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l 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 note-book. "give it to the superintendent at the

police-station. until he comes i must detain you all under

my personal custody."

the strong, masterful personality of holmes dominated the

tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands.

williamson and carruthers found themselves carrying the

wounded woodley into the house, and i gave my arm to the

frightened girl. the injured man was laid on his bed, and

at holmes's request i examined him. i carried my report to

where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his

two prisoners before him.

"he will live," said i.

"what!" cried carruthers, springing out of his chair.

"i'll go upstairs and finish him first. do you tell me

that that girl, that ange