There he found the unfortunate rector's hat, as he had hoped he might
find it, and having carried it back, he placed it on the brink of the
river, and then once more mounted him, and rode, not at any remarkable
speed, in the opposite direction to that in which Hallgrove lay.
His reflections were of a satisfactory kind. He had succeeded, and he
cared for nothing but success. When he thought of Sir Reginald
Eversleigh, a contemptuous smile crossed his pale lips. "To work for
such a creature as that," he said to himself, "would indeed be
degrading; but he is only an accident in the case--I work for myself."
Victor Carrington had discharged his score at the inn that morning, and
sent his valise to London by coach. When the night fell, he took the
saddle off his horse, steeped it in the river, replaced it, quietly
turned the animal loose, and abandoning him to his fate, made his way
to a solitary public-house some miles from Hallgrove, where he had
given a conditional, uncertain sort of _rendezvous_ to Sir Reginald
Eversleigh.
* * * * *
The night had closed in upon the returning huntsmen as they rode
homewards. Not a star glimmered in the profound darkness of the sky.
The moon had not yet risen, and all was chill and dreary in the early
winter night.
Miss Graham, her brother Gordon, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh rode
abreast as they approached the manor-house.
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