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, 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 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, 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 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 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.





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