"I was thinking of Martin," she said, when her husband questioned her.
Martin had never come to Lenfield. Gilbert could find out nothing about him. There were still highwaymen on the road, but nowadays no one was ever stopped by "Galloping Hermit" in his brown mask.
"I wonder what became of him," said Barbara; but she never knew.
CHAPTER XXX
ALONG THE NORTH ROAD
On the North Road there is a small inn, rather dilapidated and not attractive to travellers. Its customers are yokels from the neighbouring village, but occasionally a gentleman may be found warming himself at the open hearth and drinking the best that the house contains. Such a gentleman invariably rides a good horse, and is the recipient of open-mouthed admiration from the yokels. No gentleman but a highwayman would be there, they believe.
Only one man remained in the bar to-night, a jovial fellow of the farmer type, a lover of horses by his talk, and he was wont to boast that he had made the fortune of more than one gentleman of the road by the animal he had sold him.
"Shut the door, landlord. I'll wait a bit, and have another tankard of ale. I'm expecting a visitor."
"Who may that be?"
"One you know well enough, but perhaps you haven't seen him for some time."