Then they looked at the dead men, so suggestive in their ghastly attitude, and they thought they understood. Those old monks, thinking perhaps that they would one day return to their old home, must certainly have buried a treasure under the walls of Aylingford. CHAPTER XXIX SAFETY 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!"