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