There
was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes
brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with
excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and
purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a
horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He
was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that
he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara
Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day,
to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as
he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game
he had lost, but the winning trick was his.
It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank of
the stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went on
foot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there he
waited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lights
shone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if it
were full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercise
caution.
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