"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.
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