"You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he said, inhis quick, clear way.
"That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to knowwhere she is."
"We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove backto help the young lady."
"Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?" cried the stranger, in anecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and theblackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Standby me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in CharlingtonWood."
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 ofseveral feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this inthe bush?"
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, withleather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, aterrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance athis wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
"That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her. The beastshave pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do him anygood, 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 hadreached 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 afrenzy of horror--burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front ofus. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.
"This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley," cried thestranger, 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 byancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mightyoak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, ourclient, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite herstood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legsparted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding-crop, his wholeattitude 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 hisprayer-book as we appeared and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon theback 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 againstthe trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowedto us with mock politeness, and the bully Woodley advanced with a shoutof 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 tointroduce you to Mrs. Woodley."
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beardwhich had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long,sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver andcovered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerousriding-crop swinging in his hand.
"Yes," said our ally, "I AM Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this womanrighted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if youmolested 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 ofWoodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back,his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. Theold man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of fouloaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, butbefore he could raise it he was looking down the barrel of Holmes'sweapon.
"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol! Watson,pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give methat 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 untiltheir arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened groom who hadappeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as hard asyou can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from hisnote-book. "Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Untilhe 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 Carruthersfound themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gavemy arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, andat Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my report to where he satin 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 upstairsand finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that angel, is tobe tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"
"You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes. "There are twovery good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his wife. Inthe first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's rightto solemnize a marriage."