"Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore." As he turned away Martin caught his arm. "There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, who was a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in great pain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it he shrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that the voice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, clean as men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship." The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it. "The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I am grasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper." Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went to the deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not locked to-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly. A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Martin entered Barbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow across the fiddle strings. "The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child." "It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night--" "Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I can guess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defend you and--" "And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble, Martin." "I should have called that trouble enough." "But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distresses me for a very strange reason." "Tell me," said Martin. Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, and repeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him. "Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?" "If Lord Rosmore knows him then--" "If--but does he?" "Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was the name of this one?" "He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman knows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent." "Still you do not tell me his name." "Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara. Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not notice his sudden start of interest. "Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire, and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there is one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?" "I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern but kind."