"Perhaps, but Martin's forlorn hopes have a way of proving useful. You will lie low here, I suppose, Crosby? I will get back to my lodgings, and if I hear from Marriott I will come to you at once--or from Rosmore. It may be part of his design to make you think Mistress Barbara has changed her mind." "If he sent such a message I should know he was lying." "Don't leave here, Crosby. Much may depend on my being able to find you at a moment's notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I have only discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin will have found the way out of them." Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester, surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to Barbara's guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair. News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants' quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John. "I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she said to him the day after the messenger had been. "What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he answered. "Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the sake of a new sensation."