He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.
Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion's newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient gesture and an exclamation of surprise.
"You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh," said the man, whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.
The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald Eversleigh.
"You here!" he exclaimed. "But I ought to have known that."
The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh found himself face to face with Victor Carrington.
"You ought, indeed, considering I told you you should find me, or hear from me here, at the 'Wheatsheaf,' in case you wished to do so, or I wished you should do so either. And I presume you have come by accident, not intentionally. I had no idea of seeing you, especially at an hour when I should have thought you would have been enjoying the hospitality of your kinsman, the rector of Hallgrove."
"Victor Carrington!" cried Reginald, "are you the fiend himself in human shape? Surely no other creature could delight in crime."
"I do not delight in crime, Reginald Eversleigh; and it is only a man with your narrow intellect who could give utterance to such an absurdity. Crime is only another name for danger. The criminal stakes his life. I value my life too highly to hazard it lightly. But if I can mould accident to my profit, I should be a fool indeed were I to shrink from doing so. There is one thing I delight in, my dear Reginald, and that is success! And now tell me why you are here to-night?"
"I cannot tell you that," answered the baronet. "I came hither, unconscious where I was coming. There seems a strange fatality in this. I let my horse choose his own road, and he brought me here to this house—to you, my evil genius."