“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his side.  “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!  It’s abduction, Watson—­abduction!  Murder!  Heaven knows what!  Block the road!  Stop the horse!  That’s right.  Now, jump in, and let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”

We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road.  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 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 “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’m 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 hell-hound 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 pulled up.