as in vain pursuing the gentleman highwayman, who seemed to
possess the devil's luck, if he were not, in reality, the devil
himself.

XXI.

Lord Farquhart's imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the
fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who
occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer
frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared
that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who
commented and those who answered might and might not have had double
meanings in their words.

As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to
the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon's
Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the
continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of
his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save
black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one
knew or cared whither.

Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted
serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts
save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing
quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin,
Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread.
In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared
no better. Judith's father shook his head over Judith's obstinacy, but
declared he could not shake her will.

There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander
back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie's woods and
London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his
lady's feet or something that would open his lady's heart to him. And
then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning
word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her
round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o'clock of
the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the
tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.

As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith's own will, the lady
was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour
named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund
innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small
patches of