"I don't know it over-well, my lord, but I should say we've got Salisbury almost straight behind us and Winchester some miles in that direction," and the man pointed a little to the right. "I should say we've been riding pretty well due north from Lenfield." "Then if the highwayman wanted to make Winchester he would have to cross us somewhere if we go straight forward?" "He would, my lord, but since we've been after him he's given no sign of making for Winchester," Sayers answered. "An inquiry in that direction may give us some information," said Rosmore. "I have an idea that the Brown Mask will be seen along the Winchester Road presently." "These horses will be no match for his." "They must carry us a little farther, but the pace may be easy," said Rosmore, shaking his jaded animal into a trot, and the two men rode side by side a few paces behind him. Strange to say, failure seemed to have improved Rosmore's temper rather than aggravated it. He had at least a score of witnesses to prove who Galloping Hermit was. A girl might be romantic enough to pity such a man, but it could hardly be that pity which is akin to love. "She has the pride of her race in her," he murmured. "I would not have it otherwise. There are a dozen ways to a woman's heart, and if need be I will try them all." The prospect appeared to please him, for he smiled. So for two hours they rode in the general direction of Winchester. "This is foolery," whispered Sayers to his companion. "I warrant the Brown Mask has gone to earth long ago. His lordship has more knowledge of this way than he pretends, I shouldn't wonder, and knows of a nest with a pretty bird in it. There may be other birds about to look after her, Watson. Such kind of hunting is more to my taste than the sort we've been sweated with to-day." They were presently traversing a road with a wood on one side and fields on the other, when a glimmer of light shone in front of them, and the barking of a dog, catching the sound of the approaching horsemen probably, awoke the evening echoes. Back against the trees nestled "The Jolly Farmers," an inn of good repute in this neighbourhood, both for the quality of its liquor and the amiable temper of its landlord. A guest had entered not five minutes ago, and was talking to the landlord in an inner parlour when the barking of the dog interrupted them. "Horses!" said the landlord. "They follow you so sharply that it is well to be cautious. This way, sir." He touched the wall where there certainly was no sign of a door, yet a door swung open inwards, disclosing a dark and narrow chamber. The guest entered it without question, and the landlord hurried out to meet the new arrivals. "You ride late, gentlemen." "And would sample your liquor, landlord," said Rosmore, dismounting and bidding his men do the same. "Have the horses looked to." The landlord called in a stentorian voice, and a lad came running from the rear of the premises.