my dear fellow, _you_ will go down. This may be some
      trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research
      for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;
      you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will
      observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment
      advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,
      you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another
      word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on
      which we may hope to get across to our solution.”

      We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
      Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
      early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty
      in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to
      mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road
      runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon
      the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent
      trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each
      side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but
      besides this central carriage drive I observed several points
      where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through
      them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings
      all spoke of gloom and decay.

      The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
      gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring
      sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as
      to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the
      road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but
      now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to
      that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw
      that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington
      grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in
      the hedge, disappearing from my view.

      A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared.
      This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw
      her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An
      instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon
      his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those
      were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very
      straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
      over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every
      movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed
      also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred
      yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was
      spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed
      straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off
      in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again,
      her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further
      notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still
      kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my
      sight.

      I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
      presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in
      at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some
      minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were
      raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted
      his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall.
      I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I
      could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling
      Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and
      I saw no more of my man.

      However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s
      work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local
      house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
      referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on
      my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I
      could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too
      late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the
      name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The
      polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of
      his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

      Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
      which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
      elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
      have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more
      severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done
      and the things that I had not.

      “Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should
      have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view
      of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of
      yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks
      she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,
      otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should
      not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as
      bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You
      really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and
      you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house
      agent!”

      “What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.

      “Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
      gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to
      the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If
      he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints
      away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained
      by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.
      I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the
      cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall
      is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well,
      my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until
      next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two
      inquiries myself.”

      Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly
      and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith
      of the letter lay in the postscript:

      “I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
      I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
      fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced
      that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same
      time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very
      seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,
      that the situation is a little strained.”

      “Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said
      Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case
      certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility
      of development than I had originally thought. I should be none
      the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am
      inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories
      which I have formed.”

      Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for
      he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip
      and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air
      of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting
      object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled
      by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.

      “I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said
      he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
      British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day,
      for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without
      it.”

      I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

      “I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
      notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar,
      and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted.
      Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a
      small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he
      is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short
      residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I
      have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they
      tell me that there _was_ a man of that name in orders, whose
      career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further
      informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,
      sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red
      moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got
      as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman
      himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had
      heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What
      did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language,
      and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse
      by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The
      next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a
      slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home
      in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed
      that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been
      much more profitable than your own.”

      The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

          You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear
          that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high
          pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.
          On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.
          Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the
          lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
      As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
      strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
      reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always
      hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to
      have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of
      the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a
      long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
      afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
      did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
      morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a
      savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him
      more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a
      creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on
      Saturday.

      “So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is
      some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is
      our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I
      think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on
      Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive
      investigation has no untoward ending.”

      I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
      the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
      than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a
      very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so
      little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even
      fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant.
      The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on
      one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
      the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The
      man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
      parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he
      was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the
      severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a
      revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed
      me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this
      curious train of events.

      A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
      heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering
      gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of
      the duns and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked
      along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and
      rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the
      spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury
      Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the
      ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than
      the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long
      tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the
      brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away,
      a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.
      Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.

      “I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her
      trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,
      that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet
      her.”

      From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see
      the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my
      sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall
      behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had
      inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His
      springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred
      yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand
      with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty
      dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round
      the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

      “Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to
      his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
      It’s abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!
      Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and
      let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”

      We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the
      horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along
      the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road
      between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s
      arm.

      “That’s the man!” I gasped.

      A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and
      his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he
      possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly
      he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,
      springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular
      contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright
      as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a
      look of amazement came over his face.

      “Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block
      our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he
      yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “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 the cart.

      “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 ought to
      know where she is.”

      “We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We
      drove 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 Woodley
      and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her
      friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my
      carcass in Charlington Wood.”

      He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
      hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing
      beside the road, followed Holmes.

      “This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks
      of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute!
      Who’s this in the bush?”

      It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
      with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
      drawn 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. The
      beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t
      do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can
      befall a woman.”

      We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We
      had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when 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 vibrated with
      a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in
      front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke
      and a gurgle.

      “This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the
      stranger, 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 greensward
      surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the
      shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
      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 parted
      wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
      attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
      elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
      tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for
      he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the
      sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

      “They’re married!” I gasped.

      “Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the
      glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady
      staggered 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, right
      enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to
      be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”

      Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark
      beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,
      disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he
      raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was
      advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his
      hand.

      “Yes,” said our ally, “I _am_ Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this
      woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do
      if you 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 front of
      Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon
      his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful
      mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst
      into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and
      pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it,
      he was looking down 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 it over!”

      “Who are you, then?”

      “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Good Lord!”

      “You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official
      police until their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a
      frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade.
      “Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham.”
      He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. “Give it
      to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I
      must detain you all under my personal custody.”

      The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
      scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and
      Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the
      house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man
      was laid on his bed, and at Holmes’s request I examined him. I
      carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung
      dining-room with his two prisoners before him.

      “He will live,” said I.

      “What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I’ll go
      upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is
      to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”

      “You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There
      are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances,
      be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning
      Mr. Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.”

      “I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.

      “And also unfrocked.”

      “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

      “I think not. How about the license?”

      “We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”

      “Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is
      no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will
      discover before you have finished. You’ll have time to think the
      point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken.
      As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your
      pistol in your pocket.”

      “I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the
      precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr.
      Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was—it
      fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the
      greatest brute and bully in South Africa—a man whose name is a
      holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes,
      you’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my
      employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew
      the rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle,
      just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from
      her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for
      she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have
      stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was
      following her about the country roads.”

      “Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?”

      “Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn’t bear
      to face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal
      to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear
      the sound of her voice.”

      “Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should
      call it selfishness.”

      “Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go.
      Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have
      someone near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew
      they were bound to make a move.”

      “What cable?”

      Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

      “That’s it,” said he.

      It was short and concise:

      The old man is dead.

      “Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can
      understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a
      head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”

      The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
      language.

      “By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I’ll
      serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the
      girl to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if
      you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be
      the worst day’s work that ever you did.”

      “Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a
      cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask
      is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s
      any difficulty in your telling me, I’ll do the talking, and then
      you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your
      secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa
      on this game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.”

      “Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them
      until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,
      so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody
      Holmes!”

      “What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

      “Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own
      homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You
      had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that
      his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?”

      Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

      “She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old
      fellow would make no will.”

      “Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers.

      “So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The
      idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a
      share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the
      husband. Why was that?”

      “We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”

      “I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there
      Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute
      that he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile,
      your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had
      yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear
      the idea of this ruffian owning her?”

      “No, by George, I couldn’t!”

      “There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and
      began to make his own plans independently of you.”

      “It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much that we can
      tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh.
      “Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him
      on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he
      picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that they had set
      up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had
      to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I
      knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to
      time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days
      ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed
      that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the
      bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the
      girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so,
      but that she would not have me. He said, ‘Let us get her married
      first and after a week or two she may see things a bit
      different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So
      he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he
      was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me
      this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,
      but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle.
      She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the
      mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw
      you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”

      Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate.
      “I have been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report
      you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his
      necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all.
      However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in
      some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county
      constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little
      ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that
      neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently
      damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in
      your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell
      her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to
      escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent
      you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a
      young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the
      cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what
      you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is
      my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it
      shall be at your disposal.”

      In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been
      difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round
      off my narratives, and to give those final details which the
      curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another,
      and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of
      our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my
      manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon
      record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune,
      and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner
      of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.
      Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault,
      the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of
      Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was
      not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the
      reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a
      few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.