"You certainly have misjudged me in many ways, Mistress Lanison, and, asI have said, you may not have much cause to thank me for what I do now."
"I have decided to run the risk."
"You have yet three days in which to alter your decision if you so wish," Rosmore returned. "The delay is necessary. The road will be freer and safer then, and the town too much occupied with Judge Jeffreys to pay much attention to anyone else. Mr. Crosby has told you the place of meeting. The trooper Watson will follow you and see you safely into Mr. Crosby's company, and then freedom and happiness. Until then you must not meet. I must think of myself, and bringing Mr. Crosby here is a risk. Should you, even at the eleventh hour, change your mind, I will let Mr. Crosby know. Once upon the road, no one is likely to stop you, especially if you go southwards, as I presume you will; but in case of accident, there is Judge Marriott's order for your release. With that in your possession, I know of none who would refuse to let you pass."
Barbara took the paper.
"And there is your order, Mr. Crosby. It is time we went. Your servant,Mistress Lanison," and Rosmore bent low over her hand.
"Thank you," she said in a whisper. Crosby in his turn bent over her hand, his lips touching it.
"Until you come to me," he said, "God keep you."
A swift pressure of his fingers was her only answer. Then the door opened and shut again, the key was turned in the lock, and she was alone.
As Gilbert Crosby had been brought there, in a coach and blindfolded, so he left, and went back with Lord Rosmore to his lodgings.
"In view of your kindness in helping us, the bandage hardly seemed necessary," said Crosby, as he took it off, when they had entered Rosmore's room, the same room in which they had fought.
"You might grow weary of waiting, and attempt to see her. Lovers are like that, and often spoil the best-laid schemes," Rosmore laughed. "Oh, I am thinking chiefly of myself. Jeffreys has no profound love for me, and would rejoice to catch me tripping. You are no longer my guest, Mr. Crosby. I have done my part, and your presence here is a danger to me. You are free to go. Perhaps you had better tell me where you are to be found during the next three days. Women are sometimes as changeful as a gusty wind, and Mistress Lanison might alter her decision."
Although astonished at being set at liberty at once, Crosby was not so off his guard as to mention "The Anchor" in West Street. He gave the address of Fellowes' lodging. It was the only other place he knew where a message could reach him.
"Good-bye, then," said Rosmore. "You will be wise to keep within doors until you leave Dorchester for good. There are many who know Gilbert Crosby, and once in the hands of Jeffreys you would have short shrift."
"Thank you. I shall take care. I believe you have proved a friend, LordRosmore," and Crosby held out his hand.
For a moment Rosmore hesitated.
"No; we will not shake hands," he said. "If I have found consolation, I cannot forget who you are and that you have robbed me of Mistress Lanison. To clasp your hand would mean to wish you good luck, and I cannot do that. I want her to know that she has chosen badly. You and I could never be friends, Mr. Crosby."
"As you will; yet I would repay your kindness if ever the opportunity should offer."
Rosmore shrugged his shoulders as he crossed the room and Crosby went out, Sayers joining him in the passage and seeing that no one hindered his going.
For a few minutes Rosmore remained in deep thought, and then HarrietPayne came in.
"You look strangely ill-tempered," was her greeting.
"My face must be a poor index to my thoughts," he answered, with quick yet forced gaiety. "I have just finished a good work."
"What is that?"
"Making two people happy. Come and kiss me, and I'll tell you all about it." Yet all her kisses and arts of pleasing could not keep the thoughtfulness out of his face as he told her how Barbara Lanison and Gilbert Crosby were to leave Dorchester together.
There was little danger of anyone recognising Gilbert Crosby as he passed through the streets of the town. A swinging lantern might illumine his face for a moment, or the beam of light from some unshuttered window might have betrayed him to some watching enemy, but everyone in the houses and in the streets had enough to think about to-night. Judge Jeffreys had come to Dorchester. To-morrow his ferocious voice would be dooming dozens to death in that court with the scarlet hangings. The Bloody Assizes would have commenced in earnest, and there were few families in Dorchester which had not one relative or friend waiting in the prisons to be tried for rebellion. There was already mourning in the city, and the soldiers were in readiness lest desperation should drive to riot. Crosby might have gone with less care than he did and yet passed unnoticed.
In the upper room at "The Anchor" he found Fellowes, who sprang up at his entrance.
"Gad! I had lost all hope," he exclaimed. "I have been searching the town for you. I thought Rosmore must have caught you."
"He did. A miracle has happened. Where is Fairley?"
"I have not seen him since we parted the other night," Fellowes answered. "I have picked up some information, but have had no one to tell it to."
"And I have seen Mistress Lanison."
"Seen her!"
"Seen her and spoken to her. It is a miracle, I tell you." And Crosby gave him the history of his dealings with Lord Rosmore, omitting no detail from the moment he had stepped into the room and overheard part of the conversation with Judge Marriott to his leaving Rosmore's lodging less than an hour ago.
"It is well that you did not tell him of this place," said Fellowes.
"You do not trust him?"
"No. Do you?"
"I cannot see how he is possibly to profit out of such a plan," saidCrosby.
"The devil tempts in the same way," answered Fellowes. "If we could always see through the devil's plans we should less often fall a victim to his wiles. If an angel came and bid me trust Rosmore, I should have no faith in the angel."
"Let us find the weak places in the scheme if we can," said Crosby.
"There is one I see at once," said Fellowes. "You are taken blindfold to Mistress Lanison's prison. You do not know in what part of the town she is. You cannot watch the house. Why the delay of three days?"
"I am inclined to think Rosmore has been generous this time," Crosby persisted.
"If by some strange chance he has, there are three days in which he may repent of his generosity," was the answer. "I have seen Marriott. He told me of his interview with Rosmore, and that the orders had been stolen from him, he did not explain how. Rosmore has no fiercer enemy at the moment than the judge. Marriott knew nothing of Mistress Lanison's capture; indeed, he declared that he did not believe she was in Dorchester. One thing he was certain of, that Rosmore intended to force her to marry him."
"How?"
"Perhaps by letting her appear before Jeffreys, allowing her to be accused and condemned, and then rescuing her at his own price. This is Marriott's idea."
"She would not pay the price."
"And I fear Marriott would not be powerful enough to save her, although he says he could, if Rosmore took this course. The outlook is black, man, black as hell, and only one feeble ray of light can I bring into it. Marriott has promised to help me to open her prison doors should she be condemned. To his own undoing I believe he will keep that promise, so great is his hatred of Rosmore."
"What can we do?" said Crosby, pacing the room with short, nervous strides. "It is damnable to be so helpless."
"Wait; there is nothing else to do. Marriott is doing his best to find out where Mistress Lanison is imprisoned. He is to let me know. If we can find that out we may yet beat this devil Rosmore."
"He may be honest in this," said Crosby.
"We will have the coach waiting," Fellowes answered, "but I do not believe Rosmore is ever going to help you to use it. I wish Martin were here."
"Where can he have gone?"
"Working somewhere for his mistress," said Fellowes. "That is certain unless he is dead. You recollect he said he had a half-formed scheme in his mind. Next morning I found a message here that he might be absent for a day or two."
"Some forlorn hope," said Crosby.
"Perhaps, but Martin's forlorn hopes have a way of proving useful. You will lie low here, I suppose, Crosby? I will get back to my lodgings, and if I hear from Marriott I will come to you at once—or from Rosmore. It may be part of his design to make you think Mistress Barbara has changed her mind."
"If he sent such a message I should know he was lying."
"Don't leave here, Crosby. Much may depend on my being able to find you at a moment's notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I have only discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin will have found the way out of them."
Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester, surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to Barbara's guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.
News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants' quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.
"I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she said to him the day after the messenger had been.
"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he answered.
"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the sake of a new sensation."
"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of them."
"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the painted window of a chapel."
"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns find it dull without them."
"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown dull lately."
No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs. Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase of quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother, Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man he would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath.
He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town, and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort was successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left his guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace.
The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light of a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.
Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little space it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It moved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.
"Martin!"
Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood—only Mad Martin.
"I have waited for you, Sir John."
"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have been. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"
"Wandering and dreaming."
"In a mad mood, eh?"
"Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-song tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his lips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"
"In London, Martin."
"No; she was, but not now. She was calling from a dark room, and the door was locked. I could see the room, a miserable room, but I could not see her, only hear her. She was in the power of Lord Rosmore."
Sir John bent forward to see Fairley's face more clearly in the moonlight. He had known him in this mood before, known him to give strange but good advice while in this state. He was satisfied that Martin was unconscious now, and was eager to question him.
"What will happen, Martin?"
"I cannot see."
"But why come to the Abbey?"
"She sent me to you. I know not why, but I have waited. I heard her say that I must not be seen. She thought you could save her."
"How?"
Martin put his arm across his eyes for a moment.
"It is all a mist, and the voices are muffled," he said. "You would know what Lord Rosmore would do, and would tell me."
"It will be good for her to marry Lord Rosmore," said Sir John.
"Not good for her, but good for you," was the answer; "she said that. She said you were afraid of him, that you must do as he willed. It was very clear in my dreams."
"Why should I fear him?"
"So many questions give me pain. I was dreaming; I cannot remember everything. One thing is clear. She called to me that you might be free from Lord Rosmore if you knew a secret which the Abbey holds."
"Do you know it, Martin?"
"Yes; she told me, and it is a secret."
"What is it, Martin?"
"A secret, but I was to tell you if you helped her."
"Stop this foolery!" said Sir John, seizing his arm sharply. "You shall be locked up until this wayward niece of mine is safely married."
"Married! Would you die, master?"
"Die?"
"Surely. The stars showed it me long ago. Two planets in conjunction, that was the marriage, and then across the night sky the flash of a meteor, dead and cold in a moment."
"Curse your dreams and the stars!"
"Listen!" said Fairley. "Cannot you hear the music of chinking money?Look, master! I see gems like eyes—white and red and blue—diamonds,rubies, and sapphires. That is all part of the secret, that and theNun's Room."
"Tell me the secret," said Sir John.
"If you help my mistress."
"I know nothing."
"I have forgotten the secret," Martin whispered.
He moved away slowly and then stopped.
"Master, why not be rich? What is it to you and me what happens to Mistress Barbara, so we can be rich? I would be rich, too. If Lord Rosmore has power over you, money and jewels will buy freedom. It is true, somewhere in the Abbey the wealth of the Indies has been buried. I know it."
"Then tell me, Martin."
"You fool, you fool, you have made me forget, but I shall remember if you will only let me. In dreams, when we promise and do not fulfil, we forget everything. You must help my mistress, or I cannot remember. See, I have a proof. Once, long ago, I found that in the Nun's Room; I thought it was glass, but Mistress Barbara's voice says it is a diamond. Take it, master, you will know."
It was a diamond which Sir John held between his finger and thumb. In the moonlight the colours sparkled, such deep, clear colours as never came from glass. It was a stone that had been set; how had it come into the Nun's Room? Sir John's pulses quickened. If he told what he knew, what harm would be done?
"It is a diamond, Martin."
"One among hidden hundreds. Help the mistress, master, and let us be rich. You must give me a little of all we find, so that I may always have a fire in winter and can eat and drink when I like; that is to be rich, indeed."
"I will tell you what I know, Martin, but how can it help Barbara?"
"She has command of my thoughts, as you speak she will hear; but a warning, master—you must speak the truth. I shall not know the truth from a lie, but she will, and if you lie we shall not find the treasure."
"Barbara went to Dorchester to try and save the highwayman, Gilbert Crosby," said Sir John. "It was Rosmore's device to send her word that Crosby was a prisoner, and on the way she was captured, not by the King's troops as a rebel, but by men in Rosmore's pay. She is in no real danger, but she does not know this. She will not be brought before Jeffreys or any other judge, but she will be treated as though this were to be her fate. Rosmore will save her, do you understand, and in her gratitude she will give him his reward."
"How will he save me?" came the question in a monotonous voice, and SirJohn started, for it did not seem as if Martin had asked it.
"The day of the trial will be fixed—it may be to-day or to-morrow, I cannot tell; but the night before she will be smuggled into a waiting coach and driven here to Aylingford."
"Must she promise to marry Lord Rosmore first?"
"Probably. Yes, he will certainly make her promise that before he helps her. It is not a hard promise to make, Martin; Lord Rosmore is a better mate than 'Galloping Hermit.'"
Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked round him and then at SirJohn.
"I thought I was speaking to Mistress Barbara," he said. "Ah, I remember, I was. We have helped her, Sir John. How she will use that help does not matter. Is she to give a promise to Rosmore? I wonder what will happen if she will not give it?"
"I do not know. Such is Lord Rosmore's plan, but circumstances might make him alter it."
"And if he fails he may denounce her and leave her to her fate," said Martin. "She won't be the only woman to suffer, and, whichever way it ends, we have something else to think of—riches."
"Is it true about this treasure, Martin?" said Sir John.
"True! As true as that Lady Lisle was foully executed at Winchester for just such a crime as Mistress Barbara may be accused of if she will make no promise to Lord Rosmore."
"That is a horrible thought," said Sir John, shrinking from him.
"We mustn't think. Those who would get rich quickly must act. Come."
He led the way along the terrace towards the ruins, and Sir John followed him almost as if he expected to see movement in the motionless shadows about him. The prospect of finding this hidden wealth, and all it would mean to him, shut out every other thought. The legend of buried treasure at the Abbey was not a new one. The monks who had lived in it had grown wealthy—why should they not have left their wealth behind them? Martin was mad, but in his madness he had strange visions; Sir John was satisfied that he had had many proofs of this, and he followed him now, never doubting that the treasure existed and would be found.
They came to the opening of the Nun's Room.
"The creepers in this corner are a natural ladder, Sir John."
"But we cannot go down into it, Martin."
"How else shall we get the riches?"
"Those who enter the Nun's Room die within the year," said Sir John, trembling.
"A tale made to keep the curious from looking for the treasure," Martin answered. "I have gone down many times, but I searched in vain, not having the key to the secret. To-night I have it. I will go first," and, kneeling down, he grasped the creepers, which grew strongly here, and lowered himself quickly.
Sir John was not so agile, but he went down after him. He would have accomplished a far more difficult feat rather than remain behind.
"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make that promise?" said Martin, as Sir John came to the floor beside him.
"I wonder."
"If she doesn't, death. If she does, Rosmore will have a wife; the poor highwayman will doubtless hang at Tyburn; but we shall be rich. That matters, nothing else does."
"Nothing else, Martin," and, indeed, Sir John was too excited to be troubled by any other thought.
Martin guided him across the room.
"Feel, Sir John. This is the ledge where they say the Nun slept; creepers hang over it, and behind these creepers—listen, Sir John, listen!" and he knocked sharply against the stone wall. "Hollow! It's true! This is no solid wall as it seems. Feel, Sir John, your finger on the edge of this great slab. A doorway built up, and not so long ago. Listen! Hollow! It's true, it's true!" and Martin jumped and clapped his hands like a child.
"Yes, it's hollow, sure enough," said Sir John.
"Light and a pick. We'll be in the treasure chamber before morning.Wait, Sir John, I'll get them."
"Stop, Martin; where are you going?"
"For a light and a pick," and he climbed out by the creepers in the corner. "I know the treasure has been hidden there. I have seen it in my dreams."
"Be quick, Martin."
"I shall make more haste than I have ever done in my life before," he answered, bending over the edge by the corner. "Poor Rosmore! poor highwayman! Only a wife and a gibbet for them. But for us—"
"Stop talking, Martin, and let us get to work," came the answer from below.
"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make a promise?" And Martin cut and wrenched at the creepers where they clung to the stone floor and fallen masonry at the top.
"What are you doing?" said Sir John.
"Freeing myself from the creepers. That's done. I'll hasten, Sir John, never fear."
Something moved in the dark, sunken room, scraping and sliding.
"Martin!"
Sir John could hear the sound of his footsteps quickly lessening in the distance, but there was no answer to his call.
"Martin!"
Still no answer, and the sound of the footsteps had gone. Sir John, with his hands stretched out before him, crossed to the corner where he had come down. His hands came in contact with a tangle of creepers, hanging loose, from the wall. The ladder was broken!
Martin Fairley went swiftly to the terrace and on to one of the stone bridges over the stream. Then he paused and listened.
"He will have to cry loudly to be heard to-night. Grant that he may find no escape until morning."
Then he crossed the bridge and went swiftly through the woods.
Dorchester was in mourning. If there had been any hope that Mercy and Justice would go hand in hand, if there were a lingering belief that Judge Jeffreys might not be so cruel as it was said, such hopes and beliefs were quickly dispelled the moment that court with its scarlet hangings was opened. Even Judge Marriott shrank a little as his learned brother bullied and laughed and swore at the prisoners, bidding them plead guilty as their only hope of escape, and then condemning them to the gibbet with the ferocity of a drunken fiend. Pity crept into the hard faces of rough soldiers; the devilishness of this judge appalled even them.
Since she had no maid to attend to her, Watson took Barbara her food; but, although he had received no instructions to discontinue his efforts to break her courage by detailing the horrors of the punishment which was being administered to rebels, he spoke of them no more. He pitied this fair woman, and was deeply impressed with her bravery. He was not wholly in his master's confidence, and believed that his prisoner was in grave danger. He did not doubt that under certain conditions she might be saved, but she was not the woman from whom promises could be forced, and no one could know better than Watson did how ruthless his master was in clearing obstacles out of his path, how cruel he was when he became revengeful. He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose. He did not know that her escape had been arranged for, nor that he was to have a part in it; and there were times when he weighed against each other his pity for the woman and his fear of Lord Rosmore, finding it so difficult to tell which outbalanced the other that he went a step further and thought out plans for getting Mistress Lanison away from Dorchester. Not one of his schemes could possibly have succeeded, but the trooper found a satisfaction in making them.
Barbara was speedily aware of the change in Watson's manner towards her, but she was not astonished. It was natural under the changed conditions of her imprisonment. Every hour brought her freedom nearer, and the man knew this, she supposed, and treated her accordingly. Concerning her escape she did not question him, but she did ask him whether Judge Jeffreys had arrived, and if the Assizes had begun.
"Truth, madam, my duty keeps me in this house, and I know little of what is happening in the town."
"Nor how the prisoners will be treated?" Barbara asked.
"Some say this and some say that," Watson replied evasively, "and I have enough to do without thinking about the lawyer's work. When I hear lawyers talk I can't tell right from wrong. You have to be trained to understand the jargon."
So Barbara Lanison heard nothing of the mourning that was in the town, and had naught to do during the long waiting hours but think of the future and all that it meant to her. She was going with Gilbert Crosby, but he had promised that, once they were in safety, she should choose her own way. Would she take his road? She loved him. The fact was so absorbing that nothing else seemed to matter; yet she had many lonely hours for thought, and it would have been strange indeed if none of the circumstances of her life, of her position, had demanded her consideration. To trust this lover with her future meant the snapping of every tie which bound her to the past; it must mean, in the world's eyes, bringing contempt upon her name. She faced the truth bravely. It seemed an impossible thing that Barbara Lanison of Aylingford should marry Galloping Hermit the highwayman. Such a thing might appeal as a romantic tale, but in the real world it meant disgrace. In another land love might be hers, such love, perchance, as few women have ever had, but could it obliterate the past? Would she ever be able to forget that the man beside her, his face hidden behind the brown mask, had waited, pistol in hand, upon the high road, to rob passing travellers? All men were not cowards, nor did they travel unprepared for danger; there must have been times when the pistols had spoken in the silence of the night, when some hapless traveller had died upon the roadside. Surely there was blood upon the hands of the man she loved! The thought bowed her head, and her hands clasped as if a spasm of sudden pain had seized her. No repentance in the long years to come, not all the good that might be done in them, could wipe out the past. And then she tried to find excuses for that past, some reason that could justify the life he had chosen. Some very definite reason there must have been. The artificial glamour of the life would not attract such a man as Gilbert Crosby. He must have imagined that justice was on his side, that there was some wrong to right, to make him defy all the laws of life and property and become a menace and a terror to his fellows.
Stories concerning Galloping Hermit had already passed into legend. His greatest exploits always seemed to be against those who were cruel in their dealings with others, who were unjust, or those whose lives were notoriously bad; and there were many tales of courtesy, of consideration, of help, which were totally out of keeping with the ordinary career of a highwayman. Barbara remembered his treatment of Judge Marriott, remembered what he had said. He was, the world said it, quite apart from all other highwaymen; nevertheless, there was a price upon his head, and the shadow of Tyburn lay dark across his path. And yet he was Gilbert Crosby, the man she loved, the man who was blessed and nightly prayed for in many a humble home in this West Country. What did the world hold for her that she should thrust such a man out of her life? Which way was she to choose—that which led Lack in her uncle's world, with its Rosmores, its Branksomes, its Marriotts, its Mistress Dearmers, and its shams of love which was vice, and of life which was moral death; or that which led to quiet obscurity with the man she loved, a sinner, but repentant, in whose worship she could trust, and whose touch thrilled her very soul? Had she not almost promised already—to take her way with him?
The second day of her waiting had ended, darkness had come; to-morrow night she would go. At about this hour galloping horses would be hurrying her away from Dorchester. Her thoughts were full of to-morrow, when the key turned quietly in the lock and Watson entered.
"Good news, madam. I only heard it an hour ago, and was never more pleased in my life."
"What news?"
"That you are to leave Dorchester, and with Mr. Crosby. Craving your pardon, madam, I know something of your reason for coming to the West; and, for all I'm so rough a fellow, I'm fond o' lovers."
"Thank you," said Barbara, for the man was evidently pleased.
"And it comes sooner than you expected," said Watson. "The road is safe, and you are to go to-night."
"To-night!"
"Yes, now. Mr. Crosby will already be waiting on the road which leads down to the river. I am to see you safely there."
"But to-night? Are you sure there is no mistake?"
"Quite sure. We must go at once."
Barbara went quickly into the inner room, and in a few moments returned closely wrapped in an ample cloak.
"Draw the hood down over your head," said Watson. "The less left for prying eyes to see the better. You have the papers signed by Judge Marriott?"
"Yes."
"One word, madam. No one will hinder us in this house. At the door into the street turn to the right. I shall walk close behind you. Do not hurry. Do not stop if anyone should speak to you, and do not answer them. Walk forward as if I had nothing to do with you."
"I understand."
"Pardon, but the hood does not quite hide your hair. Such hair might betray you if we should meet enemies to-night, for I never saw its like."
Barbara readjusted the hood, and wondered if Gilbert Crosby admired her hair as this trooper did.
Watson opened the door, and they went down the passage together. Two men on the top of the stairs stood aside to let them pass; the street door was open, and Barbara turned to the right, walking alone, the soldier close behind her.
It was a narrow street, and dark, only a light gleaming out here and there from an unshuttered window; but there were many people abroad, whispering together, and Barbara heard sobbing, once coming through an open window, once from a woman who passed her quickly.
"Twenty-nine," she heard one man say in hoarse tones, "the first fruits of this bloody vengeance."
"Curse him! May hell reward him," said his companion.
Barbara shuddered as she passed on, although she did not realise what the words meant.
Then a man stood in her path for a moment.
"A fine night, mistress," he cried. "Twenty-nine of them by the roadside, the chains creaking and the moonlight touching the white faces. Never such a thing in Dorchester before. A damned judge, but what a show!" And then, with a laugh, he ran past her. The voice and the laughter were those of a maniac.
Barbara knew now. Judge Jeffreys had commenced his work. Must she pass those hideous signs of it?
"Turn to the right," said Watson behind her.
She turned, as she was told, into a quieter street, and hurried a little. To be free from this horrible place, it was her only thought. Before she had gone far the houses began to straggle; she was at the edge of the town. The moon was just rising, and by its misty light Barbara saw that the open country was before her. A little further on, the road began to dip, and there, in the shadow of a belt of trees, stood a carriage. There were no gibbets with their twenty-nine victims along this road; that sight she was spared.
Watson came to a standstill.
"Mr. Crosby waits, madam. Good fortune go with you."
"Thank you," she said, and pressed some coins into the man's hand. "Some day, perhaps, I may thank you better."
The soldier saluted as she went forward, watching her, but not following her.
The post-boy was already in his place, and it was evident that the horses were impatient to be gone. A groom stood beside the carriage.
"Mr. Crosby is here, madam," the man said as he opened the door. "There is no time to lose."
Barbara entered the coach quickly, and literally fell into the arms of the man who was awaiting her, for as the door was shut the horses bounded forward.
"Gilbert!"
The hood had fallen from her fair hair as she turned and leaned towards him, and at this moment there was no doubt in her mind which way she would choose. Then with a cry she shrank back into the corner of the coach. It was not Gilbert Crosby beside her, but Lord Rosmore!
Watson went back into Dorchester humming the chorus of a tavern song. It mattered not to him that twenty-nine rebels swung on their gibbets, but it was an intense relief to him that Mistress Barbara Lanison was safely out of the town. He doubted whether he could have seen her condemned in silence, and to speak might have meant that he would speedily swing by the roadside, so he was glad for himself as well as for her. Watson was totally unconscious that he had helped to deliver his prisoner into the hands of Lord Rosmore. He had received definite instructions to see that she safely reached the coach in which Gilbert Crosby was awaiting her; he was not to attend her to the door of the coach lest the post-boy and groom should become suspicious, but to wait and see that she drove away in safety. These instructions he had fulfilled to the letter, and glad to have been concerned in such a happy escape, he went back singing.
From first to last Lord Rosmore had carefully matured his scheme. He had entrusted Watson with one part of it, Sayers with another, and drew a veil over the whole by openly showing and avowing his love for Harriet Payne. He might have enemies in the town, but what power had they? Fear closed Judge Marriott's mouth; the fiddler, Martin Fairley, had vanished into some hole to hide himself; Crosby was waiting patiently for the fulfilment of his promise; and Sydney Fellowes, who, to his surprise, he learnt was also in Dorchester, could do little against him. Still, it is ever the little weaknesses which are the danger-points in great enterprises, and Rosmore realised that Fellowes' presence in Dorchester might bring all his plans to the ground. Great was his satisfaction, therefore, when Barbara entered the coach and the horses started on their journey.
At that moment Fellowes was listening to Martin Fairley's account of his visit to Aylingford. Martin had entered the town half an hour before, and had gone straight to Fellowes' lodging. During his absence the meeting-place at "The Anchor" in West Street might have been discovered, and Martin could not afford to run any risk to-night. To both men it seemed evident that Crosby's reliance in Rosmore's promise was futile. It was possible, even probable, that Sir John Lanison might not know all Rosmore's plans, or might not have told everything he knew, but all faith in Rosmore must fall like a building of cards.
"That road to the river must be watched, Fellowes," said Martin.
"I'll go at once."
"And I will get to 'The Anchor' and see Crosby."
They were leaving the house when a woman met them, inquiring for Mr.Gilbert Crosby.
"What do you want with him?" Martin asked.
"Ah, you are the fiddler, but you are a coward." And Harriet Payne's cloak fell apart as she turned to Fellowes. "Are you Mr. Crosby's friend?"
Martin gave him a quick sign.
"Yes. Is he in danger? Come in and tell me."
"Did you know that he was to have escaped from Dorchester with MistressLanison to-morrow night?" said Harriet as Fellowes closed the door.
"Yes."
"He's fooled—fooled from first to last. She has gone to-night. She left Dorchester, not an hour ago, with Lord Rosmore. He has lied to her and to me," and the girl's eyes blazed with fury as she spoke.
"Gone! Willingly, do you mean?"
"Willingly!" exclaimed the girl. "She hates him; she was wiser than I was. I loved him. She is in his power to-night."
"Which road did they take?" asked Fellowes.
"That which goes towards the river, afterwards I do not know. If you are men follow him. Avenge Mistress Lanison and me."
"You have lied before this," said Martin quietly. "With a lie you brought Mistress Lanison to the West. You played Lord Rosmore's game for him. How do we know that you are speaking the truth now?"
"I hate him! Love turned to hate—do you know what that means?" said the girl, turning upon him like some wild animal. "To-night I waited for him and he did not come. Servants saw me and laughed; then one man, jeering at me, told me the truth. He has gone with her, and every moment you waste he is speeding from you. More, to make himself doubly secure, men will come here at midnight asking for Mr. Crosby. They will pretend to come from Mistress Lanison, and then capture him. A hasty trial, and then the gibbet."
"We'll follow," said Martin.
"And kill him—kill him!" said the girl. "And if you have any thought for a deceived woman, let him know that I sent you."
A few moments later Martin and Fellowes were in the street, talking eagerly as they went. Martin's head was not barren of schemes to-night.
"You understand, Fellowes. To Crosby first. Tell him everything. Bid him not spare his horse, nor pass a coach without knowing who rides in it. Then let him hasten to 'The Jolly Farmers,' Tell him to wait there for me as he did once before. On no account must he leave it. Then start on your road, and leave Dorchester behind you as fast as horse can gallop. One of us shall find Rosmore before the dawn."
* * * * *
Heavy clouds sailed majestically across the face of the moon. Now the long road lay dimly discernible in the pale misty light, now for a time it was dark, so that a coach might have driven unawares on to the greensward, or a stranger stumbled into the ditch by the roadside. Lonely trees shivered at intervals with a sound like sudden rain, and from the depths of distant woods came notes of low wailing, as though sad ghosts mourned in a hushed chorus. Hamlets were asleep, and not a light shone from wayside dwellings. Yet into a tired man's dreams there came the rhythmic beat of a horse's hoofs, far distant, then nearer, nearer, and dying again into silence. A late rider, and with this half-conscious thought, and an uneasy turning on the pillow perhaps, sleep again. On another road, beating hoofs suddenly came to the ears of a wakeful woman; someone escaping in the night, perhaps, and she murmured a prayer; she had a son who had fought at Sedgemoor. The grinding of coach wheels on one road, followed by the barking of dogs; and a woodcutter asleep in his hut, which lay at the edge of a forest track, was startled by the thud of hoofs, and, springing quickly from his hard couch, peeped from the door. Nothing to be seen, but certainly the sound of a horse going quickly away. There was naught in his hut to bring him a visit from a highwayman.
A man, riding in haste towards Dorchester, with papers and money in his pocket which might save his son from Judge Jeffreys, halted suddenly. Meeting him came another galloping horseman, and suddenly the moonlight showed him.
"Have you passed a coach upon the road?"
The galloping horseman drew rein, and the anxious father trembled. Horse and rider might have been of one piece; every movement of man and animal was perfect, and the man wore the dreaded brown mask.
"No, I have not seen a coach." And the father, remembering vaguely that this notorious highwayman was said to have helped many to escape from the West, burst out in pleading. "Oh, sir, have mercy. My son lies a prisoner in Dorchester, and the money I have may be his salvation."
"Pass on, friend. Good luck go with you." And with a clatter of hoofs the brown mask rode on.
Galloping Hermit was on the road to-night, but a score of travellers, carrying all the wealth they possessed, might have passed him in safety. He was out to stop one coach wherein sat a villain, and a fair woman whom he loved. Surely she must be shrinking back in her corner, so that even the hem of her gown might not be soiled by the touch of the man beside her.
Lord Rosmore had not attempted to justify himself as the coach started upon its journey; he had only told her that escape was impossible, that the post-boy was in his pay and had his instructions. Barbara had called him a villain through her closed teeth, and then had shrunk into her corner, drawing the hood of the cloak closely over her head. She realised that for the moment she was helpless, that her captor was on his guard, but an opportunity might come presently. The more she appeared to accept the situation, the less watch was he likely to keep on her. It was a natural argument, perhaps, but far removed from fact. Never for an instant did Lord Rosmore cease to watch her. This time he meant to bend her to his will, if not one way, then another; fair means had failed, therefore he would use foul. For a long while he was silent, and then he began to explain why he had acted as he had done. Again he showed her how impossible a lover was Gilbert Crosby, and he painted the many crimes of a highwayman in lurid colours. He knew she must have thought of these things, and he declared that the day would come when she would thank him for what he had done to-night.
Barbara did not answer him, and there was a long silence as the coach rolled steadily on.
Then Lord Rosmore ventured to excuse himself. He spoke passionately of his love for her. His way with women was notorious; seldom had he loved in vain, and women whose ears had refused to listen to all other lovers had fallen before his temptations; yet never had woman heard such burning words as he spoke in the darkness of the coach to Barbara Lanison. He was commanding and humble by turns, his voice was tremulous with passion, yet not a word did Barbara speak in answer.
Rosmore lapsed into silence again, and he trembled a little with the passion that was in him. Love her he certainly did in his own way, and he bit his lip and clenched his hands, furious at his failure. It took him some time to control himself.
"There are many reasons why you should marry me," he said presently."Some of them I have given, but there are others why you must marry me."
He gave her time to answer, but she neither spoke nor moved. Her indifference maddened him.
"Your uncle is wholly in my power, you must have guessed that. A word from me, and this fellow Crosby hangs. Sir John is afraid, and you cannot suppose that I have left Crosby in Dorchester to go or come as he likes. He cannot move without my help. I wonder if you realise what your persistent refusal of me will mean. You may drive me to harsh measures, and make a devil of me. Thwart me, and I stand at nothing. I will bring your uncle to the hangman, and Crosby shall rot in chains at four cross-roads."
Barbara moved slightly, but she tightly shut her lips that she might not be tempted to speak. He thought her movement was one of contempt, and turned upon her savagely.
"And there is yet another way," he hissed, bending towards her. "I swear to God I will use it rather than let you go. A careless word or two shall easily suffice to smirch your fair fame. Ah! that has power to rouse you, has it? I will do it, and for very shame you shall have to listen to me."
Still she did not answer him. Silence had served her well. He had shown himself to her in all the blackness of his soul. He might kill her, but there were worse things than death. She would remain silent. And the coach rolled on, now in darkness, now in the misty light of the moon.
There was a dip in the road that every coach-driver knew, a sudden stiff descent into a thick wood, the trees arching and mingling their branches, almost like a lofty green tunnel, and then a sharp ascent. Drivers usually let their horses go, so that the impetus of the descent would help to carry them up the opposite incline, for the road was loose, and, with a full load of passengers, the climb tested the strength of the best teams. Lonely Bottom it was called, and well named, for there was no more deserted spot along the road.
The highwayman checked his horse to a walking pace when he came to this dip, and went slowly down, and slowly climbed the opposite ascent. He patted the mare's neck, and spoke to her in whispers.
"Well done, my beauty! Unless all the fates are against us we have got in front of the coach. The glory is yours. I know no other that could have carried me as you have done to-night. We shall win, lass, and then you shall take life easier."
The mare seemed to understand as she climbed out of the hollow and appeared ready to gallop on again; but her rider drew her on the greensward beside the road, just beyond the wood, and dismounted. He had no doubt that the coach was behind him. He had come by short cuts across country, along bridle-paths which shortened the journey. He had not struck the road long before he met the traveller going towards Dorchester who said that no coach had passed him. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, which years ago had been struck and killed by lightning, and his thoughts were busy as he looked to the priming of his pistols and made sure that certain papers he carried were secure in a leathern case, which he slipped back into the pocket of his ample, caped coat. His plans were mature. His presence there would be a complete surprise. He could not fail so long as the coach came, and it would come. Yet, in spite of this conviction, he began to grow anxious and restless as the time passed slowly and no sound broke the stillness of the night. It was not the first time he had waited by the roadside listening for his victim. Excitement he had experienced before to-night, but never such anxiety, nor such restlessness. To-night's adventure was a thing apart. A woman's happiness depended on his success, a woman with a crown of golden hair like an aureole about her, who must even now be shrinking from the villain in whose company she travelled.
Presently he started. Most men would have discovered no new sound upon the night air, but his ears were experienced and keen. For a moment he stood beside the mare, his hand upon her neck, then he sprang lightly to the saddle.
"The time has come, my hearty. Here is our place, in the shadow."
Out of the silence grew the sound of distant wheels grinding the road, and the beating of horses' hoofs. A coach travelling rapidly. Each moment the sounds became more distinct, and then loud as the horses plunged down the incline into Lonely Bottom. At a gallop they breasted the climb out, but the clatter of hoofs quickly grew uneven as the weight told. The post-boy was using the whip vigorously as they drew to the top, and then the coach suddenly came to a standstill. The window rattled down, and a head was thrust out.
"Move, and you're a dead man!"
The coach had drawn out of the shadows into the moonlight, and Lord Rosmore started back, so close was the pistol to his head. He looked along it, and along the man's extended arm, and into his face, and a half-smothered cry broke from his lips. He had been caught unawares. Physically he was no coward, but the sight of the brown mask seemed to paralyse him.
"You!"
"Open the door and get out. Quickly, or, by heaven, you shall fall out with a bullet through your brain."
From this man Lord Rosmore knew he could expect no mercy, knew that he was likely to be as good as his word, and he got out.
"Down with you," said the highwayman to the post-boy. "Take this rope, and see that you fasten this gentleman securely to that tree yonder. One loose knot that may give him a chance of escape, and I'll see to it that you never throw your leg across the back of a horse again."
Covering them with his pistol, he watched this operation performed.
"See that he has no firearms," and the lad hastened to do as he was told.
The highwayman carefully examined the cord, and made sure that the captive could not get free without help. Then he went to the door of the coach.
"You are safe, Mistress Lanison."
"Gilbert!" she whispered.
"Pitch anything that belongs to this fellow into the road."
A coat was thrown out.
"Curse you both!" said Rosmore. "By God! if I live you shall pay for your work to-night!"
"Is he to pay the price, mistress?" said the highwayman. "You know what you have suffered at his hands. What things have his vile lips threatened you with to-night? His life is in your hands. Speak, and the world shall be well rid of him."
"Oh, no, Gilbert, no!"
"I almost wish you had said 'Yes.' Mount!" he called to the post-boy.
A string of oaths came from Lord Rosmore.
"Silence!" the highwayman shouted, but the oaths did not cease. Then a sharp report rang out upon the night, and a cry came from the captive.
"Oh, Gilbert, you have killed him!"
"That was a cry of fear, mistress. The bullet is in the tree a good four feet above his head," said the highwayman as he closed the coach door.
"You must travel for the rest of the journey alone, but have no fear. I ride by the coach to see you into safety. Forward, post-boy! Good-night, Lord Rosmore. A woman betrayed you, even as you have betrayed many women. Thank fate that your life lay in the hands of Mistress Lanison, and not in hers. She would have bid me shoot straight. Good-night."
For a moment the highwayman let his horse paw the ground in front of the man bound helplessly to the tree. Then he laughed, as a man will who plays a winning game, and rode after the coach.
Her rescue had been so sudden, so unexpected, that it was difficult for Barbara to realise that she was alone in the coach, that she need no longer shrink away from a man she hated, that her ears were no more assailed by threats and vile insinuations. The relief was so intense that for a little while she revelled in her liberty, and cried a little for very joy. Why did not the man who had delivered her come to the door of the coach and talk to her? Not as he had done just now, calling her Mistress Lanison and seeming not to hear when she had called him Gilbert, but as he had spoken to her that other night in her prison in Dorchester. She leaned forward to listen. Yes, he was on the road behind her, she could hear the steady canter of his horse; why did he not ride where she could see him? He must know that she would want him close beside her. Did he know it? He wore the brown mask to-night, and, oh, the difference it made! With that silken disguise, and with his coat close fastened at the throat, she would never have recognised him in the moonlight had she not known who he was. Involuntarily she shuddered a little at the thought that he was indeed two men, so distinct that even she, had she not known, would have failed to see her lover in the wearer of the brown mask. Why did he not come to the window, come as himself, without that hideous disguise which distressed her and brought so many horrible fancies and fears into her mind? Should she call to him? She was much tempted to do so, but surely he knew what was best for her to-night. There might be other enemies upon the road, she was safer perhaps in the charge of the brown mask than she would have been had he ridden beside her as Gilbert Crosby.
The coach rolled steadily on through the night, now in the shadow of dark woods, now across a stretch of common land where the misty moonlight seemed to turn the landscape into a dream world, silent and empty save for the sound of the grinding wheels and the steady beating of the horses' hoofs. The long monotony of the sound became a lullaby to the girl, tired in body and mind. Last night, and the night before, she had slept little; now, with a sense of security, she closed her eyes, only that she might think the more clearly. There were many things she must think of. Gilbert Crosby would not easily let her go, this she knew, and to-morrow, perhaps, she would have to answer his question, would have to decide which way she would take. The lullaby of the grinding wheels became softer, more musical; the corner of the coach seemed to grow more comfortable; once she started slightly, for she seemed to have stepped suddenly back into her prison in Dorchester, then she smiled, knowing that she was free, that Lord Rosmore was bound and helpless, that Gilbert Crosby was near her. The smile remained upon her lips, but she did not move again. She was asleep. Even the jolting upon the rougher by-road along which the coach was driven presently did not rouse her. She did not see the dawn creeping out of the east, she was not conscious that the highwayman came to the window and looked at her, that he stopped the coach for a moment, nor did she feel the touch of gentle hands as he folded her cloak more closely about her lest the chill breath of the morning air should hurt her.
The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the tree by the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmore struggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well. Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice he shouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unless a chance traveller came along the road he could not get released until the day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all his strength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will was bent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him that to-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwitted him for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again, and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lost consciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit and fierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to grow stiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himself into a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes, but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall. The coach would certainly make for the coast presently. Some delay there must be before reaching it, and further delay before a vessel could be found to carry the fugitives into safety. Crosby could not possibly be prepared for what had happened, and time must be wasted in making up his mind how to use to the best advantage the trick in the game which had fallen to him. Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, must be cautious how he went, and caution meant delay at every turn. He would not easily escape.
So the dawn found Lord Rosmore with aching limbs but with a clear brain, and he looked about him, as far as he was able, wondering from which direction help would most likely come. On the ground, at a little distance from him, lay a heavy coat, just as Barbara had thrown it from the coach last night, and a growling oath came from Rosmore's dry lips. He wished with all his heart that he had delivered her into Judge Jeffreys' hands in Dorchester. She would have been just such a delicate morsel as the loathsome brute would have gloated over. How easily, too, he might have had Crosby hanged in chains. He had been a fool to let love influence him. Then his eyes turned slowly to the ground immediately in front of him. The turf was cut and trampled where the highwayman had been, by the impatient hoofs of his pawing horse, and there lay in the very centre of the trampled patch a leather case. It must have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwayman unwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin?
The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for coming succour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound, for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.
Chance came to his aid at last; a dog bounding from the woods not far distant saw him, and racing to the tree tore round and round it, barking furiously, bringing a man out into the open to see what so excited the animal. The woodman hastened forward.
"Eh, master, but what's been adoing?"
"Highwayman—last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.
The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.
"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket—a flask."
The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting posture.
"'Galloping Hermit'—the brown mask—last night," he said.
"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."
"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"
"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."
"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was breathless from long running.
"There's the village over yonder, two miles away."
"Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a guinea or two and help me to the village."
"Can you walk at all?" asked the man.
"The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"
"Who?"
"Both of them, the man and the woman."
"The woman!"
"Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't talk."
At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. There was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day, to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game he had lost, but the winning trick was his.
It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank of the stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went on foot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there he waited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lights shone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if it were full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercise caution. The balmy air of the night might tempt visitors on to the terrace if the play did not prove exciting, and if the talk became stale and wearisome. So Rosmore waited. He did not intend to enter the house, and a little delay was of no consequence. Only one man besides himself could know the secret which the leather case held, and that other man was far away from Aylingford.
Most of the windows in the Abbey were dark when Rosmore crossed the bridge to the terrace and walked lightly towards the ruins, careful to let the shadows hide him as much as possible. Entering the ruins, he drew the case from his pocket and took out the key. By Martin's tower he stood for a moment to listen, but no sound came to startle him, and he fitted the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and Rosmore entered, closing it again and locking it on the inside. Gently as he did it, the sound echoed weirdly up the winding stairs. The door at the top, and that of Martin's room, hung broken on their hinges. Nothing had been done to them since the night they were forced open in the attempt to capture Gilbert Crosby; nor did it appear that Martin had occupied his room since then. The piece of candle was still upon the shelf, fastened to it with its own grease, and Lord Rosmore lit it. Then he drew the papers from the case, and turned to one portion of the writing. He had already studied it carefully, but he read it once again, and, bending down to the hearth, felt eagerly along the coping which surrounded it. His fingers touched a slight projection, which he pressed inwards and downwards. It moved a little, but some few moments elapsed before he succeeded in making the exact motion necessary, when the front portion of the hearth was depressed and slid back silently.—Taking the piece of candle in his hand, Rosmore stepped into the opening and went cautiously down the narrow twisting stairs, without attempting to shut the secret entrance. The instructions contained in the leather case were exact, even to a rough calculation of the value of the treasure hidden below the Abbey ruins. Rosmore came at last to a wide chamber, bare wall on one side, but on the other three sides were a series of arches, some of them framing recesses merely which were not uniform in depth, some of them forming entrances into other rooms. The corner arch at the further end was the one mentioned in the papers, and Rosmore went slowly across the stone floor, the feeble light of the candle casting weird shadows about him. For the first time the eeriness of the place forced itself upon him. These stone walls must have sheltered many a secret besides the one he had come to solve. Unholy deeds might well have happened here, and into his memory came crowding many a legend he had heard of Aylingford Abbey. Phantoms of the past might yet haunt these dark places, and to the man breaking into this silence alone ghosts were easy to believe in. Phantoms of the present might be there, too, for to-day vice was the ruling spirit of the Abbey, and there were those who declared that evil might take shape and in an appointed hour deal out punishment to its votaries.