ad. 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 am 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 hellhound 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