"I have not thought much of women nor love before," he was reflecting. "She has been the only one," and he drew his firm lips closer, "and the only one she shall remain." CHAPTER XXIII. ILL-WILL. 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.