Lord Rosmore thought little about the assizes as he supped alone and drank his wine, unconscious of the many times he filled and emptied the glass. The hunting of fugitives was not to his taste, unless the fugitive chanced to be his personal enemy. He was sick at some of the cruelties he had been forced to witness; he hated and despised Judge Jeffreys, and almost shuddered at the thought of the punishment which was about to fall upon the crowd of ignorant peasants imprisoned in Dorchester. Had he been judge he would have treated them leniently, and probably no fear of the King's displeasure would have made him act otherwise; but for the furtherance of his own desires he had another standard of morality. It was not a standard made to suit the present circumstances, but one that had guided him through life, the primitive ideal that what a man desires he must fight for and take as best he may. From his youth upwards he had coveted little that he had not obtained; the success was everything, the means used did not trouble him. If fair ones failed, foul ones were resorted to, and his conscience troubled him not at all. If, without hindrance to himself, he could return some service for one rendered, he did so, and with a certain class of men and women won for himself a name for generosity. To withstand him, however, no matter in how small a thing, to baulk his aims and desires, directly or indirectly, was to turn him into an implacable enemy, the more dangerous because no scruple of honour would weigh with him or direct his actions. At the present moment he knew three persons were opposed to him—Gilbert Crosby; the fiddler, Martin Fairley; and Barbara Lanison. Had the first two been in his hands he would have destroyed them. If, to accomplish this, false witnesses had to be found, he would have found them, and would have slept not one whit the less at night. He hated them both, and was still scheming for their downfall. Had circumstances so chanced that these two were powerless to be of further danger to him, he would still have hated them, would still have crushed them at the first opportunity. He was not a man to forgive an injury.

Truly, they were almost powerless to baulk him now, he argued, as he drained his glass again. What could two men do in Dorchester at the present moment, with the town full of soldiers, and Jeffreys at hand to deal out summary justice? The brown mask no longer hid a person of mystery; the features of Gilbert Crosby were known to dozens of men who had been outwitted by him. He would not dare to walk the streets by day. As for this fiddler fellow, what power had he to cajole rough soldiery? He might work upon the superstition of Sir John Lanison at Aylingford, might play upon the heartstrings of a woman, but these hard-drinking, hard-swearing men were not likely to fall victims to his fooleries. Even if he discovered where his mistress was lodged, he would not be able to come near her.

"I have played the trump card and taken the trick," laughed Rosmore. "Now comes the taming of Mistress Lanison. I should hate her for defying me did I not desire her so much."

What he chose to think love was perhaps not far removed from hate. He longed to possess, to bend to his will, to have the woman who stood for so much in the estimation of so many men. Self-gratification controlled him, the desire that men should once again know how useless it was to attempt rivalry with him. He had a reputation to maintain, and he would maintain it at all hazards. He had begun to weigh carefully in his mind the plans he had formed, when the door opened.

"Ah! you loveable little trickster!" he exclaimed as Harriet Payne entered. "Come and let me thank you. Gold and trinkets I have none to-night; but—"

"I do not want them," she said.

"Love and kisses, my love and kisses," he said, drawing her on to his knee. "I've spent wakeful nights thinking of you; now I am happy again."

After a while she disengaged herself a little from his embrace.

"Playing the traitor is not pleasant," she said.

"It is a despicable game," he answered, filling a glass with wine and handing it to her. "Drink confusion to all traitors."

"That would be to curse myself."

"You are so clever that I wonder you should think me capable of asking you to do a treacherous action, even for love of me," said Rosmore. "You shall know my great scheme now that you have so well earned full partnership in it. But tell me the whole story first. I heard of the dropped handkerchief. That was excellently conceived."

Harriet told him of her visit to Barbara Lanison in London, repeating almost word for word what had been said. She told him of the journey to Dorchester, almost acted for his benefit the part of sobbing and frightened woman which she had played so well, and Rosmore laughed and applauded her.

"Excellent! Most excellent!"

"And now?" said the girl, "what is to happen? What is in store for her now she is in Dorchester? You swore to me that I should not be bringing her into the hands of Judge Jeffreys. Into whose hands have I delivered her?"

"Into mine," said Rosmore.

"For what purpose?"

"To save her from herself. It is a long story, but you shall have it presently. I shall still want your help."

"You do not love her?" the girl questioned almost fiercely, "There are those about you who believe that I am your plaything, useful to do your bidding, only to be thrown aside when you have no more need of me."

"Who has dared to say so? Tell me!" Rosmore was splendid in his sudden wrath, and Harriet Payne was a little frightened.

"Nay, I will not injure anyone. It is natural for a man to think so seeing what you are and what I am."

Rosmore turned her towards a mirror on the wall.

"Learn, mistress, to value yourself at something nearer your true worth. I see in the mirror as dainty a piece of womanhood as this fair land, with all its treasures of beauty, holds. Hast heard of Trojan Helen, that woman who was a world's desire, whose beauty made men sigh for her until they fell ill with their desire; for whom two nations fought, pouring out their noblest blood for her possession through ten long years, and at the end dooming a city to flames and massacre? I would not have you so like this ancient Helen that all the world should be my rival, for then could I not hope to have my arms about you as now they are; but as she was fair, so are you; as beside her all women were naught, so to me are all women naught beside you. Kiss me, and, if you will not tell me who has done me such slander, at least know this that they were lying words which he spoke."

She kissed him, contented.

"Then you will not treat her harshly?" the girl said. "Mistress Lanison is a true, brave woman; I would not have her hurt in any way."

"It is my desire to help her, as I will show you presently," Rosmore returned. "Tell me what she has said to you. Two women in adversity ever grow confidential."

"I do not know whether she loves Mr. Crosby—I think there are barriers which even love cannot break down—but she is willing to make some great sacrifice for him, that is why she consented to come to the West. No sooner were we lodged in Dorchester than she sent me with a message to Judge Marriott praying him to go to her."

"And you delivered the message."

"I made pretence of doing so, but told her that I could not get speech with the judge."

"You are as wise as you are fair," said Rosmore. "I must see Marriott at once. He is a blundering fool, this judge, and might ruin everything. Tell me, have you seen Mr. Crosby since he fled from Lenfield?"

"And you threatened to have my shoulders bared and whipped!" laughed the girl. "No, I have not seen him since then."

"It was the bare shoulders I thought of, not the whipping, you witch."

"Now, tell me your purpose concerning Mistress Lanison," said the girl.

"She is a woman in love," said Rosmore, "and loves not as her guardian would have her do. It is the usual way of women who have guardians. Had you such an ogre to direct your actions and you loved me, he would be certain to have some other lover for you and would hate me. This is Mistress Lanison's case, and although she does not like me, I would do her a service and outwit her guardian. I would—"

He stopped suddenly. There were footsteps in the passage, and Harriet slipped from his knee and was standing sedately at a little distance from him when the door opened and a servant entered.

"Judge Marriott is asking to see you, my lord."

"I was thinking of him. Bring him in." Then, as the servant departed, he turned to Harriet: "Come this way, into this other room."

"Your room!" she exclaimed. "I would not have anyone find me here."

"No one shall enter unless they kill me first upon the threshold. Have no fear. You could not leave the house unseen by Judge Marriott, and I would not have him see you for the world. He is foul-mouthed and foul-minded. Let the curtain fall close, so, to keep from you as much of his conversation as possible."

Lord Rosmore crossed the room to meet his guest as the door opened.

"This assize work makes one thirsty, Rosmore, and, hearing you had arrived, a longing came over me to drink a bottle with you."

"You are welcome. Within a few minutes I should have been knocking at your door had you not come."

"Good! Then we may have an hour's peace. The town's astir, Rosmore; there'll be great doings in Dorchester. Do you hear what that wag Jeffreys has done? He has had the court hung with scarlet to mark the occasion. He does not mean his lesson to die quickly out of the memory."

"That is what they mean, then, by 'Bloody Assizes.' I heard the name whispered as I entered the town."

"Oh, they were quick enough to see that this was no ordinary dispensation of law," laughed Marriott. "The dogs are sleepless and trembling to-night, I warrant."

"Aye, it is certainly the King's turn now, and I would he were making better use of his opportunity."

"What a glutton you are, Rosmore. There are over three hundred prisoners in Dorchester alone."

"And most of them might be released," was the answer. "Such clemency would do more for the King" than will be accomplished by this revengeful spirit."

"Since when have you turned sentimental?"

"I think I was born with a horror of wholesale injustice."

Marriott laughed, then grew serious.

"We are old friends, Rosmore, and there is no danger in free speech between us, but it would not be wise to say such things in the hearing of Jeffreys."

"Even Jeffreys may have a weak spot to touch which would be to compel him to silence. Most men have."

"They hide it successfully as a rule."

"Or think so," said Rosmore. "Amongst these three hundred prisoners are there any of importance?"

The judge shrugged his shoulders.

"Not in our world. I dare say in this neighbourhood there are a few with some standing."

"You have had no personal appeals made to you?"

"Many, but none which counted," and then Marriott dropped his voice to a whisper. "The escape of anyone you are interested in might be arranged."

"I might even contrive that without your assistance, eh, Marriott," laughed Rosmore. "He who holds the key can easiest open the door. Don't look so astonished, man. It is an open secret that, from the King downwards, personal aims enter into this rebellion. Jeffreys has his, a stretching out towards power; you have yours, which are no concern of mine; I have mine, which are nothing to you."

"You are too honest, and perhaps you bark too loudly," said the judge, glancing round the room.

"I take care to examine walls well before I live between them," said Rosmore; "but see for yourself. This curtain hangs before the door of my bedroom, this before a window looking into a side street," and he drew the curtains aside for a moment to show that he spoke truly.

Marriott nodded and drank more wine.

"We can talk quite freely," said Rosmore, seating himself again at the table opposite to his guest. "There is a woman you have promised to help should she ask you."

"No; you are mistaken."

"Think, Marriott. The promise may have been made at Aylingford Abbey."

"Do you mean Mistress Lanison?"

Rosmore nodded his head slowly.

"Ah, yes, I did make some kind of promise," said Marriott. "A gallantry,
Rosmore, and I would make my words good if I had the chance."

"And the bribe?" Rosmore asked.

"As you have just said, that can be no concern of yours."

"That is not so certain. It happens that you have the chance. Mistress
Lanison is in Dorchester—a prisoner."

Marriott sprang to his feet.

"The devil! Who had her arrested?"

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not know, but the fact remains, she is a prisoner. This I can tell you, she journeyed to the West to appeal to you on behalf of Gilbert Crosby, and was arrested on the way."

"But Crosby has not been captured?"

"Don't you think you and I could make up our minds that he has?" said
Rosmore.

"I do not see the necessity. My influence will have to be exerted to procure her release. I shall have kept my word, and—"

"And the reward?" asked Rosmore.

"It will not be so great that it will be beyond her power to pay," was the answer.

"Shall I make a guess?" said Rosmore. "If your influence is exerted, Barbara Lanison becomes the wife of Judge Marriott. Ah! I see I have hit near the mark. I have another plan. You shall write me two orders, one for the release of Mistress Lanison, the other for the release of Gilbert Crosby. The execution of these orders shall be at my discretion as to time. They may be given because of your love for her, if you will, but you must be self-sacrificing and claim no reward."

"My dear Rosmore, if you are serious, your impudence is colossal, if you are in jest, I fail to see the point of it."

"I have not come to the point, for jest it is, and one you may profit by. Sit down again and fill your glass—we can enjoy the joke together. Although you do not ask for any reward, you get one—five hundred or a thousand guineas, the exact amount we can decide, but at any rate a goodly sum for two scraps of paper. I should advise you to close with such an offer."

"Still the jest does not appeal to me."

"No?"

"You want Mistress Lanison—"

"Released," Rosmore interrupted sharply.

"She shall be, but in my own fashion."

"In mine, I think," said Rosmore quietly.

Marriott rose to his feet again, his face purple with anger. A string of oaths and invectives poured suddenly from his lips.

"You are not in court, Marriott, and I am not a prisoner," said Rosmore quietly. "Do you happen to remember a prisoner who was tried some months ago? Was his name Josiah Popplewell?"

The judge was suddenly silent, and his purple face became livid.

"He was a rich merchant in the City, I fancy, full of crime and treason, and, moreover, very wealthy. His wealth was tempting to—let us say to those in high authority, and there was plenty of evidence against him, manufactured, perhaps, but still apparently irrefutable. At the crucial moment, however, there came forward a witness who, in the clearest manner, was able to prove that the evidence was false, and Popplewell got off. That is the case from the world's point of view. But there was another side to it. This witness was well paid, and by whom do you think? By the judge himself, who accepted an immense bribe from the prisoner. I wonder what the King would have to say if he knew, or in what estimation Judge Jeffreys would hold his learned brother? Do you remember the case?"

"A pretty story. I wonder if you could prove it?"

"Easily. The witness named Tarrant is in my employment. He declares that the judge made an effort to have him accidentally killed, not unwisely, perhaps, for the man has in his possession a scrap of writing which would ruin the judge."

"It is a lie."

"I have seen the writing," said Rosmore. "I could lay the case before Jeffreys whilst he is in Dorchester. That might make a sensation. Amongst the gibbeted wretches we might see hanging one of the judges who had been sent to punish them; that would be more original than a court hung with scarlet."

Marriott sat down slowly.

"Your glass is empty, let me fill it," said Rosmore. "Shall we say five hundred guineas for the two orders, no further questions asked, and presently, when the prisoners are in safety, the return of that incriminating scrap of paper?"

"You swear that—"

"My dear Marriott, I have not mentioned the name of the judge, why tell me what you chance to know of the story?"

"You shall have the orders," Said Marriott.

"Here are paper, ink, and pen."

Rosmore watched him as he wrote.

"Will that suffice?" Marriott asked.

"It is worded exactly as I would have it."

"So Mistress Lanison—"

"Did we not say no further questions?" asked Rosmore, smiling. "What should you say if I made a match between her and this notorious highwayman, Gilbert Crosby?"

"You must catch him first."

"Should you see him in Dorchester, you will do me a service by having him arrested. With this paper I can have him released at a convenient time. You are going? There is still wine in the bottle."

"Just enough for you to drink to the success of your night's work," said
Marriott savagely.

"And to your health," Rosmore answered as he crossed the room with his guest.

As the door was closed, Harriet Payne took hold of the curtain to draw it aside, but paused in the act of doing so. Her eyes, wide open and fixed, stared at the curtains which hung on the opposite wall across the window. A hand, a man's hand, grasped them. Then they parted silently, and fell together again, slowly and silently.

Rosmore did not wish to be disturbed again, but the lock was stiff and the key difficult to withdraw. With a sigh of satisfaction he turned presently, but the Sigh became a sudden gasp of astonishment.

Against the background of the window curtains stood Gilbert Crosby!