Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted
wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding-crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service,
for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared and slapped the
sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.
"They're married!" I gasped.
"Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across the
glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady
staggered against the trunk of the tree for support.
Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness,
and the bully Woodley advanced with a shout of brutal and
exultant laughter.
"You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you right
enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me
to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the
dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,
disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it.
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