THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                         THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES


                     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 23d 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 menage 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 gray 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
rumor 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 back-hander, 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 grays 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, gray-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 girl, 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 licence?"
     "We had a licence for the marriage.  I have it here in my pocket."
     "Then you got it by a 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.