The ill-will between Tom Henderson and his groom Reid did not diminish as time went on. For one thing, to raise a sum like two thousand pounds was not an easy matter to the young squire of Stourton Grange; for another, Reid’s manner when alone with his master grew almost intolerable.

He was insolent and overbearing, and bought horses and sold them, often actually using the stables at Stourton for his own purposes. In vain Henderson stormed and swore.

“I’ve the whip hand of ye, ye know, master,” Reid would say in reply, with a significant look, and Henderson swore to himself many a time that this state of things should not go on.

And there was another element in his life—a dark, threatening dread—of which Henderson was only too conscious. This was the bitter animosity that the landlord of the Wayside Inn, James Wray, was said to nourish against him. Reid had warned him of this, for Henderson’s life was too valuable to himself not to be taken good care of, and with brutal frankness the groom had told Henderson of his danger.

“I say, master, ye had best look out,” he said. “I’m told, and the fellow who told me knew what he was about, that old Wray swears he’ll ha’ a shot at ye the first time ye cross his way. And they say he carries his pistols about wi’ him wherever he goes.”

Henderson made no reply to this piece of information. But it came to him also from another source, for one day he received an ill-written, badly-spelt letter from Alice, the barmaid of the Wayside Inn, warning him “for God’s sake not to go near their place, as master has sworn to have your blood if ever he sets his eyes on you, and this would make more trouble than has already been.”

The letter went on to say that at times “the master was like one dement,” and that they were afraid of their lives. Henderson did not doubt that the girl’s words were true, and that this dark shadow hung like a suspended sword over his head. At times he grew almost reckless, but at others the grim penalty of his hidden crime filled his soul with shuddering dread.

After May Churchill’s disappearance he more than once gave way to frightful paroxysms of passion and rage, terrifying his unhappy mother with his mad words and frantic gestures. But weeks passed—three weeks, nearly a month after May’s flight—and still John Temple remained at the Hall, and even the jealous Henderson was forced to admit that this did not look as if Temple had anything to do with it. Then one day as Henderson was moodily riding down one of the country lanes he suddenly met Mrs. Temple, of the Hall, who was driving, and to his great surprise, she pulled up her ponies.

Henderson had never seen her since the great scandal about himself and poor Elsie Wray had occurred, and he was by no means sure that she would take any notice of him now. He put up his hand nervously therefore to take off his hat, but Mrs. Temple stopped, and so he also drew rein.

“Good-morning,” she said; “it’s a long time since I last saw you, Mr. Henderson.”

“Yes,” he answered, rather huskily, while a dusky flush spread over his face.

“Why don’t you come and see us?” continued Mrs. Temple.

“I was not sure you would care to see me.”

Mrs. Temple gave a little airy shrug of her handsome shoulders. She was looking very well, and had apparently got over her deep grief for the loss of her boy, and at one time Henderson had been rather a frequent visitor at Woodlea Hall.

“Oh, yes, I shall be glad to see you,” she said.

“I lost my nephew yesterday, you know,” she added; “John Temple has gone away.”

“Gone away?” echoed Henderson, sharply, and the dusky flush faded from his face.

“Yes, he has gone for a week or so, I believe; abroad, I think, but he was rather vague about his movements.”

Henderson did not speak. Had he gone to May, he was thinking, with a sharp and bitter pang.

“By the by,” continued Mrs. Temple, “has anything ever been heard of that pretty girl, Miss Churchill, who ran away from home? You were one of her swains, were you not, Mr. Henderson?” And Mrs. Temple laughed and showed her white teeth.

“I knew them very well, at all events,” muttered Henderson, with downcast eyes.

“Oh, you were one of her many admirers, they told me,” said Mrs. Temple, with a smile. “Well, she certainly is pretty; such a fine complexion. John Temple called her beautiful; do you?”

“She is handsome,” said Henderson, hoarsely.

“Well, I am rather curious about her flight, or disappearance, or whatever it was. Will you call to-morrow at four o’clock and tell me all about it?”

“I know nothing,” began Henderson, but Mrs. Temple stopped him with a little wave of her driving whip.

“Never mind; call to-morrow at four; and now good-morning, Mr. Henderson,” and she nodded her head and drove on.

But for a moment or two Henderson sat still on his saddle after she had passed him. What did she mean, he was asking himself. Did she suspect that there was anything between John Temple and May Churchill? that he had anything to do with her flight?

This idea which had haunted Henderson in spite of himself now recurred to his mind with threefold force. At all events he would go to the Hall and hear what Mrs. Temple had to say. And he did go, and was received by Mrs. Temple, who smilingly held out her hand to him.

“You see,” she said in that half-reckless way which was one of her characteristics, “I have not turned my back on you in spite of your troubles.”

“It is very good of you,” answered Henderson.

“Oh, being a parson’s daughter, I have naturally a spice of the devil in me, and a certain fellow-feeling to sinners. All men are sinners, you know,” she added, with a laugh; “even my paragon of a nephew, John Temple!”

“What about him?” asked Henderson, sharply.

“Oh, he posed a great deal as a saint, but I don’t quite believe in it all. Now sit down and tell me about Miss Churchill. Do you suppose she was induced to run away by John Temple?”

“How can I tell?” answered Henderson, darkly, with lowering brow.

“There was something in his manner—I don’t know what—that led me to believe that he knew more of the matter than he chose to say. Of course he didn’t run away with her; but I wonder if he knows where she is.”

“I know nothing.”

“Well, I want to find out. He promised to write to his uncle when he went away, and if I get you his address, do you think you would do something to oblige me, Mr. Henderson?”

“I will do anything,” replied Henderson, eagerly, grasping at the meaning of her words.

“Well, you see, a lady can’t make certain inquiries, but a young man can. If I got you John Temple’s address could you go and find out what he is doing? If in fact he has joined Miss Churchill? If he has been seen with her?

“Get me the address and I will go,” said Henderson, with such a fierce gleam in his brown eyes that Mrs. Temple drew back rather alarmed.

“Mind, I’ll have no quarreling,” she said; “only I want to know if John Temple is speaking the truth. His uncle spoke to him about this Miss Churchill, of course, disapprovingly, and he said there was nothing between them, and would not be. But how can we tell? He may have married her secretly for anything we know.”

“If I thought—” began Henderson, passionately.

“Now don’t speak and look like that, or I won’t give you the address! I am going to have no throat-cutting. All I want to know, is John Temple speaking the truth? If you can find out this quietly, I will regard you in future as a friend, and treat you as such in spite of Mrs. Grundy.”

Henderson’s lips moved convulsively, but with a great effort he controlled himself. He could only find out Temple’s address through Mrs. Temple, and therefore he must not frighten or quarrel with her.

“Very well,” he said, “get me the address, and I’ll find out all I can about him. And—if you’ll treat me as a friend I will be grateful—for I want one.” And he held out his hand, which Mrs. Temple took.

“You’ll live it down, no fear,” she answered; “I’ve always pitied you. But you had better go now, for my lord and master sometimes does not hold my views. But when John Temple writes to his uncle I will forward his address to you at once. And now, good-by.”

So Henderson left Woodlea Hall with a new hope in his heart. At all events he would be able to find out, if Mrs. Temple gave him John Temple’s address, whether there was any truth in the haunting suspicion which had pursued his own mind. But a week passed and he heard nothing from Mrs. Temple. And during this week an incident occurred that roused to fury his smoldering resentment against his groom, Jack Reid.

He had paid the man the two thousand pounds, and heard rumors of Reid swaggering at markets and meetings, but had declined to enter into any horse-racing establishments with him. Reid had tried to bully, but here Henderson was firm.

“I’ve no money, so it’s no good speaking of it,” he had said.

What was his indignation, therefore, when one day Reid coolly asked him to advance him another hundred pounds.

“There’s a little mare I must have, and I’m short a hundred of her price; so, Henderson, my boy, ye must shell out.”

Henderson’s brow grew black as night.

“She’s to be sold at Skidder’s to-morrow,” continued Reid, “and I thought I would take the dog-cart and drive over in the morning, and borrow Brown Bess for the occasion; for it’s well always to make a good appearance.” And Reid gave an insolent laugh.

“Borrow my trap and horse if you dare!” shouted Henderson, hoarse with passion.

“Well, I dare; and I must have the hundred pounds, too,” answered Reid. “Come, it’s no use swearing; ye may as well make things pleasant for us both.”

Without another word Henderson turned on his heel and strode away. The men had met in the avenue and Reid saw Henderson walk rapidly back to the house and disappear from his view. But it was impossible almost to describe the furious rage that possessed Henderson’s soul as he did so.

“This is too much,” he muttered darkly between his bitten lips, and he at once proceeded to his own room, vowing vengeance as he went.

“He shall not live to insult me again,” he swore fiercely; and then he sat down deliberately and tried to think how he could best carry out his murderous intentions.

Reid saw nothing more of him during the day, but after nightfall, about eight o’clock, Henderson walked down to the stables, where he was almost sure to find Reid at this hour. The groom was there engaged in looking after the horses, and he turned around and nodded as his so-called master entered.

“There’s the money you asked for,” said Henderson, in a sullen tone, holding out a check, “and I hope it’s the last you’ll want for some time.”

Reid took the check and glanced at it, and then put it in his pocket-book.

“That’s all right,” he said, and then he proceeded to discuss the points of the animal he proposed to purchase.

“She’s a real beauty,” he said, and so on.

Henderson took very little notice. Presently, however, he addressed the groom.

“You talked of taking the trap and Brown Bess,” he said; “if you do, what time will you be back, as I want the trap to drive over in the evening to Captain North’s?”

“What time do you want to go?” asked Reid.

“I have to be there by nine. It’s a kind of sporting supper he has on, and I promised to go.”

“It’ll not take ye more than an hour to go to Newstead? Well, I’ll be back by seven, and ye better drive one of the other horses.”

“All right,” answered Henderson, shortly, and then without another word he left the stable, and Reid looked after him curiously.

“He looked uncommon vicious,” he thought; “I wonder if he can be planning any mischief?”

And this idea recurred again to his mind when he saw Henderson the next morning. There was a dark, lowering, determined look on his face that Reid did not like, and as he indulged in no strong language the groom began to think it looked suspicious.

“Be sure you are back by seven,” was all Henderson said in allusion to their conversation of the night before; and when he had turned away, Reid began whistling softly to himself.

And all the day after Henderson was restless and strange in his manner. He told his mother that he would not be at home at dinner-time, as he was going to Captain North’s, and accordingly about half-past six o’clock he left the house, and proceeded on foot to a lonely spot in the road, that he knew Reid must pass on his return from Skidder’s, the horse dealer’s.

This part of the road ran through a little wood, and there were trees on either side of the horse path. Here behind the trunk of a great spreading oak Henderson stationed himself with murder in his heart. He meant to shoot Reid, cost him what it might, for the man’s insolence had become to him utterly unbearable.

It was nearly seven o’clock when he reached the little wood, and it was a cold, gray, drizzling evening, with a fog floating over the lowlands, and there was a general air of bleakness and discomfort in the whole scene. But Henderson with his black passions roused felt none of this. He stood there hidden, with his revolver ready in his hand, and with his ear alert to catch every sound. But none came; only the melancholy moan of the wind through the trees, or the cry of the curlew winging its way over the sedges on the marsh below.

Henderson began to get impatient. Would he never come, he thought. He looked at his watch again and again; half-past seven, eight, and then the autumn day began to close, and the night to gather in.

It was quite dark—just nine o’clock—when at last he did hear the rumble of wheels and the sharp trot of a horse’s hoofs on the stony road. Henderson stood breathless, his revolver raised ready to fire, his eyes peering eagerly through the darkness and the mist. The sounds came nearer.

“It is Brown Bess’ trot,” he told himself with savage glee; “I’ll have him this time and no mistake.”

The dog-cart passed the spot where he was standing a moment later, and Henderson fired. There was a cry; the horse swerved violently aside, and then started off in a furious gallop, and Henderson stood panting on the roadway, wondering if his enemy were dead.