"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 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!"