Then he raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian,
who was advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop
swinging in his hand.
"Yes," said our ally, "I AM Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this
woman righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do
if you molested her, and, by the Lord, I'll be as good as my word!"
"You're too late. She's my wife!"
"No, she's your widow."
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front
of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell
upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to 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's 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.
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