                                      1903
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                     THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  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, 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 steppingstones 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
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 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 be 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 weekend
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 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 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 "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, redmoustached 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 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 rascals were lurking, without
following her on my bicycle, 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 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.


                            -THE END-
