has received, most
mysteriously, the stolen wealth."

"He fights like a fiend, they say," commented Lord Farquhart, "whether
he is a gentleman or not. And yet he has seriously wounded no one. Sir
Henry Willoughby confessed to me that the fellow had pinked him twenty
times in a moonlit, roadside attack, then disarmed him with a careless
laugh and walked off, taking nothing with him. Sir Henry himself, mind
you! The most noted duelist in London!"

"Why not drink to the fiend and a speedy meeting with him?" laughed
Lindley. "I promise you that if I meet him I'll unmask him and see if
he be man or devil. To the Black Devil himself!" he cried, lifting
high his wine cup. "To this most honorable and fearless gentleman of
the highways!"

The four voices rose in chorus to the brown rafters of the inn.

"To this most honorable and fearless gentleman of the highways! To the
Black Devil himself!"

III.

Many a round of wine had been served to the young revelers, and, under
its influence, each one was revealing a little more of his real self.
They had all laid aside their muddy riding boots and heavy riding
coats, and were lounging in picturesque undress. Lord Farquhart, who
was easily the leader of the four, had thrown aside the cynical veneer
that had for some time marred the dark, Oriental beauty of his face,
and was humming a love song. Lindley's comely Irish face was slightly
flushed, and he was keeping time on the white table with the tip of
his sword to the ditty that floated from Lord Farquhart's lips.
Treadway, London's dapperest beau, was smirking at his own reflection
in a small hand mirror he carried, while Ashley, who had drunk more
heavily than any of the others, permitted a definite scowl to contract
his brows and droop his lips.

"I'm trying--I'm trying," murmured Lord Farquhart, "to change that
last song I wrote for Sylvia into a song for Barbara! The rhyme and
the rhythm go the same, I think." He stood up and sang the words out
loud, repeating the verses several times, inserting sometimes Sylvia's
name and sometimes Barbara's.

Lips that vie with the poppy's hue,
Eyes that shame the violet's blue,
Hearts that beat with love so true,
Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!
Barb'ra, sweet, I come to you!

His eyes questioned Treadway.

"Is it not quite the same? Does it not go to one name as well as to
the other? To me it seems I've no need to write a new verse for my new
love."

"How will the fa