It was quite true that young Henderson had made a terrible scene when he first heard that May Churchill had disappeared from her home. He heard it from his groom, Jack Reid, whom he now regarded with the most bitter hate and fear, though he was obliged to suppress these feelings.

Reid had, indeed, proved a hard task-master, and had insisted on his price to the uttermost farthing. Henderson had, no doubt with some difficulty, paid him one thousand pounds, and had tried in vain to avoid paying him the other thousand, at least for a time.

“This won’t do, you know, master,” he had said, insolently enough on Henderson making some excuse about the money; “that’s all very fine, but our bargain was for two thousand, and you must keep your part of it if I keep mine.”

“But I tell you, man, I can not raise the money without old Ormsby, the lawyer, being most inquisitive about it, and asking all sorts of questions,” answered Henderson.

“It’s your money, not his, isn’t it?” retorted Reid, coolly. “And it’s your debt, too, isn’t it? Maybe if the lawyer knew the truth he would think it wasn’t much to pay for your life?”

“You are always bringing that up,” said Henderson, gloomily.

He was looking very ill; people said he drank heavily, and certainly his naturally clear brown complexion had a different hue now to what it used to have. He was irritable, too, and excitable to a painful extent, and his unhappy mother lived in constant dread of some outbreak.

“The truth is, master,” went on Jack Reid, quite coolly, a few moments later, “I really want this money down, and I must ha’ it too, for I am thinking of starting a race-horse or two in a small way, and capital I must have.”

“You never would be so mad!” cried Henderson, in a sudden passion. “You would just throw away the money and get into all sorts of debts and troubles.”

“Many a man has begun on less,” continued Reid, contemplatively. “I know a good horse when I see one, and anyhow I mean to try—now Tom, my boy—”

“How dare you speak to me thus?” almost shouted Henderson, growing pale with rage.

“A good many folks would say how dare you to speak to me so?” replied Reid, significantly.

Henderson did not speak; he stood there quivering with passion, glaring at the man who was his master and made him feel it.

“Now, Tom, my boy,” repeated Reid, with a short and somewhat scornful laugh, “it’s no good for us two to quarrel. We both know too much, and we may as well make the best of the situation. And what I was about to propose is this: My two thousand pounds I will ha’; but what about you going into partnership with me and making the capital four thousand? We could do something with that, and then old Ormsby, the lawyer, would not be surprised any longer at yer wanting the money.”

Henderson swore a bitter oath, and cursed the man before him.

“Do your worst!” he cried. “I’d rather go to the bottomless pit as have anything more to do with you.”

“Ye’ll find yer’self there most likely, whether ye have anything to do wi’ me or not,” retorted Reid. “It’s no good swearing and cursing, my friend Tom; ye’ve got the rope round yer neck, remember, if I choose to pull it.”

Again Henderson swore a tremendous oath.

“Come, come, it’s all very fine using big words,” continued Reid, “but they’re not business, and I mean business. I think we could start very well on four thousand, and ye’d best think it over, for I’ve been looking about me, and I think I know a fellow who would let me his place cheap, as he’s a bit down in his luck at present.”

“And you’ve been talking about this to other people, have you?” asked Henderson, savagely. “What do you suppose they will think? Where did you get the money? they will ask.”

Reid winked one of his shrewd brown eyes.

“I’ve thought of all that, my boy,” he answered, “and I’ve been throwing out hints lately that a relation in Australia has died and left me money.”

“I wish you would go there,” said Henderson, eagerly catching at the idea of getting rid of his incubus. “Australia’s just the country for you, Reid. With your capital you are sure to do well there, whereas this racing stable business is an immense risk.”

“I mean to try it, for all that,” answered Reid, sturdily, “and I don’t mean to be got rid of so easily as to be pushed off to Australia or anywhere else. No, I mean to try my luck where I am, and you’d best think over the proposal I’ve made. However, partnership or no partnership, I must ha’ the second thousand by next week, so ye must raise it as best ye can.”

A savage, almost murderous, gleam shot from Henderson’s eyes as the man spoke, and Reid noticed this.

“That kind of thing won’t do for the like o’ me,” he said, significantly. “It’s all very well with a poor helpless lass, but it’s man to man wi’ us, and I’d back myself against ye.”

Again that terrible look passed over Henderson’s face, but with a great effort and an inward oath he suppressed the words that rose to his lips.

“This man and I shall not live together on the earth,” he silently swore, and from this hour he never forgot his vow.

But Reid, reckoning on his own personal strength perhaps, had no fear of his master. Nay, he seemed to take a sort of grim pleasure in irritating him, and after a few moments’ silence he began on the subject of May Churchill’s disappearance, of which he had just heard, the report not having yet reached Henderson’s ears.

“Well, ha’ ye heard the last news?” he asked.

“What news?” answered Henderson, sullenly.

“About that bonnie lass fra’ Woodside Farm—”

“What!” cried Henderson, springing up erect, for he had been leaning against one of the stable stalls during the rest of this interview. “What do you say?”

“It’s just hearsay wi’ me,” replied Reid, “but I’ve been told that Miss Churchill’s run away fra’ home, and no one can hear tell of her.”

“I don’t believe it; it’s a lie,” said Henderson, every particle of color dying out of his face. “It’s just some confounded bit of gossip like the rest—but at all events I’ll ride over and see. Saddle Bob for me, Reid.”

The groom proceeded leisurely to obey this order, while Henderson stood by impatient and excited. He kept repeating, “It’s a lie; nothing but a lie;” but Reid could see that every limb of his body was quivering, and that the report had agitated him almost beyond control. The moment the horse was ready Henderson sprang on his back and galloped out of the stable yard. Nor did he draw rein until he reached Woodside Farm. Then he hastily dismounted, and after giving his horse in charge of one of the grooms, he strode to the house door and violently rang the bell.

The maid who opened it said the master was out, but the mistress was in.

“Can I see Mrs. Churchill?” asked Henderson, hoarsely.

At this moment Mrs. Churchill herself appeared at the dining-room door. She had seen Henderson arrive from the window, and now went forward to receive him.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Henderson,” she said, with extended hand. “Come in here. I suppose you have heard what has happened?”

“About May?” gasped Henderson, who was pale and trembling in every limb.

“Yes, about May,” replied Mrs. Churchill, calmly. “May has behaved in the most extraordinary manner; she has run away from home.”

Henderson did not speak; he staggered against a chair; he grasped its back to support himself.

“Mr. Churchill and I,” continued Mrs. Churchill, still calmly, “had been away from home for a couple of days, to my place at Castle Hill, and when we returned the night before last, May had left a message with one of the boys that she had a headache, and had gone to bed. Well, yesterday morning she did not come down to breakfast, and I went upstairs to look after her. Her room was unoccupied, her bed had not been slept in; in fact, she had disappeared. Her father went at once to the station, and it appears from the station-master’s account she started for London in the afternoon of the evening of our return. The whole thing had been planned beforehand.”

“And,” faltered Henderson, for he could scarcely speak the words, the violence of his emotion was so great, “was she—alone?”

“Perfectly alone. She had engaged a strange boy to take her trunk to the station, and she had taken all her best things with her. And she left a letter for her father lying on the toilet-table of her room, in which she falsely endeavored to blame me for her conduct. She said she could not get on with me, so she had gone away. But I don’t believe a word of it; I believe I was only a blind.”

Henderson gave a sort of sigh of relief; after all, May had gone alone.

“How do you mean about a blind?” he asked, after a moment’s silence.

“Well, Mr. Henderson, I will trust you; I know you liked this foolish girl, and you know what I wished concerning yourself and her. Therefore, I expect this will go no farther. But my belief is, that though she certainly ran away with no one from here, that someone will join her, and this is why I trust you. Do you know of any lover—any admirer she had?”

A dark-red dusky flush rose to Henderson’s pale face.

“No—” he said, “unless—”

“Unless whom?”

Henderson began moving restlessly up and down the room with irregular footsteps.

“There is that fellow,” he said, at length, “that is to be Mr. Temple of Woodlea’s heir, they say—well, I’ve seen May with him more than once. I saw her with him just after the boy’s death, and another time,” and then he suddenly paused, remembering that it was in Fern Dene that he had twice seen May with John Temple.

“I know she knew him; she was thrown with him, you see, when that unfortunate girl committed suicide, but I scarcely think there could be anything between them, though certainly on the very day of our return here after our marriage trip, we found him here.”

“You found him here?”

“Yes, but Mr. Churchill seemed to think nothing of it, and I have never seen him here since; still, one never can tell.”

“She changed to me from the day he came,” went on Henderson, in a broken voice; “before that she was always pleasant and friendly, if nothing more. If I thought this fellow had induced May to leave her home I would be even with him, that is all.”

“My dear Mr. Henderson, do not speak in that way. We have really nothing to go on regarding Mr. John Temple. As I have told you, I never saw him here except that once, when we came home, and I have no reason to believe she ever met him outside, and he certainly did not run away with her. She went alone for one thing, and for another Mr. John Temple is at present at the Hall; Mr. Churchill saw him when he went to tell the squire of May’s disappearance on the morning when we found she was gone.”

“And what did he say?”

“I don’t think anything particular. Oh, yes, he said May had never said anything to him of her intention of leaving home. No, I think we may leave him out of the question; now what I want to ask you is, is there no one else, do you think, likely? Is there any young farmer about here, or even in a lower class?”

“May never would look at them.”

“That’s what her father said, but one never can tell.”

“I don’t believe it,” answered Henderson, roughly. “No, if it’s anyone, it’s this Temple! He’s a sly, quiet fellow, with a sneer on his face always, and if he’s done any harm to May he had best look to himself. He came between her and me, I know; and he’ll rue the day, I swear it on my soul, if he’s done any wrong to the girl.”

“My dear Mr. Henderson, this is folly,” began Mrs. Churchill.

But with a suppressed oath Henderson broke away from her, leaving Mrs. Churchill not a little alarmed at the wild recklessness of his whole manner and bearing. And when she told her husband of his visit he was not over-well pleased.

“It will never do, you know, Sarah, for this young fellow to go raving about the country side, talking of May and Mr. John Temple. We must remember the squire is my landlord, and that Mr. Temple will be, and I’m told Henderson has been drinking heavily lately, and has never been the same since that poor girl’s death. My opinion is we will hear of May some day soon, and that she’s gone off in a huff and taken some situation or other, not with any young man or lover at all.”

And Mrs. Churchill saw the prudence of her husband’s advice, and talked no more of May’s probable lovers. Henderson, on the contrary, rode home with every nerve in his body tingling, and his brain surging with rage. His life, in fact, had become utterly unendurable to him; his position with his groom, Reid, and now the loss of May Churchill seemed actually to madden him.

And the very day after he had seen Mrs. Churchill he met John Temple riding along the road. It was to this meeting that John had alluded in his letter to May, and there was something in the dark, lowering look of hate on Henderson’s face, as he passed, that John was not likely quickly to forget.