Fearful that his tormentor might not yet have
done with him, he sank back in his corner again. Barbara was sitting
forward looking from the window.
"He has gone," she said.
"Curse him!" said Marriott in a whisper. He was still afraid, and his
voice trembled. "Surely his mask was--"
"It was brown," said Barbara. "I thought the man who wore the brown mask
was dead."
"I thought so too," he muttered as he leaned forward to the window and
watched the highwayman disappear into the shadows of the night.
CHAPTER III
GREY EYES
Where a stream, running through a wide track of woodland, turned to flow
round three sides of a plateau of rising ground, a community of
Cistercian monks had long ago founded their home. Possibly the original
building was of small dimensions, but as the wealth of the community
increased it had been enlarged from time to time, and, it would appear,
with an ever-increasing idea of comfort. Of this completed building as
the monks knew it, a large part remained, some of it in a more or less
ruinous state it is true, but much of it incorporated in the work of
those subsequent builders who had succeeded in converting Aylingford
Abbey into one of the most picturesque residences in Hampshire.
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