"Nothing could be more natural. There is some talk of your buying a hunter for Lionel, is there not, by-the-bye?" "Yes. They know I am a tolerable judge of horseflesh, and Douglas wishes me to get his brother a good mount for the winter." "When is the animal to be chosen?" asked Victor, carelessly. "Immediately. We go down to Hallgrove next week, I shall select the horse whenever I can get Douglas to go with me to the dealer's, and send him down to get used to his new quarters before his hard work begins." "Good. Let me know when you are going to the horse-dealer's: but if you see me there, take no notice of me beyond a nod, and be careful not to attract Douglas Dale's attention to me or introduce me to him." "What do you mean by that?" asked Reginald, looking suspiciously at his companion. "What should I mean except what I say? I do not see how even your imagination can fancy any dark meaning lurking beneath the common-place desire to waste an afternoon in a visit to a horse-dealer's yard." "My dear Carrington, forgive me," exclaimed Reginald. "I am irritable and impatient. I cannot forget the misery of those last days at Raynham." "Yes," answered Victor Carrington: "the misery of failure." No more was said between the two men. The sway which the powerful intellect of the surgeon exercised over the weaker nature of his friend was omnipotent. Reginald Eversleigh feared Victor Carrington. And there was something more than this ever-present fear in his mind; there was the lurking hope that, by means of Carrington's scheming, he should yet obtain the wealth he had forfeited. The conversation above recorded took place on the day after Mr. Larkspur's interview with Honoria. Three days afterwards, Reginald Eversleigh and his cousin met at the club, for the purpose of going together to inspect the hunters on sale at Mr. Spavin's repository, in the Brompton Road. Dale's mail-phaeton was waiting before the door of the club, and he drove his cousin down to the repository. Mr. Spavin was one of the most fashionable horse-dealers of that day. A man who could not afford to give a handsome price had but a small chance of finding himself suited at Mr. Spavin's repository. For a poor customer the horse-dealer felt nothing but contempt. Half a dozen horsey-looking men came out of stables, loose boxes, and harness-rooms to attend upon the gentlemen, whose dashing mail-phaeton and stylish groom commanded the respect of the whole yard. The great Mr. Spavin himself emerged from his counting-house to ask the pleasure of his customers. "Carriage-horses, sir, or 'acks?" he asked. "That's a very fine pair in the break yonder, if you want anything showy for a mail-phaeton. They've been exercising in the park. All blood, sir, and not an ounce too much bone. A pair of hosses that would do credit to a dook."