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.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A GUILTY SOUL.
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.