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 the pallor of his face, and his 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 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.
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