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' 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 the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take this note, as hard as you can ride, to Farnham.” He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his note-book. “Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I must detain you all under my personal custody.”
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes' request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him.
“He will live,” said I.
“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I'll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”
“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes.
