To give just a passing word to Sylvia; for it was to Sylvia that the main mischance was due. Sylvia saw that her reign was over, that she had lost all hold on Lord Farquhart, and, in her own way, which, after all, was a very definite and distinct way, poor Sylvia loved Lord Farquhart.

For six days these conditions had been changing, with all their attendant incidents and chances, and the time was ripe for a mischance. Lord Farquhart, lounging in the park, hoping to meet the Lady Barbara, even if it was only to be snubbed by the Lady Barbara, saw that young lady at the end of a long line of trees with Mr. Ashley. For Barbara had consented to walk with Mr. Ashley, partly so that she might have the freedom of open air and sunshine in which to express a belated opinion to Mr. Ashley concerning his new manner and tone, and partly in hopes that she would encounter Lord Farquhart and pique his jealousy by appearing with his rival.

"I tell you I'll not stand it, not for an instant," she was saying, the roses in her cheeks a deep, deep damask and the stars in her eyes beaming with unwonted radiance. "To hear you speak the world would think that we had been married a twelvemonth! That you demanded your rights like a commonplace husband, rather than that you sought my favor. I'll warn you to change your manner, Mr. Harry Ashley, or you'll find that you have neither rights nor favors."

It was at this instant that the Lady Barbara caught sight of Lord Farquhart at his own end of the lime-shaded walk. Instantly her manner changed, though the damask roses still glowed and the stars still shone.

"Nay, nay, Hal"—she laid a caressing hand on his arm—"forgive my lack of manners. I'm—I'm—perchance I'm over weary. We country maids are not used to so much pleasure as you've given me in London." She leaned languorously toward Ashley and he, made presumptuous by her change of tone, slipped his arm about her slender waist.

The Lady Barbara slid from his grasp with a pretty scream of amazement and shocked propriety. Then there might have followed a bit of swordplay; indeed, the Lady Barbara hoped there would—the affianced lover should have fought to defend his rights, the other should have fought for the privileges bestowed by the lady, and all the time the lady would have stood wringing her hands, moaning perchance, and praying for the discomfiture of the one or the other. But, unfortunately, none of this came to pass because, just at the critical moment, just when Lord Farquhart, watched slyly by Lady Barbara's starry eyes, was starting forward to defend his rights, Sylvia slipped from behind a tree and flung herself with utter abandon upon Lord Farquhart.

Now, in reality, Lord Farquhart tried to force the woman away from him, but the Lady Barbara saw only that his hands were on her arms, that, in very truth, he spoke to the girl! Turning on her heel, she sped from the lime walk, followed by Mr. Ashley.

What ensued between Lord Farquhart and his Sylvia concerns the story little, for he had already told her that her reign was over, that a new queen had been enthroned in his heart. What ensued between the Lady Barbara and her escort cannot be written, for it was but a series of gasps and sharp cries on the lady's part, interspersed with imploring commands on the lover's part to tell him what ailed her. The interview was brought to a summary conclusion when the Lady Barbara reached her aunt's house, for she flung the door to in his face and left him standing disconsolate on the outside.

XIV.

It was on that night that the Lady Barbara received an ovation at Lord Grimsby's rout as the belle of London town. Most beautiful she was, in reality, for the damask roses in her cheeks were dyed with the hot blood of her heart; her eyes, that were wont to be blue as the noonday sky, were black as night, and the pomegranates of her lips had been ripened by passion. Surrounded by courtiers, she flung her favors right and left with impartial prodigality. All the time her heart was crying out that she would be avenged for the insult that had been offered her that afternoon. Harry Ashley, approaching her with hesitating deference, was joyously received, although to herself she declared that she loathed him, abhorred him and detested him.

Jack Grimsby, toasting the Lady Barbara for the dozenth time, exclaimed to his crony:

"'Pon my honor, though, I know not if I envy Lord Farquhart or not. His future lady seems somewhat unstinting in her favors."

"To me it seems that Lord Farquhart asks but little from his future lady," laughed the crony.

"Is not that Lord Farquhart now?" asked young Grimsby. "Let us watch him approach the lady. Let us see if she has aught left for him."

A narrow opening in the court that surrounded Lady Barbara permitted Lord Farquhart to draw near her. There was a sudden lull in the chatter that encompassed her, for others beside Jack Grimsby were questioning what the Lady Barbara had reserved for her future lord. Possibly the Lady Barbara had drawn a little aloof from her attendant swains, for she seemed to stand quite alone as she measured her fiance with her eyes from his head to his feet and back again to his eyes. And all the while her heart was beating tempestuously and her brain was crying passionately: "If only he had loved me! If only he had loved me the least little bit!"

On Lord Farquhart's lips was an appeal to his lady's forbearance, in his eyes lay a message to her heart, but she saw them not. His face flushed slightly, for he knew that all eyes were bent upon him. Then it paled under Barbara's cold glance. For a full moment she looked at him before she turned from him with a shiver that was visible to all, with a shrug that was seen by all. And yet, when she spoke, it was after a vehement movement of her hand as though she had silenced a warning voice.

"My lords and ladies," she cried, her voice ringing even to the corners of the hushed room, "I—I feel that I must tell you all that this man, this Lord Farquhart, who was to have been my husband in less than a week, is—is your gentleman highwayman, your Black Devil who has made your London roads a terror to all honest men."

For an instant there was absolute silence. Then surprise, amazement and consternation rose in a babel of sound, but over all Lady Barbara's voice rang once more.

"I am positive that I speak only the truth," she cried. "No, Lord Farquhart, I'll not hear you, now or ever again. I've seen him in his black disguise. He told me himself that he was this Black Devil of the roads. He confessed it all to me."

The lady still stood alone, and the crowd had edged away from Lord Farquhart, leaving him, also, alone. On every face surprise was written, but in no eyes, on no lips, was this so clearly marked as on Lord Farquhart's own face.

And yet he spoke calmly.

"Is this the sequel to your jest, my lady, or has it deeper meaning than a jest?"

"Ah, jest you chose to call it once before, and jest you may still call it," she answered, fiercely, but now her hand was pressed close against her heart.

"For a full week I have known this fact," exclaimed Ashley, stepping to the Lady Barbara's side. "Unfortunately, I have seen with my own eyes proofs convincing even me that my Lord Farquhart is this highway robber. I cannot doubt it, but I have refrained from speaking before because Lady Barbara asked me to be silent, asked me to protect her cousin, hoping, I suppose, that she could save him from his fate, that she could induce him to forego this perilous pursuit; but——"

Lord Farquhart's hand was closing on his sword, but he did not fail even then to note the disdain with which Lady Barbara turned from her champion. She hurriedly approached Lord Grimsby, who was looking curiously at this highwayman who he himself had had reason to think was the devil incarnate.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Grimsby"—Lady Barbara was still impetuous—"for this interruption of your fete, but, to me, it seemed unwarranted that this man should longer masquerade among you as a gentleman."

She swept away from Lord Grimsby. She passed close to Lord Farquhart, lingering long enough to whisper for his ear alone: "You see I can forgive a crime, but not an insult." Then, sending a hurried message to her aunt, she paced on down the room, her head held high, the damask roses still blooming brilliantly, the stars still shining brightly.

A score of officious hands held her cloak, a dozen officious voices called her chair. And my Lady Barbara thanked her helpers with smiling lips that were still pomegranate red, and yet the curtains of her chair caught her first sob as they descended about her, and it seemed but a disheveled mass of draperies that the footmen discovered when they set the lady down at her own door, so prone she was with grief and despair.

XV.

Lord Farquhart seemed to recover himself but slowly from the shock of Lady Barbara's denunciation, from the surprise of her whispered words. At last he raised his eyes to Lord Grimsby, who was still looking at him curiously.

"I fear that I should also ask your pardon, my Lord Grimsby, for this confusion." Lord Farquhart's words came slowly. "My cousin, the Lady Barbara, must be strangely overwrought. With your permission, I will follow her and attend to her needs."

He turned and for the first time looked definitely at the little knot of men that surrounded him. The women, young and old, had been withdrawn from his environment by their escorts. His eyes traveled slowly from one to another of the familiar faces.

"Surely, my Lord Grimsby," clamored Ashley, "you will not let the fellow escape!"

"Surely my Lord Grimsby is going to place no reliance on a tale like this told by a whimsical girl!" retorted Lord Farquhart before Lord Grimsby's slow words had fallen on his ears.

"We will most assuredly take all measures for safeholding my Lord Farquhart."

"But, Lord Grimsby," cried Farquhart, realizing for the first time that the situation might have a serious side, "you surely do not believe this tale!"

"I would like to see some reason for doubting the lady's word," answered the older man. "And you forget that her story is corroborated by Mr. Ashley. Neither must you overlook the fact that for some time the authorities have been convinced that this highwayman was no common rogue, that he is undoubtedly some one closely connected with our London life, if—if indeed——" But this was no place for Lord Grimsby to assert his own opinion that the highwayman was indeed the devil incarnate.

"Why, the whole thing is the merest fabrication," cried Lord Farquhart, impatiently. "It is all without reason, without sense, without possible excuse. The Lady Barbara's imagination has been played upon in some way, for some reason that I cannot understand. You heard her declare that she'd seen me in the fellow's disguise. That is an absolute impossibility. I've never seen the rogue, much less impersonated him."

"You shall, of course, have the benefit of any doubt, Lord Farquhart." Lord Grimsby's voice had assumed its judicial tones and fell with sinister coldness on every ear. "But, innocent or guilty, you must admit that the safety of his majesty's realm demands that the truth be proved."

"Ay, it shall be proved, too," cried Jack Grimsby, who had been so warmly befriended in time of direct need by the Black Highwayman. "And you shall have the benefit of every doubt there may be, Percy. Rest assured of that. And in the event that there is no doubt, if it is proved that you are our Black Devil, you'll still go free. Your case will be in my father's hands, and I here repeat my oath that if the Black Devil goes to the gallows, I go on the road, following as close as may be in his footsteps."

Farquhart shuddered out from under the protecting hand young Grimsby had laid on his shoulder.

"You speak as though you half believed the tale," he cried. His eyes traveled once again around the little circle. Then his face grew stern. "Let Mr. Ashley repeat his tale," he said, slowly. "Let him tell the Lady Barbara's story and his own corroboration as circumstantially as may be."

"Yes, let Harry Ashley tell his story," echoed Jack Grimsby, "and when he has finished let him say where and when he will measure swords with me, for if he lies he lies like a blackguard, and if he spoke the truth he speaks it like a liar."

Ashley's sword was half out of its sheath, but it was arrested by Lord Grimsby's voice.

"I will consent that Mr. Ashley should tell his story here and now," he said. "It's unusual and irregular, but the circumstances are unusual and irregular. I request your appreciation of this courtesy, my Lord Farquhart, and as for you, my son, a gentleman's house may serve strange purposes, but it's no place for a tavern brawler. So take heed of your words and manners."

Lord Farquhart had merely bowed his head in answer to Lord Grimsby's words; Jack still stood near him, his hand on his shoulder, but Ashley looked in vain for a pair of friendly eyes to which he might direct his tale. And yet he knew that everyone was waiting avidly for his words.

"The story is short and proves itself," he began. "A week ago the Lady Barbara Gordon was traveling toward London attended only by her father's servants. My Lord Farquhart, with a party of his friends, among whom I was included at that time, awaited her at Marmaduke Bass' tavern, The Jolly Grig. A short time before the Lady Barbara was to arrive, Lord Farquhart withdrew to his room, presumably to sleep, until——"

"Ay, and sleep he did," interrupted young Treadway, who spoke for the first time. "We both slept in my room on the ground floor of the tavern."

"You slept, no doubt, Mr. Treadway," answered Lord Grimsby. "But, if so, how can you vouch for the fact that Lord Farquhart slept?"

"I can vouch for it—I can vouch for it because I know he slept," spluttered Treadway.

"I fear me much that your reasoning will not help to save your friend," answered the councillor, a little scornfully. "Let me beg that Mr. Ashley be not again interrupted to so little purpose."

"While, according to his own account, Mr. Treadway slept," continued Ashley, "while he supposed Lord Farquhart was also sleeping, I heard Lord Farquhart singing in his room overhead. At the time I paid little heed to it. In fact, I did not think of it again that night, although, if I remember rightly, I commented on Lord Farquhart's voice to Mr. Cecil Lindley, who sat with me in the tavern. It was full fifteen minutes after that when the Lady Barbara drove into the inn, crying that she had been waylaid by the Black Highwayman. Her rings had been stolen, her rings and a jeweled gauntlet and a rose. She was strangely confused and would not permit us to ride in pursuit of the villain, averring that she had promised him immunity in exchange for her own life."

"A pretty tale," Jack Grimsby again interrupted, in spite of his father's commands. "It's a lie on its own face. 'Tis well known that the Black Devil has never taken a life, has never even threatened bodily injury."

"Be that as it may"—Ashley's level voice ignored the tone of the interruption, although his nervous fingers were on his sword—"when the Lady Barbara's companion, Mistress Benton, tried to say that the Lady Barbara had recognized her assailant, that the Lady Barbara had willingly descended from the coach with the highwayman, the Lady Barbara silenced her peremptorily and ordered that we hurry with all speed to London. 'Twas the following morning, my Lord Grimsby, that the truth was revealed to me, for Lord Farquhart's own servant returned to the Lady Barbara, in my presence, the jewels that had been stolen the night before, the jewels and the rose the highwayman had taken from her."

"You forget the jeweled gauntlet, Mr. Ashley." Again it was Jack Grimsby's sneering voice that interrupted Ashley's tale. "Did my Lord Farquhart keep his lady's glove when he returned the other baubles?"

Ashley's face flushed, but he looked steadily at Lord Grimsby; he directed the conclusion of his story to Lord Grimsby's ears.

"It was then that the Lady Barbara confessed, much against her will, I will admit, that it was indeed her cousin and her fiance who had waylaid her, merely to confess to her his identity with this bandit whose life is, assuredly, forfeit to the crown."

Lord Farquhart had listened in tense silence. Now he started forward, his hand on his sword, but his arms were caught by two of Lord Grimsby's men. "You will admit, my Lord Farquhart, that the matter demands explanation," said the councillor, dryly. "How came you by the jewels and rose? Can you tell us? And what of the missing gauntlet?"

"The rings and the rose my servant found in my coat," answered Farquhart, his eyes so intent on his questioner's face that he failed to see the smile that curved the lips of those who heard him. "The gauntlet I never saw, I never had it in my possession for a moment."

"How did you account for the jewels in your coat if you did not put them there yourself?" demanded Lord Grimsby.

"At first I was at a loss to account for them at all." Lord Farquhart's voice showed plainly that he resented the change in his questioner's manner. "I recalled my cousin's confusion when she had told her tale of highway robbery, and all at once it seemed to me that the whole affair was an invention of her own, some madcap jest that she was playing on me, perchance to test my bravery, to see if I would ride forthwith after the villain. If so, I had failed her signally, for I had accepted her commands and gone with her straight to London. I supposed, in furtherance of this idea, that she had hired her own servant, or bribed mine, to hide the jewels in my coat. I never thought once of the gauntlet she had claimed to lose, never remembered it from that night until now. I sent the jewels to her, and later in the day I taxed her with the jest, and she agreed, it seemed to me, that it had been a jest and asked that the return of the rings might close the incident. I have not spoken of it since, nor has she, until to-night."

There was a long silence, and then Lord Grimsby spoke.

"Your manner carries conviction, Lord Farquhart, but Mr. Ashley's tale sounds true. Perchance some prank is at the bottom of all this, but you will pardon me if I but fulfill my duty to the crown. The case shall be conducted with all speed, but until your name is cleared, or until we find the perpetrator of the joke, if joke it be, I must hold you prisoner."

There was a short scuffle, a sharp clash of arms. But these came from Lord Farquhart's friends. Lord Farquhart himself stood as though stunned. He walked away as though he were in a dream, and not until he was safely housed under bolt and bar in the sheriff's lodge could he even try to sift the matter to a logical conclusion.

For an instant only did he wonder if Barbara and Ashley had chosen this way to rid themselves of him. He remembered with a gleam of triumph Barbara's disdainful manner toward Ashley when he had stepped to her side, vouching for the truth of her statement. He remembered, too, that Barbara had had short moments of kindness toward him in the last few days, that there had been moments when she had been exceeding sweet to him; when he had even hoped that he was, indeed, winning her love.

Then, like a flash, he remembered Sylvia's presence under the trees that afternoon. Undoubtedly Barbara had seen her, and if Barbara had grown to care for him ever so little, she would have resented bitterly a thing like that. That might have been the insult to which she referred. But the crime! Of what crime had he been guilty? Assuredly she did not believe, herself, the tale she had told. She did not believe that he was this highwayman.

Here Lord Farquhart caught a gleam of light. Ashley might have convinced her that such a tale was true. Ashley might have arranged the highway robbery and might have placed the jewels in his coat to throw the guilt on him. Ashley was undoubtedly at the bottom of the whole thing. Then he remembered Ashley's flush when the gauntlet had been referred to. Had Ashley kept the gauntlet, then?

Following fast upon this question was another flash of light even brighter than the first. To Farquhart the truth seemed to stand out clear and transparent. Ashley was the gentleman of the highways! Ashley was the Black Devil. Farquhart threw back his head and laughed long and loud. If only he had used his wits, he would have denounced the fellow where he stood.

And in this realization of Ashley's guilt, and in the consciousness that Barbara must love him at least a little if she had been jealous of Sylvia, Lord Farquhart slept profoundly.

XVI.

All this merely brings the narrative back to the announcement made by Marmaduke to Lindley and Johan when they entered the courtyard of The Jolly Grig after the fight with the highwaymen.

As may be supposed, it was several nights before Lindley was sufficiently recovered from his wound to again keep tryst with Johan, the player's boy. When at last he could ride out to the edge of the Ogilvie woods, he found the lad sitting on the ground under an oak, apparently waiting for whatever might happen. He did not speak at all until he was accosted by Lindley, and then he merely recited in a listless manner that Mistress Judith was gone to London with her father.

The boy's manner was so changed, his tone was so forlorn, that Lindley's sympathy was awakened. He wondered if the lad really loved Judith so devotedly.

"And that has left you so disconsolate?" he asked.

"Ay, my master!" Indeed the youth's tone was disconsolate, even as a true lover's might have been.

"And when went Mistress Judith to London?" asked Lindley. "This afternoon? This morning?"

"But no. She went some four days ago, all in a hurry, as it seemed," Johan answered.

"Four days ago!" echoed Lindley. "But why did you not send me word?" He was thinking of the days that had been wasted with his lady near him, all unknown to him, in London.

"She—I mean—I thought you would be here each night," stammered the boy, contritely, and yet his tone was listless. "I've but kept the tryst with you."

Lindley looked at the boy curiously. Preoccupied as he was with his own thoughts, he still recognized the change in his companion.

"What's the matter, Johan?" he asked. "You were not hurt the other night, were you? Are you still brooding on the fact that you killed your man? Are you ill? Or do you fear that I've forgot my debt? What ails you? Can't you tell me?" The questions hurried on, one after another. "Or is it Mistress Judith's absence, alone, that hurts you thus? Is she to be long in London?"

"N—no. That is, I do not know," the boy made answer to the last question. "We, my master and I and all his company, go ourselves early to-morrow to London. Doubtless I shall see Mistress Judith there."

"Why, then, 'tis only that the scene will shift to London," cried Lindley. "Cheer up, my lad, we'll name a tryst in London. Besides, there's news waiting you in London; news for you and your master concerning your bond to him. You hardly look the part of a lad who's won to freedom by a pretty bit of swordplay. You should have learned ere now to fit your countenance to the parts you perform."

"But I've performed so few parts, Master Lindley. I am only Johan, the player's boy, and, by your leave, I'll go now, and for a tryst—she—for our tryst, say at ten o'clock, in front of Master Timothy Ogilvie's mansion, where Mistress Judith and her father lodge. I'll have surely seen Mistress Judith then, and can report to you any change, if change there be."

The slender lad slipped back into the shadows of the Ogilvie woods, but for full ten minutes he held Lindley's thoughts away from the lady of his heart's desire. What could ail the lad to be so changed, so spiritless? Was his love so deep that to be weaned from Judith for even a few short hours could break his spirit thus? Or was it possible that the duel and the fatigues of that midnight encounter had been too much for his strength? Lindley could answer none of these questions, so the lover's thoughts soon strayed back to Mistress Judith, and the player's lad was forgot.

But even Mistress Judith held not all of Lindley's thoughts that night, for Lord Farquhart's fate was resting heavily on his mind. That Farquhart was, indeed, the gentleman of the highways Lindley knew to be impossible, and yet all the facts seemed to be against the imprisoned lord. Even Lindley's word had gone against him, for Lindley had been questioned, and had been obliged to admit that he had heard Lord Farquhart singing in his room above the stairs at the very time when Clarence Treadway, when Farquhart himself, swore that he was asleep belowstairs in Treadway's room. There was no evidence, whatsoever, for Lord Farquhart save his own words. All the evidence was against him.

And the affair that had savored more of a jest than of reality seemed gradually to be settling down to a dull, unpleasant truth. Farquhart could and would tell but the one tale. Ashley would tell but one tale, and he, in truth, had convinced himself of Farquhart's guilt, absurd as it seemed. The Lady Barbara could only lie on her bed and moan and sob, and cry that she loved Lord Farquhart; that she wished she could unsay her words. She could not deny the truth of what she had told, though nothing could induce her to tell the story over. But all of her stuttering, stammering evasions of the truth seemed only to fix the guilt more clearly upon Lord Farquhart. Even to Lindley, who had been with him on the night in question, it did not seem altogether impossible that Lord Farquhart had had time to ride forth, waylay his cousin and rejoin his friends at the inn ere the lady drove into the courtyard.

Another point that stood out strongly against Lord Farquhart—a point that was weighing heavily in public opinion—was that since the night of Lady Barbara's arrival in London, since which time Lord Farquhart had been obliged to be in close attendance upon his cousin, there had been no hold ups by this redoubtable highwayman. The men who had attacked Lindley and the player's lad had been but bungling robbers of the road. That they could have had any connection with the robbery of the Lady Barbara, or with the other dashing plays of the Black Devil, had been definitely disproved.

So all of Farquhart's friends were weighed down with apprehension of the fate in store for him, whether he was guilty or not. The only hope lay in Lord Grimsby, the old man who had been convinced that the highwayman was in league with the devil, if he was not the devil himself; the old man whose only son had vowed to take to the road if the Black Highwayman met his fate at his father's hands. But the hopes that were based on the demon-inspired terror, and the paternal love of Lord Grimsby, seemed faint, indeed, to Lindley as he rode toward London that night.

XVII.

Lindley was first at the tryst in London, but Johan soon slipped from the shadow of Master Timothy Ogilvie's gateway.

"I can stop but a moment," he whispered, nervously. "I must not be seen here. My—my master must not know that I—I am abroad in London."

"And Mistress Judith?" questioned Lindley. "Have you seen her? Is she still here? Is she well?"

"I have seen Mistress Judith for a moment only," answered the lad. "She is well enough, but she is worn out with the care of her cousin, Lady Barbara, and she is sadly dispirited, too."

"'Tis a pity Lady Barbara cannot die," muttered Lindley, "after the confusion she's gotten Lord Farquhart into. A sorry mess she's made of things."

"The poor girl——" Johan shuddered. "Mistress Judith says the poor girl is in desperate straits, does naught but cry and sob, and vows she loves Lord Farquhart better than her life."

"Ay, she may well be in desperate straits," shrugged Lindley. "And she'll be in worse ones when she finds she's played a goodly part in hanging an innocent man!"

"Hanging!" Johan's exclamation was little more than a shrill, sharp cry.

"Ay, hanging, I said," answered Lindley. "What other fate does she think is in store for Lord Farquhart?"

"But—but this Lord Farquhart is a friend of yours, too, is he not, Master Lindley?" The boy's question was slow and came after a long silence.

"Yes, a good friend and an honest man, if ever there was one," answered Lindley.

"An—an honest man!" Johan shuddered again. "That's it, an honest man he is, isn't he?"

"As honest as you or I!" Lindley's thoughts were so preoccupied that he hardly noticed his companion's agitation.

"But there must be some way of escape," Johan whispered, after another silence. "Some way to save him! If nothing else, some way to effect his escape!"

"Nay, I see no way," gloomed Lindley.

In the darkness Johan crept closer to Lindley.

"Is it only grief for Lord Farquhart that fills your heart," he asked, "or is it your wound that still hurts? Or—or has Mistress Judith some place in your thoughts? You seem so somber, so depressed, my master!"

"Ah, lad!" Lindley's sigh was deep and long. "Even Mistress Judith herself might fail to comprehend. She still fills all of me that a woman can fill, but a man's friend has a firm grip on his life. If harm comes to Lord Farquhart, the world will never again be so bright a place as it has been!"

"But harm cannot come to Lord Farquhart!" Johan's voice was suddenly soft and full. "He must be helped. There are a hundred ways that have not been tried. There is one way—oh, there is one way, in all those hundred ways—I mean, that must succeed. Think, Master Lindley. Cannot I help? Cannot I help in some way—to—to save your friend?"

Lindley was touched by the earnestness of the boy's tone, and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"I'll think, my lad, but to what purpose I cannot promise you. This is no place for swordplay, however brilliant it may be."

Johan had drawn roughly away from Lindley's side. Now he leaned against the gate, dejection in every line of his drooping figure.

"There is one way," he muttered, slowly. "There is always one way, but——"

"You need not take it so to heart, boy," Lindley urged. "You're sadly worn and tired now. I saw last night that you were quite spiritless and lacking in heart! To-night, I see it even plainer."

"Oh, 'tis naught but the work I have to do," Johan answered, wearily.

"The work?" questioned Lindley. "Is it a new part you have to play?"

"Ay, that's it," sighed Johan; "a new part, a man's part and a woman's part all in one! It's a most difficult part, indeed." He was muttering the words to himself, and, under his cloak, Lindley could see his hands twisting nervously.

"Forgive me, lad!" Lindley's tone was conscience-stricken. "I'd not forgotten the debt I owed you, though I seem to have forgot the promised payment. There's been over much on my mind these last few days. But I'll buy your freedom now, to-night, from this master player of yours. Where lies he? Let us go to him at once. Then you can give up this part and take the rest you need."

"Oh, no, no, I must play this part," answered the player's boy, hurriedly. "I—I——Let me win to success before I speak to him of leaving him. I must, must succeed now. Then, perhaps, we can talk of freedom, not before."

"Well, as you like!" Lindley's voice had grown careless once again. He was again absorbed in his own affairs. "Think you I might see Mistress Judith to-morrow, if I had a message from Lord Farquhart for the Lady Barbara?"

"But have you access to Lord Farquhart?" The boy spoke quickly, so quickly that Lindley failed to notice the change in voice and manner.

"Why, I suppose I can gain access to him," answered Lindley.

"But then surely I—surely we can rescue him," cried Johan. "I'd not supposed that we could see Lord Farquhart, that we could gain speech with him. Now I know that I can help you free him. Think, think from now until to-morrow night at this time of some feasible plan, some way of taking Johan, the player's boy, into Lord Farquhart's presence. But wait! Why could you not take me to him disguised as the Lady Barbara? Mistress Judith would provide me with Lady Barbara's cloak and veil and petticoats. She could coach me in her looks and manners. Have you forgotten how well I can impersonate a woman? And then, if I could pass the jailer as the Lady Barbara, what would hinder Farquhart from passing out as the Lady Barbara? I—I could personate Lord Farquhart, at a pinch, until rescue came to me. Or if it came to a last extremity, why I could still go to the gallows as Lord Farquhart! But that extremity would not come. There would be no difficulty in saving a worthless player's lad, and they say that 'tis only Mr. Ashley's work that is telling against the prisoner; that he is using this public means to wreak a private vengeance. Oh, if I can but see Lord Farquhart! If I can but speak to him! Much might be done, even if he refused the disguise of hood and cloak. Be here to-morrow night, with permits for yourself and Lady Barbara to see Lord Farquhart. Leave all the rest to me!" Johan's impetuous voice had grown stronger, more positive, as his thoughts had formed themselves. His last words savored of a command. They were uttered in the tone that expects obedience, but Lindley ignored this.

"'Twould be but a waste of time," he answered, gloomily.

"Well, what of that?" demanded Johan. "Perhaps it would be but a waste of one night. But of what value is your time or my time when there is even a chance of safety for Lord Farquhart?"

"I suppose you're right in that," agreed Lindley. "I'll be here with the permits, as you say, to-morrow night. But what think you of my ruse to speak to Mistress Judith in the morning? If I were to present myself here at the house with a message from Lord Farquhart to the Lady Barbara, would not Judith speak with me? Remember, boy, that twenty-five crowns are yours the day I speak with Mistress Judith!"

"Oh, Mistress Judith, Mistress Judith!" cried the lad, impatiently. "Your thoughts are all for Mistress Judith. She will see no one, she will speak to no one, so she said to-day, until the Lady Barbara is recovered, until Lord Farquhart is free. It will be all that I can do to gain access to her to make my demand for the Lady Barbara's clothes. And she is—she says that she is sick of the whole world. Her cousin's plight, Lord Farquhart's danger, have sickened her of the whole world. It's for her sake that I would free Lord Farquhart. Until Lord Farquhart is released, Judith Ogilvie's mind cannot rest for a single second. So for her sake you must work to free him, for Judith's sake, for the sake of the woman you love!"

Without further word Lindley was left standing alone in the empty street, and his entire mind was absorbed in amazement at the impetuosity of the lad's voice and manner.

XVIII.

The following night it was again Lindley who was first at the tryst under Master Timothy Ogilvie's gateway. A gusty wind blew down the street, and there was little comfort to be found in any shelter that was near at hand. Just as Lindley's patience was about exhausted, though, he saw a slender shadow move with hesitating steps out from the gate, then scurry back to its protection. A voice, muffled in the folds of a cloak that covered the figure, a voice sweet as a silver bell, called softly:

"Master Lindley, Master Lindley, are you not here? Are you not waiting?"

Lindley advanced somewhat slowly until he saw that a woman stood half in, half out, of the shadow.

"But is it not you, Johan?" he asked, with some hesitation.

"Nay, 'tis I, Lady Barbara Gordon," a girl's voice answered. "Judith—Johan, the lad that came to Judith, told me that you were to take him to-night in my guise to Lord Farquhart. But I would speak to Lord Farquhart myself. I must see Lord Farquhart myself. I may not have another chance. You have the permits of which the boy spoke? You will take me in his place?"

She advanced slowly, still hesitating, her manner pleading as her words had pleaded; her trembling voice seeming but an echo of the tremors that shook her frame.

Lindley hurriedly tried to reassure her. Yes, he said, he had the permits. Assuredly he would take her. And yet, even as he spoke, he chafed at the woman's interference with Johan's plan of rescue. Why could she not have let the boy offer Lord Farquhart a chance to escape? But nothing of this was in his manner. Instead he soothed her fears, assuring her that 'twas but a short distance to the place where Farquhart was lodged, and, undoubtedly, the stormy night would aid their purpose, for few inquisitive stragglers would be abroad.

With faltering steps the lady moved by his side. Once he thought he heard a sob, and he laid a hand on her arm to comfort her.

"You must have courage, my lady," he muttered. "You must take courage to Lord Farquhart."

Once in the flare of a passing torch he saw the girl quite distinctly. She was draped all in scarlet, a scarlet velvet coat and hood, and, underneath, a scarlet petticoat. One hand held a corner of the cloak about her chin and lips, and, under the drooping hood, he saw a black silk mask. She shrank toward him as the light fell on her and caught his arm with her free hand. He laid his hand protectingly on hers, and after that, until they reached the sheriff's lodge, she held fast to him.

Even when Lindley showed his permits to the guard on duty, she still held him fast, and it was well that she did, for she seemed almost to swoon when their entry was denied.

All permits to see the prisoner had been revoked at sundown, the fellow said. The prisoner's case had come before the court that afternoon. He was to be sentenced in the morning at ten o'clock. No, Lord Grimsby had not been present. Lord Grimsby had been summoned from Padusey, however, to pronounce the highwayman's doom.

For an instant the Lady Barbara seemed about to fall forward. Her entire weight hung on Lindley's arm. He supported her as best he could, but his own voice shook as he whispered once more:

"Courage, courage, my lady!"

Then his anger vented itself upon the guard.

"Have you no sense, blockhead?" he cried. "How dare you blurt out your tidings in such a careless fashion? Do you not see the lady? Did I not tell you that it was the Lady Barbara Gordon's name in that permit? You've likely killed her with your words."

For, indeed, it seemed a dead weight that he held in his arms. The guard thrust forward a bench, and Lindley tried to place the lady down upon it, but she clung to him almost convulsively. When he attempted to take the cloak from over her mouth, he heard her whispered words.

"Ah, get me away from here, away from here—anywhere. I can walk, I——Indeed I can walk!"

Then she stood erect and turned away from the guarded door, but Lindley still hesitated there.

"At ten o'clock you said the prisoner would be sentenced?" he asked.

"Ay, at ten o'clock, they said."

Then Lindley heard the Lady Barbara's voice.

"You said Lord Grimsby would come to-night from Padusey?" she asked, faintly.

"Yes, from Padusey, to-night," the guard answered once again.

Why did she care from where Lord Grimsby would come, Lindley demanded, savagely, of himself. Was this a time to think of trivial things like that? And although he supported her as tenderly, as courteously, as he could, he felt in every fiber of him that it was this woman alone who was responsible for Lord Farquhart's fate, and he longed to be free from her. Monotonously he was counting the distance that must be traversed with her clinging to his arm, when suddenly she drew away from him and stopped short.

"Enough of this, Master Lindley!" It was Johan's voice that came from the hidden hooded face.

"Johan!" cried Lindley, now in a frenzy of indignation. "What do you mean by bringing your cursed play acting into a tragedy like this? Have you no heart whatsoever?"

"Nay, I've heart enough and to spare," the boy returned. "And 'tis not all play acting, by any means. Did I not tell you that I would personate the Lady Barbara? Did I not have to practice my part before I passed the guards? Did you not serve me as well for that as anyone? But there's no time for more of it. And I've no time for foolish words and explanations, either." He had thrown aside the mask, the scarlet coat and hood, and at last he stepped from the scarlet petticoat, standing slim and long in black silk hose and short black tunic, his black curls that fringed his small black cap alone shading his eyes. "Listen to me, Master Lindley, and save your reproaches until I've time for them. There are still more chances to save Lord Farquhart, and not one must be lost. Not one second can be wasted. Take these woman's togs and throw them inside Master Timothy Ogilvie's gate, where they'll be found in the morning. I—I leave you here."

"But where are you going?" demanded Lindley. "You cannot cross London at night in that guise, with no coat or cloak about you. You've woman's shoes on your feet. You're mad, boy, and you'll be held by the first sentry you pass."

Johan, who had turned away, stopped and came back to Lindley's side.

"Ay, perhaps you're right," he said. "Give me your coat and lend me your sword. I may have need of it, and you've but to pass Master Ogilvie's, and then to reach your own lodging, a safer transit than mine by many odds. And—and, Master Lindley, wait in your lodgings until you hear from me. Wait there unless it nears ten o'clock. If you've not heard from me by then, you'll find me there, where Lord Farquhart is to be sentenced, and—and be on the alert for any signal that may be made to you by anyone, and—and——" He had buckled Lindley's sword about his waist, he had wrapped himself in Lindley's coat, and still he hesitated. Suddenly he dashed his hand across his eyes. "Ah, I've no time for more," he cried, "save only—only good-by."

He was gone into the darkness, and Lindley was left alone—coatless and swordless—with a bundle of scarlet garments under his arm, and, in his heart, an inexplicable longing to follow the boy, Johan, into the night.

XIX.

It seemed as though fate had decreed that there should be but two more acts in the career of Lord Farquhart. All London knew that he was to be condemned to death for highway robbery at ten o'clock on the Friday morning. All London knew that his hanging would quickly follow its decree, and all London, apparently, was determined to see, at least, the first act in the melodrama. The court was crowded with society's wits and beaux, with society's belles, many of the latter hooded and masked, but many revealing to all the world their ardent sympathy for the prisoner at the bar.

Lord Farquhart's habitual pose of indifference, of insolent indifference to the world and its opinions, stood him in good stead on that October morning. He had passed through moments of blackest agony, of wild rebellion against the doom in store for him. He had gibed and mocked and railed at fate, at the laws of his country that could condemn an absolutely innocent man to so grewsome a death. He had struggled and fought with his jailers; he had appealed in vain to man and God, but now he sat quite calm and still, determined only that the world that had so incomprehensibly turned from him should not gloat over his despair. Only once had his lips twitched and his eyelids contracted, and that was when he recognized in a figure hooded, cloaked and masked in black, the Lady Barbara Gordon. He had turned his eyes from her instantly, but not quickly enough to miss, the sight of the pathetic white hands she'd stretched toward him. Was she asking for pardon, he wondered. No word from Barbara had reached him in his confinement.

A moment later a faint smile flickered across Lord Farquhart's face. He had caught sight of Harry Ashley occupying a prominent place near the judge's stand, and his conviction that Ashley was responsible for his imprisonment and for the sentence that was so soon to be pronounced strengthened his determination to hide his anguish from the world. For the rest, his eyes traveled impersonally over the crowded room. He would greet no one of the intimate friends who crowded as close as they dared to the place where he sat.

Lord Grimsby had not yet entered the room, but from behind the curtains that covered the door of Lord Grimsby's private apartment rolled Lord Grimsby's sonorous voice. It reached the first circle of inquisitive ears, and the meaning of his words slipped through the courtroom.

"Ay, but I tell you it was the same. I've had dealings with the fellow before. I've seen him at close quarters before. I know his voice and his touch and his manner. He's like enough to Lord Farquhart in size and build, but he's not like him altogether."

"And you say he stopped you, my lord?"

"Stopped me not two hours' ride from Padusey!" roared Lord Grimsby. "On the darkest bit of the road, the fellow sprang from nowhere and brandished his sword in front of my horse. And then he took my purse and my seal and my rings. You've questioned all the guards most carefully? They're sure that the prisoner did not leave his quarters last night? That no one entered his room or left it?"

"Why, yes." The answer was low and deferential. "He had visitors asking for him in plenty, some with permits and some without, but no one saw him save the guard."

"And the guard is sure he did not leave his room?" Lord Grimsby's roar was heard again.

"They're sure, my lord. And, in very truth, would the prisoner have returned had he once escaped? Lord Farquhart's presence here argues Lord Farquhart's innocence of this latest outrage."

"One can argue little of the devil's doings," raged Lord Grimsby.

"But will this not free Lord Farquhart?" asked the deferential voice.

"How can it free him, fool?" demanded the roaring voice. "How could I prove that the fellow I met was not the devil trying to save one of his own brood? And would there not be fools a-plenty to say that I'd met no one, that I'd invented the tale to save myself from the devil's clutches, if I freed Lord Farquhart on such evidence? The whole affair from the beginning has savored of the devil's mixing. Who else would have driven his majesty on to demand such hot haste against the fellow? 'Tis all most uncanny and most unwholesome. I'll be thankful, for one, when my part in it's over."

"I wonder on what we wait. 'Tis surely long after ten o'clock!"

It was Ashley's voice that made this statement loud enough for all the room to hear, loud enough to penetrate even to Lord Grimsby's ears; loud enough to force that timorous jurist back into a judicial calm.

It was then that Lord Farquhart's lips parted in a second smile. It was then that some fifty hands sprang to their swords, for there were fifty gentlemen there who resented Ashley's unseemly eagerness to hurry on Lord Farquhart's fate.

"And 'tis like the devil, too, to make me finish his black work," commented Lord Grimsby's natural voice, ere his judicial voice took up the opening formalities of the sentence he was to pronounce.

'Twas well known that the crown left naught to the court save the announcement of the crown's decree. Thus was Lord Grimsby hiding himself behind his majesty, the king, in order to protect himself from his majesty, the devil, when he was interrupted by a commotion that would not be downed, by the cries of silence from the court's servants.

"I tell you I must speak! I will be heard! I will speak! Will you all stand by and hear an innocent man sentenced to be hanged merely for the sake of custom, of courtesy to the court; merely on a question of privilege to speak? I should have been here before. I was detained. Now I will speak. I will be heard, I say. Will be, will be, will be!"

It was a girl's voice that rang out sharp and clear. To Lindley it seemed faintly familiar, and yet the girl who spoke was a stranger to him; a stranger, apparently, to everyone in the room. She stood in front of Jack Grimsby. It was Jack Grimsby she was haranguing. She was, evidently, a woman of rank and quality, for she carried herself as one accustomed to command and to be obeyed. She was gowned in blue velvet, and her russet hair, drawn high in a net—a fashion in favor in France—was shaded by a blue velvet hat, over which drooped heavy white plumes. A thin lace mask veiled her eyes. Only her small, red mouth and delicate chin were visible.

"Is an oath nothing to you, then?" she cried, impetuously, still addressing Jack Grimsby. "You've sworn to do all in your power to save this highwayman. Now is your chance! Gain me but five minutes and I'll have Lord Farquhart freed from, this absurd charge against him."

And then it was Lord Grimsby's voice that answered her.

"Ay, madam, the court will willingly grant you five minutes. Nay, I will grant you ten, in the cause of justice, for I like not the way this matter has been handled." And even Lord Grimsby himself could not have told whether it was the devil who had prompted him to so interfere with the decorum of the law.

The girl bowed her thanks with informal gratitude, then hurried from the room. She passed so close to Lindley that he seemed enveloped in a strange perfume that floated from her, and after she had passed he, and he alone, saw a tiny scrap of paper lying at his feet. As carelessly as possible he picked it up, and saw that it was written on. He read as follows:

Mistress Judith's Star is at Cavanaugh's inn, three squares away. Fetch him to the end of the lane with what speed you may.

JOHAN.

In the tumult that followed the curious interruption of the morning's work, Lindley's exit was unnoticed. It was less than five minutes before he returned, and in that time he had delivered the white horse, with its starred forehead, to Johan, who was waiting, apparently at ease, at the end of the lane. Lindley stopped not to question the boy, so anxious was he to see what was happening in the court.

There were a clamor of voices, a rustle of silks, a clanking of spurs and swords. Many averred that the lady was some well-known beauty infatuated by Lord Farquhart, playing merely for time. Others thought she might be lady to the real highwayman, whoever he was, and that she was about to force him to reveal himself. Some suggested that she might even be the highwayman himself. Lord Grimsby was trying to recall if ever he had heard of the devil guising himself as a young red-headed girl, covering himself, from horned head to cloven hoof, in azure velvet. Lord Farquhart still sat quite unmoved, seemingly as indifferent as ever to the world, apparently unmindful of his champion. Ashley's face was black with rage, and he stood all alone in the midst of the crowd. Lady Barbara had flung aside her mask; her loosened cloak and its hood had fallen from her, but her white face was hidden behind her white hands. Jack Grimsby, Treadway, all of Farquhart's friends, were watching eagerly, intently, the door through which the woman had disappeared, through which she or the real highwayman must reappear. There had been a movement to follow her, but this had been checked by Lord Grimsby's voice. The word of the court had been given. Its word was not to be violated. The stranger should not be followed or spied upon. Lord Grimsby's lips were working feverishly, and those nearest to him heard muttered imprecations and prayers, but prayers and imprecations were alike addressed to the ruler of the nether world.

Through the window that faced Lord Farquhart fluttered a faint breeze, and, suddenly, on its wings, floated a song caroled gayly by careless lips.

Lips that vie with the poppy's hue, Eyes that shame the violet's blue, Hearts that beat with love so true, Barb'ra, sweet, I come to you!

As the last line was reached, the window framed a figure; a figure that seemed as familiar to all as the voice that crossed the figure's lips. And yet the figure was cloaked and hatted and masked in black.

"Lord Farquhart!" shouted a hundred voices, looking from the motionless prisoner to the picture in the window.

"Percy, Percy!" screamed the Lady Barbara, and it was to the window that her arms were stretched.

"The devil!" shouted Lord Grimsby, wavering back from the thrice encountered fiend.

"Yes, the devil, the Black Devil," laughed the voice in the window. "But not Lord Farquhart, not your Percy, Lady Barbara. For he sits there as innocent as all the rest of you. But there's your purse, Lord Grimsby; your purse and your seal and your rings that I took last night!" He flung the articles toward Lord Grimsby. "And there's your broidered gauntlet, that you gave somewhat easily, my Lady Barbara." The glove fell at Lady Barbara's feet. "And here's one of my lord bishop's rings that I sent not back with the rest. I have five minutes more by your own word, Lord Grimsby. After that I'm yours—if you can take me!"

XX.

The king's guards, and the motley crowd that followed them, found no one on any road round about the court save Johan, the player's boy, riding in most ungainly fashion on Mistress Judith's nag in the direction of the Ogilvie woods. He had seen naught, he had heard naught, of any fugitive highwayman. He shivered and crossed himself when the Black Devil's name was mentioned. He even begged one of the guards to mount and ride behind him until they should be beyond the danger zone, assuring the fellow that Mistress Judith would reward him well if he saved her favorite horse from the highwayman's clutches.

At practically the same moment, Master Lindley came upon Johan, the player's boy, stupidly asleep at the end of the lane, quite unmindful of the commotion that surged about him.

When Lindley had shaken him into some semblance of wakefulness, he only stammered:

"Ay, ay, Master Lindley, I know you. But I know naught of last night save that I sat late over my supper. I've not seen Mistress Judith to-day, at all. Yes, she's spoken much of Lord Farquhart, but I know naught of him. Now I——" And he had already drowsed off into sleep.

It was the first time that Lindley had ever seen the player's boy by the light of day, and he was shocked by the sickly pallor of the lad's face. The thin lips were feverishly bright and his black curls straggled across his brow. It was a stupid face, too, but Lindley could not stop then to marvel at the discrepancy between the clever brain and its covering. Instead he hurried eagerly after the throng that was in vain pursuing the gentleman highwayman, who seemed to possess the devil's luck, if he were not, in reality, the devil himself.

XXI.

Lord Farquhart's imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who commented and those who answered might and might not have had double meanings in their words.

As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon's Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one knew or cared whither.

Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin, Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread. In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared no better. Judith's father shook his head over Judith's obstinacy, but declared he could not shake her will.

There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie's woods and London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his lady's feet or something that would open his lady's heart to him. And then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o'clock of the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.

As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith's own will, the lady was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small patches of November sunshine lay on the floor, while merry November motes danced in the yellow beams.

Johan, the player's boy, had said that Mistress Judith was no beauty; but no one in all England would have agreed with that verdict had they seen her lightly poised on the threshold of the old inn, the gray plumes of her high crowned riding hat nodding somewhat familiarly to the motes in the sunshine. Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted high enough to reveal her dainty riding boots; her hair, bright and burnished as a fox's coat, fell in curls about her shoulders, and mischief gleamed from her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted her red lips over teeth as white as pearl. It almost seemed as though she were about to cross the room on tiptoe, and yet she stopped full in the doorway, sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before she turned back to meet her father, who followed close on her footsteps.

"Faugh!" she cried, shrugging her shoulders, holding a kerchief to her nose. "Why, the place reeks of wine and musty ale. A pretty place, I must say, for a lover's tryst."

"But, Judith, my love," remonstrated her father, "the place is of your own choosing. You stated that 'twas here you'd meet your cousin Lindley, and nowhere else. Surely you're not going to blame him if a tavern reeks of a tavern's holdings."

"In truth, I fancy I'll blame my cousin Lindley for whatsoever I choose to blame him," answered the girl, her small mouth seeming but a scarlet line over her dainty chin, under her tilting nose. She was still standing in the black frame of the doorway, her merry eyes noting each detail of the room within, still excluding her father from the place.

"I hope, Judith, my dear, as I've said a hundred times, that you've not induced your cousin to meet you here merely that you may flout him." The words evidently cost Master Ogilvie great effort. "For my sake——"

"Flout him!" laughed the girl. "Flout my cousin Lindley!" Then her voice grew suddenly serious. Turning, she put both hands caressingly on her father's shoulders. "Let us pray Heaven, rather, that there be no flouting on either side!" She bent her head slightly and kissed him on either cheek. Then her serious mood fled as quickly as it had come. "Though I'm in no way bound to give my reason for choosing a wayside inn for this meeting with my cousin—you'll admit, sir, that I'm not bound so to do? Well, I've no objection to telling you that I meet him here so that, if I like him not, I can leave him on the instant. If I had him come to my own house, if I met him anywhere save on the common ground of a public place, and liked him not, or saw that he liked me not at all—why, there would be certain courtesies due from a lady to a gentleman, and I choose not to be held by those. And—and I may have had another reason for choosing The Jolly Grig, and then—I may not. But I think, sir, that the innkeeper solicits your attention."

Marmaduke Bass had, for several moments, been hovering officiously in the wake of Master James Ogilvie.

"It's many a day since I've seen your honor at The Jolly Grig," murmured Marmaduke, with a certain obsequious familiarity that he reserved for old and well-known patrons.

"Ay, I've had little time for jollity this many a year," agreed Master Ogilvie, with a ponderous wink behind his daughter's back. "My hands and my head have been full."

Judith's small nose was still sniffing the air while she moved lightly about the long, dark room.

"I—I like not the smell of your place, Master—Master——"

"'Tis Marmaduke Bass, my love," interrupted her father.

"Ah, yes," she assented. "I'd forgotten for the moment. This hearth has an air of comfort, though, and as for this chair——" She had seated herself in the chair that fronted Marmaduke's settle. "Ah, Master Bass, I should say that your chair would induce sleep." She yawned luxuriously, and her feet, in their dainty riding boots, were stretched over far in front of her for a well-brought-up damsel. But it must not be forgotten that Mistress Judith Ogilvie had been brought up quite apart from other girls, quite without a woman's care. "If I were only a man, now," she continued, "I'd call for a glass of—what would I ask for, Master Bass? Would it be Geldino's sherris or Canary Malmsey, or would I have to content myself with a royal port lately brought from France?" She sprang to her feet, laughing gayly, while old Marmaduke scratched his head, wondering of what her words reminded him. She touched his shoulder lightly and added: "If my father calls for wine, later—later, mind you, we'll have the sherris, Geldino's own."

Her words and Marmaduke's efforts to collect his thoughts were interrupted here by the clatter of horse's hoofs in the court. The next instant Lindley was entering the room.

"I'm not late?" he cried. "Surely, I'm not late?"

"No, my boy, 'tis not yet two," Master Ogilvie answered, hurriedly, but Judith answered nothing. She still stood in front of the deep hearth. "Come, come, Judith, girl," cried her father, "surely you need no introduction to Cecil Lindley?"

"No, surely I know my cousin well." The girl's voice fell soft and full of singing notes as a meadow lark's. "But I think he questions if he knows me."

Her brown eyes were on a level with his, and he was remembering at that instant that Johan had said Mistress Judith's lips would be level with his. Ay, they were level with his, and they were near his, too, for she had come straight to him and given him both her hands.

"Judith!"

That was all he said, and it seemed to the girl that he drew back, away from her. And possibly he did, for he knew that he must not draw her close, not yet, oh, not yet, anyway.

And after he had spoken that one word, after he had said her name, he seemed to find no words to offer her, and she looked for none. He still held her hands, however, and she still looked straight and deep into his eyes.

Once the red line of her mouth widened into a smile, once it twisted into a mutinous knot. But she would not speak, nor would she help him to find words.

Master Ogilvie and Marmaduke Bass had passed into the room behind the hearth. The girl and the man were alone.

"You are as familiar to me as my own self, Judith," he said at last. "It seems to me that I have known you always, that we have never been apart."

"And even to me, we seem not quite strangers," answered the soft, singing voice that held the meadow lark's notes.

"You wrote me that love lay all in the chance of meeting, Judith!" The man's voice was tremulous with desire.

"Ay, so I believe it does," she answered, her eyes falling for an instant before his.

"You said that you might meet me and find me the man of your heart's desire, Judith."

"Well, if love lies in chance, why might I not chance to love you?" Her words were brave, her eyes were again steady, were again deep in his, but the red line of her mouth was tremulous.

"When will you know, when will you tell me that I am the man of your heart's desire, Judith? I—I love you, Judith."

"Must I tell you unasked? Might you not ask me now and see?"

Her white lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and just for an instant the red lips that were level with his met his.

But suddenly the girl drew back, withdrew her hands from his. She had not meant to yield so easily. She had not meant to give so much. She had not meant to yield at all until Cecil knew—until he knew—why, certain things that he must know before he could take what she so longed to give.

"I—I must speak, my cousin, there is something I must tell you," she faltered, and no one would have known the trembling voice for that of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.

"Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you will," cried Lindley. "Your voice is music in my ears. Say that you love me, say it over and over, for whatever else you say, whatever else you tell me, that is all I'll hear."

"Nay, but, Master Lindley——"

Cecil's brain sprang to the sound, and all at once he seemed to recognize a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.

But then there fell upon their ears a clash of swords in the court. Lindley and the girl, standing near the window, were thrust aside by Master Ogilvie and the innkeeper.

"Mr. Ashley and his servant are quartered here," sputtered the latter, "and like as not 'tis one of them. The man's as quarrelsome as his master."

"Aie!" cried Judith, suddenly, "'tis Johan, the player's boy, and Johan cannot fight. He will be killed! Stop it, good Marmaduke. Have a care, boy! Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay, now, to the left! 'Fend yourself, Johan!"

"But if 'tis Johan, the player's boy," cried Lindley, "he needs no instructions. He's master of the art of fighting."

But Judith was heedless of the meaning in his words.

"He knows not one end of the sword from t'other," she cried, impetuously, the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning far from the window, it seemed almost as though she fought with Johan's sword, so fast her instructions followed one the other, so exactly her motions portrayed what he should do.

The fight in the yard was summarily stopped by the intervention of Marmaduke and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith, drawing back into the room, met Lindley's eyes for just a second.

"Ah, what have I done?" she cried.

"Oh, Judith, Judith!" he exclaimed. "Johan, Johan, and I never for an instant knew it!"

"Ay, Johan, the player's boy," she answered. The words were almost a sob, and yet Lindley heard the same tremulous laugh that had rung through the woods the night when Johan had killed the highwayman. "Johan, the player's boy, and Judith, the play actor!"

"But——"

"No, there is no but," she answered, quickly. "'Twas that, too, that I was trying to tell you. But I've been Johan to you for all this time, though I've had to play so many parts. And love did lie in the chance of meeting, too. I loved you when first I laid eyes on you, when I lay feigning sleep in that chair by the hearth, when Lord Farquhart entertained his guests, when you took my part and begged that I might be let to sleep, when you vouched for my conscience. And I think my conscience should have wakened then, but it did not. And I loved you even more that same night when we rode through the moonlit roads together, when you vowed to win Judith's love in spite of Judith's hate. See, I've the golden crown you threw to Johan to bind your bargain with him." She drew from her bosom the golden piece of money strung on a slender chain.

Her words had poured forth so tumultuously that Lindley had found no chance to interrupt. Now he said, almost mechanically, the first words that had occurred to him.

"You were the lad asleep in the chair that night?" He was holding her close, as though she might escape him.

"Ye-es," she answered, faintly, "and—and, oh, Cecil, shall I tell you all? I was Johan all the time, you know. You only saw the real Johan twice; once that night at the edge of our woods, when he told you that I had gone to London, and—and once on the day of the trial, when you saw him asleep at the end of the lane. And—and—of course you know that I disguised myself as the Lady Barbara that night in hopes of gaining a word with Lord Farquhart. I did that well, did I not, Cecil?" There was a touch of bravado in the voice for a second, but it quickly grew tremulous once more. "'Tis harder to be a woman than a man, I think, harder to play a woman's part than a man's. And—well, I was the woman in the court who stopped Lord Grimsby's sentence. 'Twas Lady Barbara's gown that she had ready for her wedding journey with Lord Farquhart. It was a beautiful gown, did you not think so?" Again the bravado quivered in and out of her voice. "I ruined it outright, for Johan and I shoved it, gown and hat and all, under Star's saddle cloth, and I rode on it all the way from London to Ogilvie's woods, with a king's guard mounted behind for part of the way. I've played all those parts, Cecil, and it's been a wearying, worrisome thing, part of the time, with quick work and rapid changes, but it's all over now. I've learned my lesson and I've done with mumming forever."

"And those are all the parts you've played?" Lindley's question was almost careless, for he was tasting again the girl's sweet lips.

"No," she answered, slowly, with long hesitations between the words. "There was one other. But—but must you know all, every one?" For an instant the eyes and lips were mutinous.

"All, every one, sweetheart," he answered.

"Well," she said, slowly again and with still longer hesitations, "there was one other, but—but 'twas—well, the blackest kind of a black devil that tempted me, that led me on, that showed me the excitement of it all, that taught me the ease of escape and flight!"

"A—a—black devil!" Cecil was echoing her words, and yet Judith was well aware that not yet did he know the truth.

"Ay, a black devil," she answered. "The Black Devil himself. I was the Black Devil. I was that black highwayman. But 'twas only a joke of a highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when I held up all those stupid, cowardly lords. Only a joke when I frightened the poor old bishop. Only a joke when I made Grimsby come to poor Jack's rescue. Only a joke to frighten Barbara. It was all a joke, until I knew what a scrape I'd got Lord Farquhart into. And then I knew I had to rescue Farquhart. And rescue him I did. So I've never hurt anyone. I've never injured anyone. I robbed no one really, you know, and, oh, Cecil, Cecil, can't you see that 'twas only done for fun, all of it? And it's all gone from me now, gone from me forever, every bit of it. And, Cecil, it's love, love for you, that's exorcised it. Even the devil himself can be exorcised by love. Even the Black Devil himself can be exorcised by the kind of love I have for you."

It was not only her words that pleaded. Love itself pleaded in the tawny eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging hands, and in very truth it is doubtful if the devil himself could have found place between her lips that clung to his, within his arms that clasped her close.

And in Geldino's sherris, opened by Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only repeated a former toast, offered in the same place; for, with laughing eyes on Judith's, he said:

"Shall we drink once more, and for the last time, to the Gentleman of the Highways?"



FROM GARDENS OVER SEAS

(A Rondel After Catulle Mendes)

I am the merle for whistling known, And you, the sweet branch small and light; I, gold and black; you, green and white; I, full of songs; you, flower full-blown.

Take if you will my merry tone And with your rose-blooms me requite; I am the merle for whistling known, And you the sweet branch small and light.

But should your blossoms—overthrown By storm's or wind's or water's might— Be swept to earth in sudden plight, Count not on me for grief or groan; I am the merle for whistling known.

THOMAS WALSH.



AN EDITORIAL

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS I-XV OF "THE DELUGE," BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

Matthew Blacklock, the central figure of the story, is essentially a self-made man, who has made himself a power to be reckoned with. He is a man of great natural force, immense egotism, insatiable greed for notoriety and unswerving adherence to his own standards of morality. He has two devouring ambitions: First to become one of the inner circle that controls high finance and second to become one of the elect in society.

The opening chapters explain these ambitions. The magnate of the financial world is Roebuck, who has from time to time made use of Blacklock's peculiar abilities and following. The latter has become dissatisfied with his role as a mere instrument and demands of Roebuck that he shall be given a place among the "seats of the mighty." Roebuck makes a pretense of yielding to the demand.

Blacklock's social ambition is awakened and stimulated by his meeting with Anita Ellersly, a young society girl whose family have been the recipients of many financial favors from him.

Using these obligations as a lever, he secures the entree to the Ellersly home, though it is soon made plain to him that his intentions with respect to Anita are extremely distasteful to her.

His first impulse is to regard his plans as hopeless, but his vanity comes to his rescue and strengthens his resolution to succeed. For assistance he turns to Monson, the trainer of his racing stable, an Englishman of good birth and breeding. Under Monson's tuition he makes rapid progress in adapting himself to the requirements imposed upon aspirants for social distinction.

Blacklock persists in his attention to Anita and finally becomes engaged to her, though it is perfectly understood by both that she does not love him and accepts him only because he is rich and her family is poor.

Meantime, he has to some extent lost his hold upon his affairs in Wall Street and suddenly awakens to the fact that he has been betrayed by Mowbray Langdon, one of Roebuck's trusted lieutenants, who, knowing that Blacklock is deeply involved in a short interest in Textile Trust stock, has taken advantage of the latter's preoccupation with Miss Ellersly to boom the price of the stock. With ruin staring him in the face, Blacklock takes energetic measures to save himself.

He sees Anita, tells her the situation and frees her, but she refuses to accept her release when she hears of Langdon's duplicity.

With the aid of money loaned to him by a gambler friend, he succeeds the next day, by means of large purchases of Textile Trust, in postponing the catastrophe.

Calling at the house of the Ellerslys, he has a violent scene with Mrs. Ellersly, who attempts to break the engagement between him and Anita, but it ends in his taking her with him from the house.

They go to the house of Blacklock's partner, Joseph Ball, where they are married, after which Blacklock takes his wife to his own apartments, despite her protest that she wishes to go to her uncle's.

Anita plainly shows her aversion to her husband, though he treats her with the greatest delicacy and consideration.

After some days the young wife receives a call from her parents, who seek to persuade her to leave Blacklock, telling her that they have private information that he will soon be a bankrupt. Anita refuses to go unless they will return to her husband all the money they have obtained from him.

All this she frankly tells Blacklock, who scoffs at the idea that he is in sore straits financially, though in his secret heart he knows that his position is indeed precarious.

In his extremity he goes to Roebuck, to ascertain, if he can, if he too is in the plot to ruin him.



THE DELUGE

By DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

[FOR SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS SEE PRECEDING PAGE]

XV—(Continued).

When Roebuck lived near Chicago, he had a huge house, a sort of crude palace such as so many of our millionaires built for themselves in the first excitement of their new wealth—a house with porches and balconies and towers and minarets and all sorts of gingerbread effects to compel the eye of the passer-by. But when he became enormously rich, so rich that his name was one of the synonyms for wealth, so rich that people said "rich as Roebuck" where they used to say "rich as Croesus," he cut away every kind of ostentation, and avoided attention more eagerly than he had once sought it. He took advantage of his having to remove to New York, where his vast interests centered; he bought a small and commonplace and, for a rich man, even mean house in East Fifty-second Street—one of a row and an almost dingy looking row at that. There he had an establishment a man with one-fiftieth of his fortune would have felt like apologizing for. The dishes on his table, for example, were cheap and almost coarse, and the pictures on his walls were photographs or atrocious bargain-counter paintings. To his few intimates who were intimate enough to question him about his come-down from his Chicago splendors, he explained that with advancing years he was seeing with clearer eyes his responsibilities as a steward of the Lord, that luxury was sinful, and no man had the right to waste the Lord's gifts that way. The general theory about him was that advancing years had developed his natural closeness into the stingiest avariciousness. But my notion is he was impelled by the fear of exciting envy, by the fear of assassination—the fear that made his eyes roam restlessly whenever strangers were near him, and so dried up the inside of his body that his dry tongue was constantly sliding along his dry lips. I have seen a convict stand in the door of his cell and, though it was impossible that anyone could be behind him, look nervously over his shoulder every moment or so. Roebuck had the same trick—only his dread, I suspect, was not the officers of the law, even of the divine law, but the many, many victims of his merciless execution of "the Lord's will." This state of mind is more common than is generally supposed, among the very rich men, especially those who have come up from poverty. Those who have inherited great wealth, and have always been used to it, get into the habit of looking upon the mass of mankind as inferiors, and move about with no greater sense of peril than a man has in venturing among a lot of dogs with tails wagging. But those who were born poor and have risen under the stimulus of a furious envy of the comfortable and the rich, fancy that everybody who isn't rich has the same savage hunger which they themselves had, and is ready to use the same desperate methods in gratifying it. Thus, where the rich of the Langdon sort are supercilious, the rich of the Roebuck sort are nervous and often become morbid on the subject of assassination as they grow richer and richer.

The door of Roebuck's house was opened for me by a maid—a manservant would have been a "sinful" luxury, a manservant might be an assassin or might be hired by plotters against his life. I may add that she looked the cheap maid-of-all-work, and her manners were of the free and fresh sort which indicates that a servant feels he or she should get as high, or higher, wages, and less to do, elsewhere. "I don't think you can see Mr. Roebuck," she said.

"Take my card to him," I ordered, "and I'll wait in the parlor."

"Parlor's in use," she retorted, with a sarcastic grin, which I was soon to understand.

So I stood by the old-fashioned coat and hat rack while she went in at the hall door of the back parlor. Soon Roebuck himself came out, his glasses on his nose, a family Bible under his arm. "Glad to see you, Matthew," said he, with saintly kindliness, giving me a friendly hand. "We are just about to offer up our evening prayer. Come right in."

I followed him into the back parlor. Both it and the front parlor were lighted; in a sort of circle extending into both rooms were all the Roebucks and the four servants. "This is my friend, Matthew Blacklock," said he, and the Roebucks in the circle gravely bowed. He drew up a chair for me, and we seated ourselves. Amid a solemn hush, he read a chapter from the big Bible spread out upon his lean lap. My glance wandered from face to face of the Roebucks, as plainly dressed as were their servants. I was able to look freely, mine being the only eyes not bent upon the floor. It was the first time in my life that I had witnessed family prayers. When I was a boy at home, my mother had taken literally a Scriptural injunction to pray in secret—in a closet, I think the passage of the Bible said. Many times each day she used to retire to a closet under the stairway and spend from one to twenty minutes shut in there. But we had no family prayers. I was therefore deeply interested in what was going on in those countrified parlors of one of the richest and most powerful men in the world—and this right in the heart of that district of New York where palaces stand in rows and in blocks, and where such few churches as there are resemble social clubs for snubbing climbers and patronizing the poor.

It was astonishing how much every Roebuck in that circle, even the old lady, looked like old Roebuck himself—the same smug piety, the same underfed appearance that, by the way, more often indicates a starved soul than a starved body. One difference—where his face had the look of power that compels respect and, to the shrewd, reveals relentless strength relentlessly used, the expressions of the others were simply small and mean and frost-nipped. And that is the rule—the second generation of a plutocrat inherits, with his money, the meanness that enabled him to hoard it, but not the greatness that enabled him to make it.

So absorbed was I in the study of the influence of his terrible master-character upon those closest to it, that I started when he said: "Let us pray." I followed the example of the others, and knelt. The audible prayer was offered up by his oldest daughter, Mrs. Wheeler, a widow. Roebuck punctuated each paragraph in her series of petitions with a loudly whispered amen. When she prayed for "the stranger whom Thou hast led seemingly by chance into our little circle," he whispered the amen more fervently and repeated it. And well he might, the old robber and assassin by proxy! The prayer ended and us on our feet, the servants withdrew, then all the family except Roebuck. That is, they closed the doors between the two rooms and left him and me alone in the front parlor.

"I shall not detain you long, Mr. Roebuck," said I. "A report reached me this evening that sent me to you at once."

"If possible, Matthew," said he, and he could not hide his uneasiness, "put off business until to-morrow. My mind—yours, too, I trust—is not in the frame for that kind of thoughts now."

"Is the Coal reorganization to be announced the first of July?" I demanded. It has always been, and always shall be, my method to fight in the open. This, not from principle, but from expediency. Some men fight best in the brush; I don't. So I always begin battle by shelling the woods.

"No," he said, amazing me by his instant frankness. "The announcement has been postponed."

Why did he not lie to me? Why did he not put me off the scent, as he might easily have done, with some shrewd evasion? I suspect I owe it to my luck in catching him at family prayers. For I know that the general impression of him is erroneous; he is not merely a hypocrite before the world, but also a hypocrite before himself. A more profoundly, piously conscientious man never lived. Never was there a truer epitaph than the one implied in the sentence carved over his niche in the magnificent Roebuck mausoleum he built: "Fear naught but the Lord."

"When will the reorganization be announced?" I asked.

"I cannot say," he answered. "Some difficulties—chiefly labor difficulties—have arisen. Until they are settled, nothing can be done. Come to me tomorrow, and we'll talk about it."

"That is all I wished to know," said I. And, with a friendly, easy smile, I put out my hand. "Good-night."

It was his turn to be astonished—and he showed it, where I had given not a sign. "What was the report you heard?" he asked, to detain me.

"That you and Mowbray Langdon had conspired to ruin me," said I, laughing.

He echoed my laugh rather hollowly. "It was hardly necessary for you to come to me about such a—a statement."

"Hardly," I answered, dryly. Hardly, indeed. For I was seeing now all that I had been hiding from myself since I became infatuated with Anita, and made marrying her my only real business in life.

We faced each other, each measuring the other. And as his glance quailed before mine, I turned away to conceal my exultation. In a comparison of resources this man who had plotted to crush me was to me as giant to midget. But I had the joy of realizing that man to man, I was the stronger. He had craft, but I had daring. His vast wealth aggravated his natural cowardice—crafty men are invariably cowards, and their audacities under the compulsion of their insatiable greed are like a starving jackal's dashes into danger for food. My wealth belonged to me, not I to it; and, stripped of it, I would be like the prize-fighter stripped for the fight. Finally, he was old while I was young. And there was the chief reason for his quailing. He knew that he must die long before me, that my turn must come, that I could dance upon his grave.