"Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"
"If Lord Rosmore knows him then--"
"If--but does he?"
"Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was
the name of this one?"
"He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman
knows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a
scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth
is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."
"Still you do not tell me his name."
"Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.
Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not
notice his sudden start of interest.
"Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire,
and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there
is one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?"
"I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not
look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern
but kind."
"An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as a
cat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blink
the dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze.
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