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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"The Return of Sherlock Holmes"

Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving
in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.
"I had given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is
her trap she must be making for the earlier train. I fear,
Watson, that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly
meet her."
From the instant that we passed the rise we could no longer see
the vehicle, but we hastened onwards at such a pace that my
sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to
fall behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he
had inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw.
His springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a
hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw
up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same
instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins
trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled
swiftly towards us.
"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.


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