He listened eagerly until the sound of the horse’s gallop grew fainter and fainter, and then Henderson proceeded to carry out the plan which he had laid down for himself. This was actually to go to Captain North’s supper, who was a somewhat disreputable sporting man in the neighborhood, who, for reasons of his own, had not given the cold shoulder to Henderson during the time of the great scandal about him.

Henderson therefore turned and walked on quickly in the direction of Captain North’s place, Newstead. It was only about a mile from the little wood where he had fired the shot at Reid, and it did not take him long to arrive there. A sort of savage exultation filled his breast as he proceeded on his way. At all events, he had wounded Reid, for he had heard the man’s startled cry. And the shot could not be traced to him, he believed, for he would be known to be at North’s supper at the time, and in the darkness it was impossible that Reid could have recognized him.

At Newstead he received a warm welcome.

“How late you are, old fellow!” cried the host, a dissipated red-faced man of fifty, rising from the table and grasping Henderson’s hand.

“Am I?” answered Henderson. “Well, my mother was not well, and so I did not start so early as I intended.”

After this he sat down to supper with the rest, and seemed in high spirits. They were a rough lot altogether, and they all seemed bent on enjoying themselves. They drank, laughed, joked, and sang, and Henderson joined in the thick of it. It was indeed after two in the morning before they began to talk of dispersing.

“I wonder if my trap is here?” asked Henderson.

“No, sir,” answered the servant he addressed; “there is nothing here from Stourton Grange.”

“Confound that fellow. I wonder why he has not come; got drunk, as usual, I suppose,” said Henderson.

“Do you mean that groom of yours, Reid?” asked Captain North. “I’m told he’s quite a swell now, and goes about buying horses, and blustering about some money he has had left him, or that he has power over you, or something. I would get rid of him if I were you, Henderson.”

“He’s a lazy dog,” swore Henderson, and then the conversation dropped.

One of the guests who was going Henderson’s way offered to give him a lift, and Henderson accepted the offer. This man drove Henderson nearly to the avenue at Stourton, and there they parted, Henderson proceeding on foot in the direction of the Grange. As he walked on in the darkness and the gloom, for the first time since he had fired the shot at Reid, a sort of dread, of shrinking from the consequences of what he had done, stole over his soul. But he braced himself up to conquer this feeling.

“He deserved it. I hope he is dead,” he thought, and in this mood he neared his home.

He had to pass the stables on his way, and as he did so he saw they were fully lighted. He hesitated, then nerved himself to go in and inquire why this was so. He entered one of the open doors, and a peculiar gasping sound fell on his ears. He passed two of the stalls, and he saw the horses in them were restless and uneasy. Then he came to the third stall—Brown Bess’ stall—and such a sight met his eyes that he never forgot it to his dying day.

Reid was standing there and a farrier whom he knew, and on the straw of the stall lay Brown Bess, panting and struggling in her death agonies. Blood was flowing from her nostrils; blood from her distended jaws, while convulsive tremors ran through her sleek and glossy form.

“What is this? What has happened?” asked Henderson, hoarsely.

The two men, who had not noticed his approach, as they were watching the horse, now turned around and saw Henderson.

“Some scoundrel shot her on the road as we came through Henley Wood,” answered Reid, gloomily. “She’s shot through the lungs, Mr. Roberts here says—and it’s all up with her, poor beast.”

“Yes, Mr. Henderson, I fear nothing can be done,” said Mr. Roberts, the farrier, shaking his head.

Henderson gave a kind of cry, and knelt down on the straw beside the dying horse.

“Bess! Bess! My poor Bess! don’t you know me?” he exclaimed, and his words were broken by a sob.

The dumb creature in her death throes knew her master’s voice. She opened her fast glazing eyes a little wider; she tried to whinny her welcome, but the exertion killed her. A rush of blood came from her mouth, a terrible struggle convulsed her limbs, and the two men standing behind seized Henderson and pulled him forcibly away from her.

“She might kick you without knowing it, sir,” said the farrier. “Ay, poor brute, it will be all over in a moment or so.”

His words were true; there was another plunge or two, then a faint quivering ran through her frame, and then all was still. Henderson stood watching her, and then with a groan he covered his face with his hand, and turned away.

“It’s a bad business,” said the farrier. “Who on earth could have shot her?”

“It was just at the turn in Henley Wood,” repeated Reid; “we were coming home as nicely as could be when I heard a shot close at hand. Poor Bess a-kind o’ jumped in the air, and then started galloping, and never stopped till we got to the stable door.”

“And you saw no one?” asked the farrier.

“Not a living soul; it was too dark,” answered Reid.

“And what were you doing out so late?” asked Henderson, in a strange, hollow voice, now looking at his groom.

“Well, ye know, master, I’d been buying that mare I told you of, and Skidder and I wet the bargain, and I got a bit tight. But I waited till I was all right, and then I was driving away quietly home—”

“You sacrificed her life,” interrupted Henderson, darkly and sternly, “the best horse a man ever rode,” and then without another word he strode out of the stable, his heart full of inexpressible bitterness.

For he knew that his own hand had killed the creature he had loved. Brown Bess had been his favorite horse, and had been given to him by his father shortly before his death, and Henderson remembered at this moment his pride and pleasure when he received the gift.

And another memory, too, rose before him; a memory fraught with remorse and shame, and the face of the dead girl, Elsie Wray, seemed to hover near him in the darkness, as he had seen her in the days of her early love. He had ridden Brown Bess to the Wayside Inn shortly after his father had presented her to him, for the purpose of showing Elsie his new possession. And when he was leaving the girl had followed him out of the house, and laid her dark head against the mare’s glossy neck and kissed her.

He saw this little scene again now, and groaned aloud in his misery. He had killed them both, he was thinking—the two who had loved him—and bitter and unavailing regret and remorse filled his heart. His mad passion for May Churchill had blinded him to all sense of justice and right, and he had flung away the love which was truly his for the sake of a fair face that had always looked coldly at him.

And now it all came back to him! Elsie’s vain appeals and awful death, and he shuddered as he walked on; shuddered and stumbled amid his haunting visions of the past.

A pale-faced woman was standing, candle in hand, watching for him as he staggered toward the open door of Stourton Grange. This was his mother, who had grown uneasy at his prolonged absence, and was now peering into the mist and darkness looking for her only son. Presently she saw him; saw his haggard face, and his eyes full of remorse and gloom. She went forward to meet him; she took his cold, damp hand.

“My dear, are you not well?” she said, tenderly, as she led him into the hall, and put her candle down on the table. “You look ill, Tom, what is the matter?”

For a moment he looked at her, and then suddenly broke down, and a choking sob burst from his lips.

“Tom, come in here; I’ve a fire here,” went on Mrs. Henderson, putting her hand through his arm and leading him into the drawing-room. She made him sit by the fire; she got him what he required, and hung over him and tended him with her mother’s love strong in her breast, as though he had been the sinless child she had once cradled there.

She asked no questions, but presently she gathered from his half-incoherent words that Brown Bess was dead, and that he was weary of his life. She soothed and comforted him, and finally persuaded him to go to bed, but she did not leave him that night, nor for many nights to come.

Either the shock he had received, or some subtle poison floating in the damp, dank air, had struck him down, but before the morning he was in a high fever. And with extraordinary courage and devotion Mrs. Henderson nursed him alone. She sent for no doctor; she sought no help. She knew she was risking his life by doing this, but she knew also that his babbling tongue might reveal the dark secret of which she was only too sure. So no ears but hers heard the ghastly details of the tragedy on the ridge above Fern Dene.

Over and over again in the still hours of the night he related the grim story. Sometimes he fancied Elsie was standing by and would entreat her to take away her dying curse.

“I did not mean it, Elsie! on my soul I did not!” he more than once cried, and his miserable watcher fell on her knees and prayed to God that his words might be true.

But it was a terrible time. Mrs. Henderson’s thick brown hair grew gray, and her once comely face lined and haggard. She let it be understood in the household “that the young master” was suffering from delirium tremens, and as Henderson was known to have been drinking heavily lately, this account of his illness was universally believed.

The groom, Jack Reid, went up to the house each morning to ask after him, but he made no attempt to see his master. The events of the night on which Brown Bess had died seemed to have had a sobering effect on this man. For in his own mind Reid now never doubted that Henderson had intended to kill him when by mischance he killed the horse. Their frequent quarrels, and something in Henderson’s lowering looks when he had proposed to borrow the dog-cart and Brown Bess, had rather alarmed Reid at the time, and for this reason he had purposely delayed his return home until he thought his master would be absent at Captain North’s supper party.

Then, when Henderson had gone into the stable, and flung himself in his grief down by his dying horse, Reid had seen the muzzle of a revolver suddenly appear from one of the pockets of his overcoat. It instantly struck the man at this moment who had shot Brown Bess. The bullet intended for himself had destroyed the animal that Henderson loved best, and Reid gave a little shudder when he thought of his own narrow escape.

But he said nothing of his suspicions. But a day or so afterward he walked over to Captain North’s place, and after telling some of the men about the stables of his master’s illness, he casually inquired what time the “young squire” had arrived at Newstead on the night of the Captain’s supper party.

“Late,” was the reply he received. “Nearly an hour later than the other gents. It wouldn’t be less than a quarter to ten o’clock when he came, and he had a strange sort of look when he did. Ay, it was the d. t. coming on, no doubt.”

This answer satisfied Reid that he had not been mistaken. Henderson had had time then to reach Newstead after he had fired the shot in Henley Wood that had killed Brown Bess. And the idea frightened Reid. He had not, in fact, believed Henderson before capable of deliberate murder. He knew he had not gone to the ridge above Fern Dene intending to shoot poor Elsie Wray. The girl’s threats and taunts had maddened him, and in a moment of uncontrollable passion he had killed her. But this attempt on Reid’s own life was a very different affair. It showed the man that he had to deal with a stronger and more savage and vindictive nature than he had expected. He had bullied and traded on Henderson’s secret, never supposing that he dare attempt to throw off the yoke. But he had gone too far, and Reid now admitted this to himself, and determined to be more careful and more prudent in the future.

But Henderson was ill for many days, and it was weeks after Brown Bess’ death that Reid first saw his master. They met in the avenue by chance, while Henderson was walking with his mother, and leaning on her arm, for his strength was completely shattered. The faces of both men flushed when they saw each other, but Reid respectfully touched his hat as he approached the mother and son.

“I hope you are feeling better, sir?” he asked, and for a moment he stopped.

“Yes, I am better,” answered Henderson, briefly, and he scowled and walked on, but there was a look in his sunken eyes that Reid did not care to see.

Henderson, in fact, still nourished the bitterest animosity against the man who held his secret, and who had treated him with such insolence and disrespect. Nor as his health returned did he forget the loss of Brown Bess. He blamed Reid for this, and hated the groom with a deadly hatred that grew and grew.

And during the days of his convalescence a letter came to him which did not tend to make him any happier. It was from Mrs. Temple, but was of a very vague and unsatisfactory nature.

“I am sorry to hear you have been ill,” it began, “but the address we talked of was not forthcoming, so I could not send it. J. T. wrote to his uncle certainly, but the sole address he gave was Paris, and moreover he said he was leaving that city next day. I can not help thinking it looks suspicious, but on his return we may learn more, as he mentions that in another week or so he would arrive at Woodlea. If I hear anything I will let you know; in the meanwhile perhaps you had best not come here. Yours very truly,

“R. T.”