Lord Farquhart’s imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who commented and those who answered might and might not have had double meanings in their words.
As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon’s Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one knew or cared whither.
Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin, Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread. In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared no better. Judith’s father shook his head over Judith’s obstinacy, but declared he could not shake her will.
There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie’s woods and London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his lady’s feet or something that would open his lady’s heart to him. And then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o’clock of the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.
As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith’s own will, the lady was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small patches of November sunshine lay on the floor, while merry November motes danced in the yellow beams.
Johan, the player’s boy, had said that Mistress Judith was no beauty; but no one in all England would have agreed with that verdict had they seen her lightly poised on the threshold of the old inn, the gray plumes of her high crowned riding hat nodding somewhat familiarly to the motes in the sunshine. Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted high enough to reveal her dainty riding boots; her hair, bright and burnished as a fox’s coat, fell in curls about her shoulders, and mischief gleamed from her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted her red lips over teeth as white as pearl. It almost seemed as though she were about to cross the room on tiptoe, and yet she stopped full in the doorway, sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before she turned back to meet her father, who followed close on her footsteps.
“Faugh!” she cried, shrugging her shoulders, holding a kerchief to her nose. “Why, the place reeks of wine and musty ale. A pretty place, I must say, for a lover’s tryst.”
“But, Judith, my love,” remonstrated her father, “the place is of your own choosing. You stated that ’twas here you’d meet your cousin Lindley, and nowhere else. Surely you’re not going to blame him if a tavern reeks of a tavern’s holdings.”
“In truth, I fancy I’ll blame my cousin Lindley for whatsoever I choose to blame him,” answered the girl, her small mouth seeming but a scarlet line over her dainty chin, under her tilting nose. She was still standing in the black frame of the doorway, her merry eyes noting each detail of the room within, still excluding her father from the place.
“I hope, Judith, my dear, as I’ve said a hundred times, that you’ve not induced your cousin to meet you here merely that you may flout him.” The words evidently cost Master Ogilvie great effort. “For my sake——”