"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.