"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask."
The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting
posture.
"'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said.
"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if
he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."
"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"
"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."
"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was
breathless from long running.
"There's the village over yonder, two miles away."
"Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a
guinea or two and help me to the village."
"Can you walk at all?" asked the man.
"The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two
miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's
early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"
"Who?"
"Both of them, the man and the woman."
"The woman!"
"Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't
talk."
At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while
he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case.
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