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