"It is poor weather to start upon a journey. Besides, you are Martin's guest, not mine, and--" The door opened, and Martin entered. "It is late, mistress. I must see you along the terrace." "I had not thought of the time," Barbara said, rising quickly and folding her cloak round her. "There are certain hours in life one does not stay to count," Martin answered, "but they burn candles, for all that. See how much these have lessened since I lighted them." "I am glad, Martin, that you have brought your guest to a safe place," said Barbara. "Good-night, Mr. Crosby. Perhaps to-morrow you will tell me more." The door closed, and Crosby was alone. Indeed, there was much more to tell, but the telling was not all for him to do. What was it Barbara Lanison had heard of him which had evidently impressed her unfavourably, although it was perhaps against her will, and who had told her these things? Then, too, this fiddler must be made to speak clearly, for he must surely know a great deal. Martin Fairley quickly returned, and closed and locked the door. "There must be some explanation between us," said Crosby. "This lady did not expect me." "Are you sure of that?" "She told me so." "Ah! that is a different matter," Fairley returned sharply. "What kind of a welcome did you expect? Have you done aught to win a more tender greeting?" "I have done much to anger her by coming here," answered Crosby. "You were not quarrelling when I entered just now. She spoke of to-morrow. Does a woman leave anything for the morrow if she has no interest in that morrow? You would make a poor lover, Master Crosby." "To my knowledge I have not been cast for the part." "We shall see," said Martin, "It's a poor fire that will not boil a kettle, and she's a poor woman who cannot make a man love her if she will. There's to-morrow, and after that you and I may talk a little more freely, perhaps. For to-night I only want sleep. I can fiddle from dusk to dawn and forget that I have not closed my eyes, but a night in the saddle--ah! my poor knees, Master Crosby! I was never meant for a horseman." And he laughed, the same notes in the laugh as came from the fiddle when it laughed. He was half a madman--Barbara Lanison had said so--and Crosby was convinced that there was little information to be got out of him, either then or at any other time.