The door of "The Jolly Farmers" had only just been opened to the business of a new day when Gilbert Crosby came by a narrow track through the woods on to the road. His horse was jaded, and bore evidences of having been hard ridden.

At the inn door Crosby dismounted, and the landlord came hurrying out to welcome his early visitor. He looked at the horse, and then shouted towards the stables.

"It's evident you are going no further on that animal at present. Shall I hide him in the place I have in the woods yonder? Have you given them the slip, or are they close upon your heels?"

"There is no need to hide him," said Crosby, as he entered the inn. "It would seem that you remember me."

"Aye, faces have a way of sticking in my memory. I had to conceal you one night when you came inquiring for a fiddler."

"This morning I am come to look for him again."

"His appointment?" asked the landlord.

"Yes."

"Then you may wait contentedly. I never knew him to fail. If he failed I should say he had met his death on the way. Death is the only thing that would stand between his promise and its fulfilment. Come into the inner room. We might get other early visitors, and the door in the wall might be useful."

"And food—what about food at this early hour? I am well-nigh starving."

"I'll see to that, and I take it that a draught of my best ale will take the dust out o' your throat pleasantly. That beast of yours has done a long spell from stable to stable, I warrant."

"From Dorchester," said Crosby.

"And that's a place you're well out of, since Jeffreys must be there by this time."

Crosby nodded, and the landlord drew the ale and busied himself with ordering his guest's breakfast.

Crosby had but half appeased his hunger when the sound of wheels was upon the road. As he hurried out the landlord stopped him.

"Carefully, sir. Better let me see who it is."

"Quickly, then! It is a coach, and I must know who rides in it."

The tired horses came to a halt before the door, and by the coach was a horseman, the dust of a long journey upon his horse, upon his clothes, even upon the brown mask which concealed his face. Then the window of the coach was lowered, and a head was thrust out, a head shining with golden curls which the hood did not wholly conceal. Only a few minutes ago Barbara had roused from her long sleep, startled for a little space that the walls of her prison at Dorchester were not about her. The knowledge that she was free, that she had escaped from Lord Rosmore, quickly brought the colour to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and full of questions as she looked at the man in the mask.

"Barbara!"

She turned with a sharp little cry of bewilderment. The landlord, standing at the inn doorway, had been thrust aside, and Gilbert Crosby was beside her. He lifted her from the coach, yet even when he had set her on the ground he did not release her.

"Gilbert, I do not understand—I thought—" and her eyes turned towards the masked horseman.

"I know not who you really are, sir," said Crosby. "I know that you are called 'Galloping Hermit,' I know that I am so deeply your debtor that I can never hope to repay. At Lenfield a little while ago you saved my life, to-day you bring me what is more than life."

"And a message," said the highwayman. "Word from a certain fiddler you expected to find here. He will not come. It has fallen to my lot to rescue this lady from a scoundrel, and I do not think he will attempt to follow you. There are horses to be had from the landlord here, and in half an hour you may be on the road for Southampton. The fiddler bids you not to wait for him, but, on the road, to stop at a house named 'The Spanish Galleon,' There you will find a friend who has secured your safe departure from the country."

"You will not tell me who you are?" said Crosby, whose keen eyes were trying to penetrate the disguise.

"'Galloping Hermit,' Mr. Crosby."

"While fresh horses are being harnessed, Mistress Lanison will have a hasty breakfast, at least share the meal with us."

"Daylight is dangerous for me. I ride safely only in the night. A tankard of ale, landlord, and then for a hiding hole."

Barbara gently put Crosby's arm away from her, and went to the horseman's side.

"Whoever you may be, I thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said. "You cannot know all that you are to me. You have been constantly in my thoughts; I will not tell you why, but I have shuddered to think what must sometimes have happened when you rode in the night. Might not the brown mask cease to exist? Some day I may be in England again, may be strong to help if need should come. Take this ring of mine. The man who brings it to me, though many years should pass between now and then, shall never ask of me in vain. Burn the mask, sir, and learn that you are too honest a gentleman for such a trade."

The man took the ring.

"Mistress Lanison, I have stopped my last coach," he said. "It was a good ending since it saved you from a scoundrel. Do not think too harshly of the past. It has had more honesty in it than you would imagine. For love of a woman I took to the road; for love of a woman the road shall know me no more. Ah, landlord, the ale! To you, mistress, and to you, Mr. Crosby. May God's blessing be with you to the end."

He drank, and tossing the empty tankard to the landlord, turned his horse and galloped back along the road.

For half an hour or more the coach stood before the door of "The Jolly Farmers," and then, with fresh horses, started briskly on its journey to Southampton. At the inn the landlord had waited upon his guests so attentively that they could say little to each other, but in the coach they were alone, shut away with their happiness from all the prying world. With her golden head upon his shoulder, Barbara told Crosby all that she had feared, all her doubts. There were so many things to make her certain that he was "Galloping Hermit."

"I know," he answered. "It has suited my purpose sometimes while I have been helping men to escape out of the West Country to let my enemies suppose that I was; but it never occurred to me that you would think so. Now I understand some of your words which troubled me, hurt me, almost. Are you content to take the way with me, dearest? I have not forgotten my promise."

"Gilbert, I am ashamed now that I ever asked you to make it," she said, clinging close to him. "Kiss me, and forgive me. I think I should have gone with you even if you had been 'Galloping Hermit.'"

Awaiting them, and beginning to grow anxious, they found Sydney Fellowes at "The Spanish Galleon." Crosby was not surprised, although he had half expected to see Martin Fairley.

As Fellowes bent over her hand, Barbara thanked him.

"Gilbert has told me how much you have done for me," she said. "I have heard of the triple alliance Surely no woman ever had better friends than I."

"I wish Martin were here," said Crosby.

"We must talk of him presently," said Fellowes. "An hour for rest and food, then you must be on the road again. I must come with you as far as Southampton. It is my part to bid you farewell out of this country. I hope before long it may be my part to welcome you back."

When they had started again, Fellowes took some papers from his pocket.

"These are for you, Mistress Lanison, to read at your leisure. I had them from Martin Fairley to give to you."

"I wish I could have seen Martin to thank him too."

"That is impossible."

"Impossible! Why? Surely he is not dead?"

"No; yet I do not think you will ever see him again. Have you never guessed his secret, Mistress Lanison?"

"Secret?"

"Nor you, Crosby?"

"Surely Martin cannot be 'Galloping Hermit'!" Barbara exclaimed.

"He is. You will find the whole history in those papers," said Fellowes. "I knew soon after that night at Aylingford, the night Rosmore and I fought in the hall. It is a strange history. He came to Aylingford shortly after you were brought there as a child, a chance derelict it seemed, and not a little mad at times. But his coming was no chance. He knew your father, and came to be near you and watch over you. In a sense Martin was always a dreamer, but he was never a madman. He played a part to get a lodging within the Abbey, and he has played that part in your interest ever since. Many things which must have set you wondering at times you will understand when you read these papers. He soon discovered what manner of man your uncle was, and the kind of company the Abbey gave shelter to. It was worse than you have imagined—a whirlpool of vice and debauchery. Such vice is expensive, and a long run of bad luck at play might easily bring a man to the verge of ruin. Your uncle came to the brink of the precipice, his appetite for vice and play still insatiated. Your fortune was in his keeping, and he used it."

"Then I have nothing!" exclaimed Barbara, turning to Gilbert, "and I have been thinking and planning that—"

"My dear, your money was nothing to me."

"I know, but—"

"Better let me finish the story, Mistress Lanison," said Fellowes. "In some way, I cannot tell you how, Lord Rosmore discovered what your uncle was doing. He therefore obtained a hold over Sir John, which hold he used for the purpose of forcing himself upon you, meaning to marry you. I do not doubt that, in a way, he loved you, but he wanted your money too, for Rosmore has squandered his possessions for years past, and must be near the end of his tether. Martin declares that it is only money he wants."

"Has he been using my fortune, too?"

"No, except those large sums which he has won from your uncle from time to time. Possibly, in the firm belief that your money would some day be his, he may have checked your uncle's recklessness, and he has never let Sir John know his position. Sir John was usually an unlucky player, in the long run he invariably lost, and there has hardly been a guest at the Abbey who has not enriched himself. This fact set Martin Fairley scheming. He became 'Galloping Hermit,' the notorious wearer of the brown mask, and plundered travellers with amazing success. It has been said of him that he never made a mistake, that the plunder he took was always large. His victims, too, were always those who had bad reputations; and, one thing more, Mistress Lanison, his victims have always won largely at Aylingford Abbey. Where Sir John squandered your fortune, Martin compelled Sir John's guests to disgorge on the high road. He knew when they were worth robbing. As 'Galloping Hermit' he got back a considerable part of your fortune—from the very persons who profited by Sir John's ill use of it. For my part, I cannot call that robbery. His plunder he stored at the Abbey, somewhere near the Nun's Room. You and Crosby escaped from Martin's tower one night that way. While you have been a prisoner in Dorchester, Martin has been to Aylingford, and, playing upon Sir John's superstition, showed him one way of breaking into the secret chamber where a treasure was hidden, and in exchange heard what Lord Rosmore intended to do with you. You were to be smuggled back to Aylingford. You will find all the history of his robberies very clearly stated in those papers, but of the history of the last few weeks, his rapid movements, his changes of character, his pretence of poor horsemanship, you will find no mention. Crosby will be able to tell you much of this. Having rescued you, Martin wanted completely to secure your safety, and believing that Rosmore's greed was far greater than his love for you, he conceived a plan which no doubt he carried out and which I hope was successful. He had carefully placed in a leather case papers containing his secret, together with the key of his tower, and full instructions of how his hiding-place was entered. This case he intended to drop where Rosmore could see it. He believed that Rosmore would hurry to Aylingford before he made any attempt to find you. We are close to Southampton, and safe so far, so Martin's idea of Rosmore may have been a correct one."

"And Martin's money?" asked Barbara.

"Your money," Fellowes corrected. "It was moved from the Abbey some little time ago, and is hidden at 'The Jolly Farmers.' Since you must be out of England for a while, Martin thought you might like to give me instructions concerning it."

"Mad Martin," murmured Barbara.

"Mad. Yes, in one way, perhaps," said Fellowes. "That way you will not learn from those papers. He was a man, and near him you grew to be a woman. Poor Martin! He was mad enough to love you."

Barbara put her hand into Crosby's. She remembered what the highwayman had said that morning, she remembered how she had once stood in the dark passage under Aylingford, one hand in Gilbert's, one in Martin's; two men who loved her and had braved so much for her. And then she looked at Fellowes, whose face was turned from her. He had said nothing of what he had done, but she remembered that night in the hall.

"Three men; Gilbert and Martin, yes, and you, Mr. Fellowes," she said softly, putting her other hand into his. "It was a triple alliance, and, indeed, never was woman better served."

That night Gilbert Crosby and Barbara Lanison left England, and a few weeks later were married in Holland, in which country they found their first home together. When, a little later, England rose in revolt against King James, some of the negotiations with the Prince of Orange were conducted by Crosby, and he accompanied the Prince when he landed at Torbay, receiving later a baronetcy for his services. He became of some importance at the Court of William and Mary, but his happiest hours were those spent at his manor at Lenfield. There his dreams had fulfilment. Barbara flitted from room to room, as, in his visions, she had so often seemed to do; many a time he watched her slowly descending the broad stairs and held out his arms to her.

Sometimes a shade of sorrow would rest upon her brow.

"I was thinking of Martin," she said, when her husband questioned her.

Martin had never come to Lenfield. Gilbert could find out nothing about him. There were still highwaymen on the road, but nowadays no one was ever stopped by "Galloping Hermit" in his brown mask.

"I wonder what became of him," said Barbara; but she never knew.