Tom Henderson returned to the house after this last interview with his groom in a truly pitiable state of terror and alarm. And a man, a stranger, passed him in the avenue. This was no doubt one of his watchers; his footsteps were dogged; he was a free agent no more.

He turned cold and shuddered when he thought of it. Dread visions rose before him, and the terrible penalty of his crime grimly haunted his mind.

As he entered the house he suddenly remembered the coat he had worn the day before, when he had gone to meet the hapless Elsie. He had cut out and burnt the stained sleeve, but what if the house was searched and the coat discovered in its—as he supposed—present condition? No, it must be destroyed entirely, he told himself.

But how to do this? If he burnt it the smell of the burning cloth would spread through the house. He would bury it in the garden somewhere, he finally decided; but he must wait to do this; must be sure that no one was loitering about, spying his actions.

He waited until midnight. Mrs. Henderson had not come down-stairs to dinner, nor during the whole evening. She had sent a message to her son that she had a cold, and was unable to appear. Henderson, therefore, had only his own miserable company. And to sustain his courage he kept drinking glass after glass of whisky, and by twelve o’clock had certainly had more than enough.

When the clock pointed to this hour he rose, and quietly as possible stole upstairs for the purpose of bringing down the coat that he intended to conceal. He unlocked the drawer in the wardrobe where he knew he had placed it, and started back with sudden astonishment and dismay, to find it was gone! He absolutely shook with fear. Where and how had it disappeared? He turned everything over in the drawer twenty times with trembling hands, but did so, as he knew, in vain.

He never thought of his mother about the matter for a moment. Either it had been taken as evidence against him, or—and his guilty soul shivered within him at the idea—some supernatural agency had been at work, and the restless spirit of the dead Elsie had carried away the blood-stained garment.

This thought filled him with absolute horror. He glanced furtively at the dark corners of the room; he fancied that unseen things were near, and at last, unable to endure the strain any longer, he once more hurried down-stairs, and spent the night as best he could on the dining-room couch, after first stupefying himself with whisky.

In the morning he felt in a wretched state alike of mind and body. The inquest on the unfortunate Elsie Wray was to be held at eleven o’clock at the Wayside Inn, and thither Henderson knew he must go. He had to face this ordeal, however ill he was prepared for it, and Jack Reid, the groom, drove him over in the dog-cart at the appointed hour. Henderson was conscious that the people who met him in the country lanes glanced at him with suspicious and lowering looks. His connection with the unhappy Elsie had been whispered about, and many were ready to take the blackest view of the case.

Jack Reid did not fail to impress on his young master during this drive that he must give his evidence with the greatest caution; telling him again and again that it was useless to deny sending the letters that lured Elsie to her untimely end. They agreed between them, in fact, what each had to say, and with this understanding they at length arrived at the Wayside Inn.

May Churchill and her father were there before them, and after the jury had viewed the body, May was the first witness called. She gave her evidence clearly and simply, and her remarkable beauty as she did so excited great admiration. When he first heard her sweet low-toned voice a thrill passed through Henderson’s whole frame, and for some moments he could not find courage to look in her face, as she spoke of her ghastly discovery in Fern Dene. Not so John Temple! He could not take his eyes away from this fair girlish witness, and once May looked at him when she described meeting him after she found poor Elsie.

John Temple corroborated her words, and then her father. After this James Wray, the landlord, gave his evidence with deep emotion, and then Alice, the barmaid. She had waited up for her young mistress, who had never returned, and she had waited for Elsie on previous occasions.

“Did you know who she went to meet?” one of the jurymen asked.

The barmaid hesitated, and then glanced at Henderson’s changing face.

“I understood it was Mr. Henderson,” she answered.

“Did she ever tell you so?”

“No,” replied the girl, and then she detailed how the groom from Stourton Grange had brought a letter for Miss Wray in the afternoon, and how her mistress had seemed greatly upset at receiving it, and how she had gone into the bar and said to Reid, the groom, “Tell him I will be there.”

Reid then gave his evidence, saying that his master had given him this letter to take to Miss Wray and that he had delivered it into her own hands.

“Have you ever taken other letters to Miss Wray?” he was asked.

“Yes, once or twice,” replied the groom.

“From your master, Mr. Henderson?”

“Yes.”

“Did Miss Wray seem upset when she gave you the message for your master?”

“She seemed a bit flurried like, I thought,” answered Jack.

After this Henderson himself was called, and every eye in the room was fixed on his tall, stalwart form and handsome face as he went forward. He was cautioned in the usual manner, but with a great mental effort he said calmly enough:

“I do not wish to conceal anything.”

“You wrote the letter that your groom delivered to Miss Wray, and which was found in her room after her death?”

“I did.”

The letter was then handed to the jury, and after they had read it Henderson’s examination was continued.

“You asked her to go and meet you on the ridge above Fern Dene?”

“I did, but afterward I made up my mind not to go. I got frightened,” answered Henderson, in a low tone, and with downcast eyes. “There had been some talk of a marriage between us, as you may see by what I wrote to her, and I wished to be done with it, that was why I wrote. But I thought afterward I would write again the next day instead of going—I was afraid to meet her.”

“Were you out during the evening of Miss Wray’s death?”

“Yes, for a short time; I went down to the stables.”

“And you never went near Fern Dene?”

“Never; I was in early; my mother and Jack Reid were the only persons I spoke to during the whole evening.”

Jack Reid was recalled, and confirmed this statement.

His master came down to the stables about half-past eight, he said, “and stayed a good bit;” and then he saw him walk toward the house.

Then came the medical evidence. The wound in the throat might have been self-inflicted, or it might not, the doctor deposed. That the fatal shot had been fired quite close to the dead woman there was abundant evidence to prove, but whether inflicted by her own hand it was impossible positively to say. She had been shot on the ridge above Fern Dene, and had either staggered back and fallen over the declivity to the Dene below, or been thrown down. The evidence altogether was of so unsatisfactory a nature, that the inquest was adjourned to enable the police to endeavor to obtain some more positive information. James Wray swore that the revolver found near his daughter’s body was his property, and this was a fact that naturally pointed to suicide. No one else could have obtained this weapon, as Wray deposed he had seen it in its usual place on the morning of Elsie’s death. In her despair at her false lover not keeping his appointment she had probably shot herself, many were inclined to believe, while others did not give credence to Henderson’s statement that he had not been to Fern Dene on the night of her death. At all events neither the coroner nor the jury were satisfied, and the adjourned inquest was appointed to take place in a week. Henderson heard this in sullen silence, and then, after beckoning to Reid, he left the house, without attempting to exchange a word with any of those present. Once he looked at May Churchill as he passed her, but the girl’s eyes fell as they met his. She did not believe that he had shot poor Elsie, but she believed that he had broken her heart, and a strong feeling of womanly indignation filled May’s breast.

In silence still, Henderson mounted his dog-cart, and in silence also his groom commenced to drive him homeward. They had gone quite a quarter of a mile before either of the men spoke. Then Henderson said uneasily:

“How do you think it went off, Jack?”

“Fairly well,” replied Jack, laconically.

After this there was very little said between them until they reached the Grange. But as Henderson was descending from the dog-cart, Jack Reid suddenly addressed him:

“After ye’ve had a drink, sir,” he said, “will ye come down to the stables?”

“Why?” answered Henderson, testily. “I’ve got a beastly headache, and I don’t want to talk of this hateful affair any more to-day.”

“But I do,” answered Jack Reid, doggedly.

“It’s a nuisance—” began Henderson.

“I must see ye, sir,” interrupted the groom, determinedly, and Henderson, after glancing at him, seeing the expression of his face, nodded and went into the house.

“I’ll come down presently,” he said, and this apparently satisfied Reid, as he drove the horse at once on toward the stables.

Henderson then proceeded to the dining-room, where he found his mother sitting pale and trembling.

“Tom,” she said, tremulously, and then she paused.

“It’s adjourned,” he answered briefly, and then he went to the sideboard and poured out some spirit, which he eagerly drank, and his mother had not courage to ask him any further questions. She kept looking at him fugitively, her heart filled with the direst apprehensions. She saw him drink more spirit, and then he left the room, going toward the stables with a lowering brow and an angry heart.

“Confound the fellow,” he muttered, thinking of his groom. He believed that Reid wished him to pay for the evidence he had given at the inquest, and Henderson considered the ten pounds that Reid had already received ample reward.

When he reached the stables he found the groom smoking in the yard. Reid went on with his pipe as his master approached him, and this increased Henderson’s feeling of anger against him.

“Well,” he said, addressing the groom sharply, “what do you want?”

Then Reid took his pipe out of his mouth and looked straight in Henderson’s face.

“That was good evidence I gave for ye to-day,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I am quite ready to acknowledge that,” answered Henderson somewhat impatiently.

“For a word of mine might have hanged ye, may hang ye yet,” continued the groom.

“What do you mean?” asked Henderson, turning pale to the very lips.

“This,” said Reid, emphatically, “that yer hand, and yer hand alone, spilt that poor lass’ blood. I’ve held my tongue, but I saw ye shoot her, and then fling her down the bank.”

“It’s a lie!” faltered Henderson, with his white lips.

“It’s no lie, but God’s truth. I watched ye that night, and followed ye to the ridge above Fern Dene, and heard every word ye spoke, and what the lass said to ye.”

“I—I was not there.”

“Yes, ye were there sure enough, master,” answered Reid with a scornful laugh. “Poor Elsie carried her father’s pistol wi’ her to make yer promise to keep yer word, and make her yer lawful wife. She threatened ye, and ye did promise, and then snatched the pistol frae the poor lass’s hand. And when she said she wad tell her father and Miss Churchill, yer shot her. It’s no good denying it, for I can prove each word I say, and hang ye as easy as hold up my hand.”

Henderson’s tall form absolutely tottered, and he leaned back against the yard pump for support.

“You—can prove nothing,” he faltered.

“Can’t I? I saw the moon come out and shine on her dead face, and I heard her curse ye before she died. I saw her blood run over yer hand and stain yer shirt and the coat ye wore. Where is that coat now, master; ye have not worn it since?” And again the groom laughed.

Henderson shuddered; this man had stolen the coat then, he thought, and was thus able to produce this damning evidence against him.

“How much—?” he began.

“How much will I take to hold my tongue?” continued Reid, as Henderson hesitated and paused.

“Why, a man should pay a long price for his life anyhow? I heard ye offer poor Elsie two thousand pounds to settle yer debt to her, and I’ll take not a penny less.”

Henderson did not speak. Great drops of dew broke out on his forehead; he felt powerless in his servant’s hands. He looked in the groom’s sharp face, and the man knew he could make his own terms.

“I call it cheap,” he said, “dirt cheap; two thousand pounds for yer life. Well, master, think it over, and if yer wise ye’ll not think long—I’ve told ye my price.”

Henderson made no answer; he turned away and went staggering to the house like a drunken man. He knew now what his position would be, and that this man was his master for his whole life.