It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going
straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and
was, no doubt, familiar with the country.
Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding
circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse.
What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to
meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything,
except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its
fatal issue was about to burst like a thunder-clap upon him.
"Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has
failed once, but will not fail always," he said to himself.
The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the
baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with
shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at
Hallgrove.
The lights grew more distinct--feeble lamps in a village street,
glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The
horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five
minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning
of a little country town.
Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was
open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out
merrily on the night air.
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