"It was nothing," she answered. "By chance I learnt your name, by chance I heard you were in danger, and I sent you a warning. I was in your debt, and I like to pay what I owe."

"You have done that with interest."

"Tell me, why are you here?" she asked.

"Indeed, madam, to answer that question I have need of Martin, too, for he brought me."

"I do not understand, Mr. Crosby--you are Mr. Gilbert Crosby, are you not?"

"Yes; and I do not understand, either," he answered. "I have been under the guidance of Fate and a fiddler, and it would appear that the fiddler, at any rate, has played some trick with me, for I do a.s.sure you that he made me suppose he was doing your bidding in bringing me here."

"We call him 'Mad Martin,'" she said with a little laugh. "Will you tell me his tale? It should be interesting, though I fear it must greatly have misled you."

She turned from the door as she spoke, and sat down by the table.

Perhaps it was as well Martin had gone, for there was no guessing what he had told this stranger, nor how far he might call upon her to support his action were he asked suddenly for an explanation.

"It would also be interesting to me to learn who you are, and where I am," said Crosby with a smile.

"You do not know? You have forgotten?" Barbara exclaimed.

"I have not so poor a memory as that," he answered, "and will you deem it presumptuous in me when I say that I hoped it might be you who had rendered me this service? I did not know until Martin lit those candles and you turned towards me. Within a few hours of my seeing you at Newgate I was called away from London. I had no opportunity of making inquiry about you."

"There was no reason why you should," she answered.

"You did not forbid me to do so."

"Indeed, no. I had small chance to do that," Barbara returned. "You disappeared so quickly and mysteriously."

"I had seen you to your friends--why should I wait?"

"If for nothing else, to be thanked. I wondered whether you had recognised an enemy in the neighbourhood of my aunt's coach."

He laughed, but whether at the suggestion, or at her method of trying to draw a confession from him, it was impossible to tell.

"Did you see the highwayman and thank him, as you proposed?" Barbara asked.

"I did, and now it seems he was not this famous Galloping Hermit, after all."

For a moment she was silent, recollecting that she had speculated whether this man himself might not be the wearer of the brown mask.

"I am Barbara Lanison," she said suddenly, "niece to Sir John Lanison of Aylingford Abbey."

"Am I in Aylingford Abbey?" Crosby asked.

"A queer little corner of it appropriated by Martin Fairley. You seem surprised, sir."

"Indeed, I am. I have pa.s.sed through many surprises during the last few hours, not the least of them being that this is Aylingford, and that you are astonished to see me."

"Perhaps it would be well to tell me your story before Martin returns.

You must not forget that he is half a madman, and sometimes talks wildly."

Crosby told her the manner of his escape from Lenfield, as he had told it to Fairley; and if Barbara Lanison did not so obviously disbelieve it as the fiddler had done, her eyes were full of questioning. He explained how "The Jolly Farmers" had been searched, and how he and Martin had ridden away together in the night.

"He told me that he had been bidden by a woman to bring me into a place of safety, and he brought me here. He would tell me nothing more."

"He did not even try and picture the woman for you?"

"Only his fiddle could do that, he declared."

"You see how foolish he is," said Barbara.

"I do not find any great sign of folly in that," Crosby answered.

"I was thinking of your journey, sir. I told Martin to find you if he could and warn you; that was all I bid him do."

"And my coming has displeased you," said Crosby. "I will go on the instant if it be your will."

"No, no; it is my will that you tell me the remainder of the story."

"There is no more to tell."

"You have not told me who the man was who helped you to escape from your manor at Lenfield," said Barbara.

"He desired me not to speak of him, and I must keep faith."

"Yet he told you of Martin."

"He spoke only of a fiddler," said Crosby.

"Have I no means of persuading you to tell me his name?" she said, leaning a little across the table towards him, with a look of pleading in her eyes. Most men would have found the temptation difficult to resist.

"I do not think you would try any means to make a man break his promise," Crosby said.

The grey eyes looked straight into hers, and the voice had that little tone of sternness in it which she had noted that day at Newgate.

"Perhaps not," she said; "but it is provoking. To have a nameless partner in such an affair as this is to have more mystery than I care for."

"Did you ever hear of a Mr. Sydney Fellowes?"

"So you have told me after all," she said, disappointment in her voice.

He was not the strong man she supposed him to be--merely one a woman could cajole at her ease. She was too disappointed in him to realise at once how strange it was that he should speak of Sydney Fellowes.

"No, this is another friend," he answered quietly, conscious of what was pa.s.sing in her mind.

"I know Mr. Fellowes," Barbara said, her brow clearing. "Not many days since he was here at the Abbey."

"He came to see me, but since I was away from home he left a letter warning me that I had enemies. He, too, had been commissioned by someone to warn me."

"Not by me," said Barbara. "Surely you must have been acting unwisely, Mr. Crosby, to have so many enemies?"