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