LITMIR.BIZ

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he held her fast. “My friends – your lover – await us at The Jolly Grig. I shall be with them before you arrive. You will face them and me in ten minutes or less. If you intend to keep faith with me as my wife, you will meet me as your betrothed. You will give no sign of this new knowledge of me.”

      “But – but – ” she stammered.

      “There are no buts, sweet cousin, sweetheart.” Already he was leading her back to the coach. “You may cry out, if you will, when you see us, that you were held up by the black highwayman. In truth, there will be no need for you to tell the tale. Your servants will save you the trouble. In proof of the story, the fellow has stolen your rose and your glove and your rings. In ransom of your life, you swore that he should not be followed. We’ll hurry you on to town. We’ll give the alarm, and the constables and their men will have a mad and a merry chase. But from now on, this is our secret. We are one in that already.”

      Courteously and slowly he drew her to the coach, pressing her forward as she held reluctantly back. Denying her all chance to answer, he handed her into the coach and disappeared.

      VI

      The Jolly Grig was empty. The guests, all in the courtyard, were mounting to meet the Lady Barbara. A shadowy figure clambered to Lord Farquhart’s window, a figure strangely like Lord Farquhart. A moment later, a shadowy figure, resembling, this time, the lad who had slept by the hearth, slipped down the stairs into the small room at the back of the inn. Here it stopped for an instant’s reverie.

      “’Tis curious how jests grow,” the red lips murmured. “At first I but thought of frightening that haughty cousin of mine, the Lady Barbara Gordon. And now – heigh-ho! I hope I’ve not stored up trouble for Lord Farquhart. ’Twould be a sad pity to vex so fine a gentleman!”

      Then the figure hurriedly caught up the bundle of woman’s toggery that had enswathed its entrance to the inn, and through the dancing motes, over the sun-flecked floor, the same slim shadow, the shadow that resembled the lad who had slept by the hearth, the shadow that had slipped down the curving stairs, crept through another window, was off and away, lost in the other shadows of the night.

      VII

      Into the torch-filled courtyard rolled the Lady Barbara’s coach. There was little need for the lady to tell her own story. Mistress Benton’s shrieks were filling the air. The maids were squealing and praying Heaven to save them. Drennins and the shamed coach boys were cursing roundly.

      “Thieves! Murder! Robbery!” screamed Mistress Benton. “We are killed!”

      Even the Lady Barbara’s white hand could not quell the tumult, and, all the time, her frightened eyes rested tremulously everywhere save on Lord Farquhart’s face.

      “Here, here, not a hundred paces from the inn,” screamed Mistress Benton. “He robbed us. He stole our all. Oh, just Heaven! We are all murdered.”

      Here the Lady Barbara’s hand did produce silence in one quarter by clasping Mistress Benton’s mouth with its long, slim fingers.

      But from one and another the story was soon out. They had, indeed, been stopped at the points of a dozen pistols! This version was told by one of the coach boys.

      “A dozen, man!” scoffed Barbara. Even her voice was slightly tremulous. “There was one lone highwayman, a single highwayman in black mask and coat and hat!”

      “’Twas the Black Devil himself!” cried the chorus of men, who had watched calmly at the inn while the outrage was occurring.

      “One man! And the horses’ legs knotted in a haze of ropes strung over the road!” cried Drennins, determined to maintain the number to which he had been willing to yield his own and his lady’s life. “One man! God’s truth! There must have been at least a dozen!”

      “Ay, but ’twas Barbara’s own fault!” Mistress Benton cried, but again Barbara’s hand silenced her in the same way, and now Barbara’s own voice rang out clear and decisive.

      “Why do we dally here?” she demanded. “The story’s all told, and I’ve given my word that the fellow should go free. There’s little loss – a few jewels and an old glove. Nay, nay, Lord Percy. My word is given. You shall neither go yourself nor send your servants after the fellow. He is absolutely safe from molestation from me and mine.” Her eyes now rested with curious insistence on Lord Farquhart’s face, but he could not read the riddle in them. “And now” – the lady leaned back wearily – “if this clamor might all cease! I am desperately weary. Get me to my aunt’s house with as much speed as possible.”

      There was a short conference among the men, and then the little group separated. But the lady had only closed her eyes. Her ears were eager. She sat suddenly erect.

      “No, Mr. Ashley,” she cried, summarily; “a woman’s word is as weighty as a man’s. Mine has been given. I desire that you should all of you – all, every one – ride with me to London.”

      In spite of her peremptory commands, there was still further parley before the coach was once more in progress, but the Lady Barbara, held in converse by Mr. Ashley, did not hear it, nor did she see that one of her escorting cavaliers remained behind when the coach moved on.

      “I’ve reasons of my own for knowing whether the fellow still lingers in this vicinity,” Cecil Lindley had declared. “I’ll promise not to harm him, not to hold him; but I’ll search the spot where Lady Barbara’s coach was stopped.”

      “But not single-handed!” Lord Farquhart had cried. “If you must stay, if you must go on your fool’s errand, at least take one or more of the men with you.”

      “Nay, I’ve no fear for myself, but – but – ” Lindley had hesitated. “Our gentleman highwayman knows the standing of his victims too well for me to have fear for my own safety. But I’ll go alone, for I’ll pass the night at my cousin Ogilvie’s. His place is near at hand, and I’d not care to quarter men on him at this unseemly hour. Good luck to you,” he had cried; “and good luck to me,” he had added, as he separated himself from them and rode away.

      VIII

      The night was so far advanced that the moon was now directly overhead, and it was not very long before Lindley saw, not a hundred yards ahead of him, a white horse, ridden negligently by a somewhat slovenly lad – hooded, cloaked and doubled up in the saddle, as though riding were a newly acquired accomplishment. The road was lonely enough to instill an eerie feeling in the stoutest heart, and yet the lad seemed quite unmoved when Lindley, after one or two vocal appeals, laid a heavy hand on his horse’s bridle.

      “Are ye stone deaf, my lad, or asleep, or merely mooning over some kitchen wench?” demanded Lindley, with asperity.

      “Neither, my master,” answered the lad, in the cracking voice that leaps unbidden from piping youth to manly depths. “I’m uncommonly good of hearing. I’d sure fall off my horse if I were asleep, and the wench who’s most in my mind would be sadly out of place in a kitchen.”

      “Didn’t you hear me calling, then?” Lindley was reining in his own steed to keep pace with the white horse.

      “Surely I heard your halloo” – the boy’s hand drew his hood closer about his face – “but I did not know that it was addressed to me.”

      “You’re servant to Master James Ogilvie, are you not?” Lindley’s tone implied a statement rather than a question, but the lad denied him.

      “No, you’re wrong. I’m no servant of Master James Ogilvie’s.”

      “But it’s Mistress Judith Ogilvie’s horse you ride!” Again Lindley made an assertion.

      “Ay, you’re right there,” answered the boy. “Once wrong, once right. Try again, my master.”

      “It’s you who’ll be tried, I’m thinking,” said Lindley, once again laying his hand on the scarlet bridle of the white horse. “What do you with Mistress Judith’s horse at this hour of the night, if you’re not Master Ogilvie’s servant?”

      “I

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