Barbara glanced at him quickly, wondering how much of their conversation her uncle had repeated, but Lord Rosmore did not appear to notice her look. "And if you had found him?" she asked. "I should have forced a quarrel on some pretext or other, and so contrived that he could not have run away without giving me satisfaction. By killing him I should have done a public service, and, for my own honour, I should have snapped the sword I had been compelled to stain with the blood of so contemptible a person. You smile, Mistress Lanison. Why?" "At your vindictiveness, and at a thought which came into my mind." "May I know it?" "I was wondering what this Mr.--did you say the name was Crosby?--would have done with his sword had he proved equal to reversing the issue of the quarrel." "Ah! I wonder," and Lord Rosmore laughed, but not good-naturedly. "I have faith enough in my skill to believe that it can successfully defend you whenever you may have need of it." She turned towards the doorway opening on to the terrace, but having taken two or three hasty steps, as if desirous of bringing the interview to a speedy end, she stopped and faced him: "Lord Rosmore, this highwayman, this Galloping Hermit; he is not dead, you know that?" "Judge Marriott will not allow us to forget it," he laughed. "Give him the slightest opportunity, and he will tell of his adventure on Burford Heath half a dozen times in the day." "Who is this Galloping Hermit?" Barbara asked, almost as though she expected a definite answer to the question. "Could I satisfy that curiosity I should be quite a famous person," he said. "Scores of men envy him his reputation and half the women of fashion are in love with him." "Is he this Gilbert Crosby, think you?" "Why should you suggest such a thing?" Rosmore asked sharply. "Were they grey eyes which peeped through the brown mask that night?" "I could not see; and, besides, I do not belong to that half of the women of fashion." "Truly, if you did you would be in no bad company. I have a sneaking fondness for the fellow myself, and it has been my ill-fortune never to meet him. By all accounts he is a gallant scoundrel, with a nerve of iron, whereas Crosby--Oh, no, whoever Galloping Hermit may be, he is not Gilbert Crosby." Lord Rosmore did not follow Barbara on to the terrace. He had made his peace with her, and had succeeded in establishing a definite understanding between them. She accepted his friendship--that counted for a great deal with such a woman. It would be strange if he could not turn it into love. Yet he was conscious that this was to be no easy triumph, no opportunity must be neglected, and his busy brain was full of schemes for bending circumstances to further his desires. A little later, as he slowly crossed one of the stone bridges towards the woods, he saw Barbara sitting on the terrace, and Sydney Fellowes standing before her reading from sheets of paper in his hand.