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Study hour was over, and a minute later, Lois, Betty, and Angela came in. There was an air of mystery about them, and Betty said: "Then you'll attend to it, Lo?" "No; Miss Crosby's going to. I've just come from the studio," Lois answered, as she walked over to her bureau. "Attend to what?" Polly demanded. "Nothing!" Angela assured her. "Lo and Betty are fussing over some art secret."
Like a culprit caught she blushed furiously, and her eyes wavered as the lids fell, shutting from his eager, surprised gaze the prettiest confusion in the world. "I It just occurred to me to ask," she murmured. Crosby's exhilaration was so great that, after a long, hungry look at the peaceful face, he jumped up and went out into the vestibule, where he whistled with all the ardor of a school-boy.
"Who's that?" quoth Afy to herself, her eyes falling upon Lady Isabel. "Oh, it's that governess of the Crosby's. She may be known, a half a mile off, by her grandmother's bonnet. I'll go and have a chat with her." Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bashfulness, went up and seated herself beside Lady Isabel. "Good evening, Madame Vine," cried she.
Crosby's mount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carrying him far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserable that it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle which Fairley had slung by a string across his back.
"I go to speak to the Comandante," responded the priest gravely. "And tell him that if he touches a hair of the ladies' heads we'll have his own scalp," interrupted Brace impetuously. Even Crosby's diplomatic modification of this speech did not appear entirely successful. "The Mexican soldier wars not with women," said the priest coldly. "Adieu, messieurs!" The cavalcade moved on.
Martin had entered the town half an hour before, and had gone straight to Fellowes' lodging. During his absence the meeting-place at "The Anchor" in West Street might have been discovered, and Martin could not afford to run any risk to-night. To both men it seemed evident that Crosby's reliance in Rosmore's promise was futile.
Within five minutes of the time that he had got his clutch on Crosby's money the bandit was choking to death at the end of his own rope, hung from the limb of an apple-tree, and, having secured the gold, the Cowboys went their way into the darkness.
In October, 1780, Claudius Smith, "king of the Cowboys," and three scalawag sons came to the conclusion that it was time for Crosby's money to revert to the crown, and they set off toward his little house one evening, sure of finding him in, for his father was seriously ill.
It must have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwayman unwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin? The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for coming succour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound, for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.
Of the other passengers I can truly say I know nothing; I cannot think that Mr. Crosby's sense of humor led him into bad associations, or that he ever went beyond verbal impropriety. Certainly nothing in Miss Keene's character has led me to believe she could so far forget what was due to herself and to us as to address a lawless mob in the streets as she did just now; although her friend Mrs.
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