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A GENTLEMAN OF THE HIGHWAYS

By KATHRYN JARBOE

Since early morning nothing but sunshine had entered the hospitable
doorway of The Jolly Grig, a tavern not a dozen miles from the outer
edge of London town. Across the white, sanded floor golden patches of
light had moved with measured tread, and merry motes had danced in the
golden beams, but nothing else had stirred. On the deep hearth were
piled huge logs, ready to spring into a flashing evanescent life at
the whim of some chance guest, for October was drawing in his breath
preparatory to blowing it out over the land.

In front of the logs, sunk deep in his chair, dozed old Marmaduke
Bass, the landlord of The Jolly Grig, granting himself the joy of
serving drams to dream guests, since guests in the flesh would not
come to him. Round-bellied as one of his own wine casks, he slept
heavily, nor was he disturbed when a slight figure was framed for a
second in the doorway. A slender, girlish figure it was, and the
shadow of a heavily plumed riding hat danced with the motes in the
sunbeams while the young woman stood, warily, peering into the room.
Empty she knew it was, for she had been full ten minutes
reconnoitering to discover the fact.

How sound did old Marmaduke sleep, was the question she was asking
herself. She could see that the large hands folded across his stomach
rose and fell with steady rhythmic ease. Then she saw a fly--a huge,
buzzing, bluebottle fly--settle for a moment on the round, bald pate
of the innkeeper, and still the sleeper did not stir. Surely if a fly
could not waken him, she would not.

Hurriedly, stealthily, lightly, she scurried across the floor, her
lifted riding skirt displaying quite needlessly the heavy boots she
wore. The skirts were held to her side by her elbows, for she had need
of both her hands. In one of them she held a long silken scarf, and
not until this had been dexterously twisted and tied over old
Marmaduke's eyes did that worthy awake.

"Help! Murder!" he sputtered through the gauntleted fingers that
covered his mouth, struggling in vain to free himself from the
detaining hands.

"Quiet, quiet now, good Marmaduke," cried the young woman, in a deep,
full, contralto voice. "You know well enough who I am."

"Ay