The Jolly Grig was empty. The guests, all in the courtyard, were
mounting to meet the Lady Barbara. A shadowy figure clambered to Lord
Farquhart's window, a figure strangely like Lord Farquhart. A moment
later, a shadowy figure, resembling, this time, the lad who had slept
by the hearth, slipped down the stairs into the small room at the back
of the inn. Here it stopped for an instant's reverie.
"'Tis curious how jests grow," the red lips murmured. "At first I but
thought of frightening that haughty cousin of mine, the Lady Barbara
Gordon. And now--heigh-ho! I hope I've not stored up trouble for Lord
Farquhart. 'Twould be a sad pity to vex so fine a gentleman!"
Then the figure hurriedly caught up the bundle of woman's toggery that
had enswathed its entrance to the inn, and through the dancing motes,
over the sun-flecked floor, the same slim shadow, the shadow that
resembled the lad who had slept by the hearth, the shadow that had
slipped down the curving stairs, crept through another window, was off
and away, lost in the other shadows of the night.