But there was nothing to reward the curiosity, amounting to anxiety,
with which the short man surveyed the wintry scene around. All was
silent and empty. If the horseman had designed to see and speak with
any member of the hunting-party, he had come too late. He recognized
the fact very soon, and very discontentedly. Without being so great a
genius, as he believed and represented himself, Mr. Andrew Larkspur was
really a very clever and a very successful detective, and he had seldom
been foiled in a better-laid plan than that which had induced him to
follow Lionel Dale to the meet on this occasion. But he had not
calculated on precisely the exact kind of accident which had befallen
him, and when he found himself thrown violently from his pony, in the
middle of a road at once hard, sloppy, and newly-repaired with very
sharp stones, he was both hurt and angry. It did not take him a great
deal of time to get the pony on its legs, and shake himself to rights
again; but the delay, brief as it was, was fatal to his hopes of seeing
Lionel Dale. The meet had taken place, the hunt was in full progress,
far away, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur had nothing for it but to sit
forlornly for awhile upon the muddy pony, indulging in meditations of
no pleasant character, and then ride disconsolately back to Frimley.
In the meantime, Nemesis, who had perversely pleased herself by
thwarting the designs of Mr.
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