"Are we near Sir Peter's? That is good hearing. He will give me a welcome and good cheer."
"You take the road through the village," said Saunders. "It's less than five miles to Sir Peter's."
"We'll get on our way, then," said Rosmore. Then he turned quickly upon the landlord. "Do you know Galloping Hermit, the highwayman?"
"Well, by name. A good many have had the misfortune of meeting him on the West Road yonder. And, to tell the truth, sir, I believe I've seen him once—and without the brown mask, too."
"When?" Rosmore asked sharply.
"It may be three, perhaps four, months back. A horseman galloped up to the door, just at dusk, and called for ale. He did not dismount, and I took the drink to him myself. There was nothing very noticeable about him, only that his eyes were sharp and restless, and he held his head a little sideways as if he were listening. It was the horse that took my attention rather than the man. It was an animal, sir, you'd not meet the likes of in a week's journey. When the horse had galloped into the shadows of the night I said to myself, there goes the highwayman for a certainty."
"And you've never seen him since?"
"No, nor shall now, since he was hanged lately at Tyburn."
"That was a mistake, landlord. Galloping Hermit is still alive. I have seen him to-night."
"Alive!"