As he passed a man drew
hastily back into the shadows, and then went light-footedly to Barbara's
door. She had already locked it. He knocked.
"I have nothing more to say," said Barbara.
The man chanted a little stave in a low voice, and the door flew open.
"Martin!"
"You are in trouble, mistress, you need not tell me. Much I overheard,
the rest I can guess. Lord Rosmore has departed. I met him on the road,
at least he passed along the road, and I stood in the wood by the side
to see him pass. Mr. Crosby is already busy in Dorsetshire, and I return
to hear you are going to London."
"Yes, Martin."
"Dark hours, indeed," he said, "but there is the beam of light."
"It has gone out. Ah, Martin, you are a dreamer and look at the world
through a veil of cloud, while I am a woman prone to trust too easily.
We are easy to deceive, you and I."
"Yes, dreamer as I am, I have recognised much of the falsehood," said
Martin.
"You like Mr. Gilbert Crosby?"
"One grows to like a man when you have fought by his side in an awkward
corner."
"You would trust him?"
"Don't you?" asked Martin.
"He told me something of himself, but it was told to deceive.
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