"Eh, master, but what's been adoing?"
"Highwayman—last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.
The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.
"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket—a flask."
The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting posture.
"'Galloping Hermit'—the brown mask—last night," he said.
"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."
"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"
"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."
"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was breathless from long running.