Chapter IV: Part 4

“I’ll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want you gentlemen
to understand that I have known this lady since she was a child.
There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie’s father
was the boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick.
It was he who invented that writing, which would pass as a
child’s scrawl unless you just happened to have the key to it.
Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn’t stand the
business, and she had a bit of honest money of her own, so she
gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been engaged
to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken
over another profession, but she would have nothing to do with
anything on the cross. It was only after her marriage to this
Englishman that I was able to find out where she was. I wrote to
her, but got no answer. After that I came over, and, as letters
were no use, I put my messages where she could read them.

“Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where
I had a room down below, and could get in and out every night,
and no one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I
knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer
under one of them. Then my temper got the better of me, and I
began to threaten her. She sent me a letter then, imploring me to
go away, and saying that it would break her heart if any scandal
should come upon her husband. She said that she would come down
when her husband was asleep at three in the morning, and speak
with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and
leave her in peace. She came down and brought money with her,
trying to bribe me to go. This made me mad, and I caught her arm
and tried to pull her through the window. At that moment in
rushed the husband with his revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk
down upon the floor, and we were face to face. I was heeled also,
and I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get away. He
fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the same instant, and
down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as I went I
heard the window shut behind me. That’s God’s truth, gentlemen,
every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that lad
came riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a
jay, and give myself into your hands.”

A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two
uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched
his prisoner on the shoulder.

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that
if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the good
fortune to have you by my side.”

We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I
turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner
had tossed upon the table. It was the note with which Holmes had
decoyed him.

“See if you can read it, Watson,” said he, with a smile.

It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:

COME-HERE-AT-ONCE

“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “you
will find that it simply means ‘Come here at once.’ I was
convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse,
since he could never imagine that it could come from anyone but
the lady. And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the
dancing men to good when they have so often been the agents of
evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you
something unusual for your notebook. Three-forty is our train,
and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”

Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was
condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his
penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of
mitigating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt
had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that
I have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains a
widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to the
administration of her husband’s estate.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last December—four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Two or three minutes.”

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

“None.”

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

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

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

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

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

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

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

“That he should appear only at that point?”

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

“You will go down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block
our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he
yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,
or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”

Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.

“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he
said, in his quick, clear way.

“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to
know where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We
drove back to help the young lady.”

“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in
an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her
friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my
carcass in Charlington Wood.”

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

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

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but
alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated
the bone.

“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The
beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t
do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can
befall a woman.”

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We
had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes
pulled up.

“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the
left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”

As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with
a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in
front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke
and a gurgle.

“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs!
Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the
shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a
handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted
wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for
he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the
sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

“They’re married!” I gasped.

“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the
glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady
staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,
the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the
bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant
laughter.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, right
enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to
be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”

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

“Yes,” said our ally, “I _am_ Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this
woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do
if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my
word.”

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon
his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful
mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst
into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and
pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it,
he was looking down the barrel of Holmes’s weapon.

“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol!
Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You,
Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence.
Come, hand it over!”

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

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

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

“He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small
stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more
sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft
Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small to
carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by a
few seconds, and then he entered himself—so large, so pompous,
and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of
self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the
door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that
majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin
hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in
silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told
of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then
Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for
his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines of trouble,
the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were leaden in colour,
the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, the rolling
chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime of a long
journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head.
It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“Absolute exhaustion—possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I,
with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life
trickled thin and small.

“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said
Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve
o’clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter.”

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had
scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.