ndkerchief 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,
gray-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