"It is not your will that I leave Aylingford to-night, then?"
"It is poor weather to start upon a journey. Besides, you are Martin's guest, not mine, and—"
The door opened, and Martin entered.
"It is late, mistress. I must see you along the terrace."
"I had not thought of the time," Barbara said, rising quickly and folding her cloak round her.
"There are certain hours in life one does not stay to count," Martin answered, "but they burn candles, for all that. See how much these have lessened since I lighted them."
"I am glad, Martin, that you have brought your guest to a safe place," said Barbara. "Good-night, Mr. Crosby. Perhaps to-morrow you will tell me more."
The door closed, and Crosby was alone. Indeed, there was much more to tell, but the telling was not all for him to do. What was it Barbara Lanison had heard of him which had evidently impressed her unfavourably, although it was perhaps against her will, and who had told her these things? Then, too, this fiddler must be made to speak clearly, for he must surely know a great deal.
Martin Fairley quickly returned, and closed and locked the door.
"There must be some explanation between us," said Crosby. "This lady did not expect me."