"Don't you?" asked Martin.
"He told me something of himself, but it was told to deceive. I found that in the ruins, just where he stumbled last night. He dropped it," and Barbara held out the brown mask which she had drawn from her dress.
Martin took it and turned it this way and that.
"He did not tell me that he was Galloping Hermit the highwayman," she said.
"Very strange," said Martin. "Another might have dropped it. Many men tramped that spot that evening. Sir John, Lord Rosmore, and a dozen others."
"Yes, and later, Mr. Fellowes," said Barbara. "He came with a despatch calling Lord Rosmore back into Dorsetshire."
"Might not Mr. Fellowes have dropped it?" Martin asked.
"He might. You may find many possibilities, but not probabilities."
"The famous mask," mused Fairley, "and you find it, mistress. For my part I have had a kindly thought for the wearer. There are tales about him which make him different from other highwaymen."
"Yes, Martin, I know, but I had almost—ah! you would not understand."