Sherlock Holmes: The Solitary Cyclist – Followed in Silence (AudioBook)

A peaceful country ride turns into a chilling mystery.
Violet Smith is being followed… always at a distance, always in silence.
When Sherlock Holmes takes the case, the truth behind the solitary cyclist becomes darker than anyone imagined.

🕯️ The Case of the Silent Stalker is one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s most suspenseful adventures — a blend of pursuit, deception, and danger on the open road.

🎧 Full cinematic audiobook — Experience every twist and reveal with immersive narration and atmospheric sound design.

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✔ Sherlock Holmes mysteries
✔ Classic detective fiction
✔ Victorian crime stories
…then this is for you.

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Sherlock Holmes The Solitary Cyclist

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The Solitary Cyclist narration

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There are roads that welcome you…
And some that warn you. Every afternoon, she cycled this path alone.
But she could feel it— The silence wasn’t empty.
It was watching. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is 
safe to say that there was no public case of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during 
those eight years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate 
and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and 
a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of continuous work. As I have 
preserved very full notes of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, 
it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select to lay before the public. I 
shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their 
interest not so much from the brutality of the   crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality 
of the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss 
Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, 
which culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not admit 
of any striking illustration of those powers for which my friend was famous, but there were 
some points about the case which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I 
gather the material for these little narratives. On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I 
find that it was upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith. Her 
visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a 
very abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent 
Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above 
all things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his 
attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness which was foreign 
to his nature, it was impossible to   refuse to listen to the story of the young and 
beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late in the 
evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was already 
fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and it 
was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of the room until she had done so. With 
a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and 
to inform us what it was that was troubling her. “At least it cannot be your health,” said 
he, as his keen eyes darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.” She glanced down in surprise at her 
own feet, and I observed the slight roughening of the side of the sole caused 
by the friction of the edge of the pedal. “Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that 
has something to do with my visit to you to-day.” My friend took the lady’s ungloved 
hand, and examined it with as close   an attention and as little sentiment as 
a scientist would show to a specimen. “You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my 
business,” said he, as he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing 
that you were typewriting. Of course,   it is obvious that it is music. You observe the 
spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to both professions? There is a spirituality 
about the face, however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the typewriter 
does not generate. This lady is a musician.” “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.” “In the country, I presume, from your complexion.” “Yes, sir, near Farnham, 
on the borders of Surrey.” “A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the 
most interesting associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we 
took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you, 
near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?” The young lady, with great clearness and 
composure, made the following curious statement: “My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was 
James Smith, who conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother 
and I were left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, 
who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him since. When 
father died, we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was an advertisement 
in The Times, inquiring for our whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we 
thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was 
given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on 
a visit from South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some 
months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to 
hunt up his relations, and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, 
who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead, 
but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his 
brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.” “Excuse me,” said Holmes. 
“When was this interview?” “Last December—four months ago.” “Pray proceed.”
“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for 
ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with his hair plastered 
down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure that 
Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.” “Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling. The young lady blushed and laughed.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope to be 
married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how did I get talking about him? What I wished 
to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older 
man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite 
manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that we were very poor, 
he suggested that I should come and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that 
I did not like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home to her every 
week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by 
my accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was 
a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. 
Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything promised well. 
Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. 
Every week-end I went home to my mother in town. “The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival 
of the red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh! it seemed three months to 
me. He was a dreadful person—a bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He 
made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I married him I could have the 
finest diamonds in London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me 
in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and swore that he would not let me go until 
I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon his own host, 
knocking him down and cutting his face open. That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. 
Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an 
insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley since. “And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the 
special thing which has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday 
forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in order to get the 12:22 to town. The 
road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies 
for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round Charlington 
Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite 
rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury 
Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and 
about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged 
man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was 
gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, 
when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment 
was increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the following Saturday 
and Monday. He always kept his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it 
certainly was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, 
and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should not pass over 
these lonely roads without some companion. “The horse and trap were to have come this week, 
but for some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station. That 
was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, 
sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far 
from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did 
not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face 
that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I was filled with 
curiosity, and I determined to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, 
but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for 
him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I pedalled very quickly round 
this, and then I stopped and waited.   I expected him to shoot round and pass me before 
he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I could see a 
mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary, there was no side road 
at this point down which he could have gone.” Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. 
“This case certainly presents some features of its own,” said he. 
“How much time elapsed between   your turning the corner and your 
discovery that the road was clear?” “Two or three minutes.” “Then he could not have retreated down the 
road, and you say that there are no side roads?” “None.” “Then he certainly took a footpath 
on one side or the other.” “It could not have been on the side of 
the heath, or I should have seen him.” “So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the 
fact that he made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its own 
grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?” “Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that 
I was so perplexed that I felt I   should not be happy until I had 
seen you and had your advice.” Holmes sat in silence for some little time. “Where is the gentleman to whom 
you are engaged?” he asked at last. “He is in the Midland Electrical 
Company, at Coventry.” “He would not pay you a surprise visit?” “Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!” “Have you had any other admirers?” “Several before I knew Cyril.” “And since?” “There was this dreadful man, Woodley, 
if you can call him an admirer.” “No one else?” Our fair client seemed a little confused. “Who was he?” asked Holmes. “Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it 
had seemed to me sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of 
interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening. He has   never said anything. He is a perfect 
gentleman. But a girl always knows.” “Ha!” Holmes looked grave. 
“What does he do for a living?” “He is a rich man.” “No carriages or horses?” “Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But 
he goes into the city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested 
in South African gold shares.” “You will let me know any fresh development, 
Miss Smith. I am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into 
your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust that 
we shall have nothing but good news from you.” “It is part of the settled order of Nature that 
such a girl should have followers,” said Holmes, he pulled at his meditative pipe,   “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely 
country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there are curious and 
suggestive details about the case, Watson.” “That he should appear only at that point?” “Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who 
are the tenants of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between Carruthers 
and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different type? How came they both to be 
so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a ménage is it which 
pays double the market price for a governess but does not keep a horse, although six miles 
from the station? Odd, Watson—very odd!” “You will go down?” “No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may 
be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of it. 
On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal yourself near Charlington 
Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment advises. Then, 
having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and report. And now, 
Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on which 
we may hope to get across to our solution.” We had ascertained from the lady that she went 
down upon the Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started early and 
caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to Charlington 
Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road runs 
between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which 
is studded with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side 
pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but besides this central carriage drive I 
observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through 
them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay. The heath was covered with golden patches of 
flowering gorse, gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind 
one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway of the Hall and 
a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a 
cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a 
dark suit, and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington grounds,   he sprang from his machine and led it through 
a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view. A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second 
cyclist appeared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look about her 
as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, 
sprang upon his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those were the only 
moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind her 
bending low over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked 
back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two 
hundred yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was spirited. She suddenly 
whisked her wheels round and dashed straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted 
off in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the 
air, not deigning to take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned 
also, and still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for presently the man reappeared, 
cycling slowly back. He turned in at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For 
some minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised, and he seemed to be 
settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the 
Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses 
of the old grey building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a 
dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man. However, it seemed to me that I had done a 
fairly good morning’s work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent 
could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well-known firm in 
Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. 
No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about 
a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. 
The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients were 
not matters which he could discuss. Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention 
to the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit 
that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On the contrary, 
his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that 
I had done and the things that I had not. “Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very 
faulty. You should have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view 
of this interesting person. As it is,   you were some hundreds of yards away and can tell 
me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why, 
otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see 
his features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. 
You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and you want to find out 
who he is. You come to a London house agent!” “What should I have done?” 
I cried, with some heat. “Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the 
centre of country gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the scullery-maid. 
Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist 
who sprints away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition? 
The knowledge that the girl’s story is true. I never doubted it. That there is a connection 
between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall is tenanted 
by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. 
We can do little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make 
one or two inquiries myself.” Next morning, we had a note from Miss 
Smith, recounting shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the 
pith of the letter lay in the postscript: “I am sure that you will respect 
my confidence, Mr. Holmes,   when I tell you that my place here has become 
difficult, owing to the fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that 
his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same time, my promise is of course 
given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, 
however, that the situation is a little strained.” “Our young friend seems to be getting into 
deep waters,” said Holmes, thoughtfully,   as he finished the letter. “The 
case certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of 
development than I had originally thought.   I should be none the worse for a 
quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and 
test one or two theories which I have formed.” Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a 
singular termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut 
lip and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation 
which would have made his own person   the fitting object of a Scotland Yard 
investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures and laughed 
heartily as he recounted them. “I get so little active exercise that it is 
always a treat,” said he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old 
British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day, for example, I should 
have come to very ignominious grief without it.” I begged him to tell me what had occurred. “I found that country pub which I had already 
recommended to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and 
a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded man, and 
he lives alone with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he is or 
has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as 
peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they tell 
me that there was a man of that name in orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one. 
The landlord further informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot, 
sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who 
was always there. We had got as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, 
who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What 
did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his 
adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which 
I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against 
a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my 
country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border 
has not been much more profitable than your own.” The Thursday brought us 
another letter from our client. You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes 
(said she), to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high pay cannot 
reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not 
intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if 
there ever were any dangers, are now over. As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not 
merely the strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious 
man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he 
appears to have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but 
I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much 
excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here, and 
yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would 
sooner have a savage wild animal loose   about the place. I loathe and fear him more 
than I can say. How can Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a moment? However, 
all my troubles will be over on Saturday. “So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, 
gravely. “There is some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our duty 
to see that no one molests her upon that   last journey. I think, Watson, that we must 
spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and 
inclusive investigation has no untoward ending.” I confess that I had not up to now taken a very 
serious view of the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous. That 
a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he 
has so little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from her approach, he 
was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except 
on one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers without 
intruding upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end 
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he was, or what he wanted, was as 
obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver 
into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might 
prove to lurk behind this curious train of events. A rainy night had been followed by a glorious 
morning, and the heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering 
gorse, seemed all the more beautiful   to eyes which were weary of the duns 
and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad, sandy road 
inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath 
of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim 
Hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger 
than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long tract of 
road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the brown of the heath and the budding 
green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. 
Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience. “I have 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 onward 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. 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. “You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss 
Violet Smith?” he said, in his quick, clear way. “That’s what I’m 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 hell-hound 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. “That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the 
stranger. “He drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. 
Let him lie; we can’t do him any good,   but we may save her from the worst 
fate that can befall a woman.” We ran frantically down the path, which 
wound among the trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded 
the house when Holmes pulled up. “They didn’t go to the house. Here 
are their marks on the left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.” As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a 
scream which vibrated with a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green 
clump of bushes in front of us. It   ended suddenly on its highest 
note with a choke and a gurgle. “This way! This way! They are in the 
bowling-alley,” cried the stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, 
the cowardly dogs! Follow me,   gentlemen! Too late! too 
late! by the living Jingo!” We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of 
greensward surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty 
oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a 
handkerchief round her mouth. 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. 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. I will represent the official police until their arrival. Here, you!” 
he shouted to a frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take 
this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham.” He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his 
notebook. “Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I must 
detain you all under my personal custody.” The strong, masterful personality of 
Holmes dominated the tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. 
Williamson and Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, 
and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at 
Holmes’s request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung 
dining-room with his two prisoners before him. “He will live,” said I. “What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of 
his chair. “I’ll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is to 
be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?” “You need not concern yourself about 
that,” said Holmes. “There are two   very good reasons why she should, under no 
circumstances, be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. 
Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.” “I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal. “And also unfrocked.” “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.” “I think not. How about the license?” “We had a license for the marriage. 
I have it here in my pocket.” “Then you got it by trick. But, in any 
case a forced marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you 
will discover before you have finished. You’ll have time to think the point out during 
the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have done 
better to keep your pistol in your pocket.” “I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I 
thought of all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr. Holmes, 
and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was—it fairly drove me mad to think that she 
was in the power of the greatest brute and bully in South Africa—a man whose name is a holy terror 
from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl 
has been in my employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew the rascals were 
lurking, without following her on my bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. I kept 
my distance from her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for she is a 
good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have stayed in my employment long if she had thought 
that I was following her about the country roads.” “Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?” “Because then, again, she would have left me,   and I couldn’t bear to face that. Even if 
she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal to me just to see her dainty form about the 
house, and to hear the sound of her voice.” “Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. 
Carruthers, but I should call it selfishness.” “Maybe the two things go together. 
Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that 
she should have someone near to look   after her. Then, when the cable came, 
I knew they were bound to make a move.” “What cable?” Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket. “That’s it,” said he. It was short and concise: The old man is dead. “Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things 
worked, and I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head. But 
while you wait, you might tell me what you can.” The old reprobate with the surplice 
burst into a volley of bad language. “By heaven!” said he, “if you 
squeal on us, Bob Carruthers,   I’ll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You 
can bleat about the girl to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if you round 
on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be the worst day’s 
work that ever you did.” “Your reverence need not be excited,” said 
Holmes, lighting a cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a 
few details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s any difficulty in your 
telling me, I’ll do the talking,   and then you will see how far you have a chance 
of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa on this 
game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.” “Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never 
saw either of them until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,   so you can put that in your pipe 
and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!” “What he says is true,” said Carruthers. “Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence 
is our own homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason to believe 
he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?”
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore. “She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were 
aware that the old fellow would make no will.” “Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers. “So you came over, the two of 
you, and hunted up the girl. The idea was that one of you was to 
marry her, and the other have a share   of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley 
was chosen as the husband. Why was that?” “We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.” “I see. You got the young lady into your 
service, and there Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that 
he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather upset 
by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer 
bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?” “No, by George, I couldn’t!” “There was a quarrel between 
you. He left you in a rage, and began to make his own 
plans independently of you.” “It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very 
much that we can tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. “Yes, 
we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then I 
lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that 
they had set up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had to pass for 
the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I 
saw them from time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days ago Woodley 
came up to my house with this cable, which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would 
stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give 
him a share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He said, ‘Let 
us get her married first and after a week or two she may see things a bit different.’ I said 
I would have nothing to do with violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard 
that he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this week-end, and 
I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her 
on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the mischief was done. 
The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. “I have been very obtuse, 
Watson,” said he. “When in your report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you 
thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we 
may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in some respects, a unique case. I perceive 
three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little ostler is 
able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom 
will be permanently damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in your medical 
capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we 
shall be happy to escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find 
that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably 
complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to make 
amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help 
in your trial, it shall be at your disposal.” In the whirl of our incessant activity, 
it has often been difficult for me,   as the reader has probably observed, to round off 
my narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case has been 
the prelude to another, and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of our busy 
lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in 
which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, 
and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the 
famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and 
assault, the former getting seven years the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I have 
no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since 
Woodley had the reputation of being a most   dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months 
were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice. And so ends The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist.  A quiet road… a shadow in the distance… 
and the truth only Holmes could find. If you enjoyed this journey, there are 
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