Chance came to his aid at last; a dog bounding from the woods not far distant saw him, and racing to the tree tore round and round it, barking furiously, bringing a man out into the open to see what so excited the animal. The woodman hastened forward. "Eh, master, but what's been adoing?" "Highwayman--last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing. The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case. "The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask." The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting posture. "'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said. "The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too." "It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?" "Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle." "Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was breathless from long running. "There's the village over yonder, two miles away." "Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a guinea or two and help me to the village." "Can you walk at all?" asked the man. "The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!" "Who?" "Both of them, the man and the woman." "The woman!" "Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't talk." At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. There was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day, to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game he had lost, but the winning trick was his.