He knew now that there must be a warrant out against him, and that London was no place for him—­that he must fly somewhere beyond the reach of pursuit.  He remembered Lord Claud’s promise about the trusty mare, Nell Gwynne.  Well, he would go once more to this strange friend of his, and see how he would stand by him in danger’s hour.

Tom’s blood was up.  He felt like a man goaded into recklessness and crime by the action of others.  If they would not let him live as a peaceable citizen—­well, he would give them something to remember him by!

Quickly he made his way along, running like a hare when the street was empty, but always observing caution, and only striding along like a man in haste when there were passers by to note him.  He felt sure that Rosamund’s quick wits would do much to gain time and give him a start; and, sure enough, he reached the stable yard where Lord Claud’s horses were kept without a sign or sound of pursuit.

As luck would have it, there was the master himself standing in the yard talking to his headman.

Tom strode straight up to him with a strange gleam in his eyes, for he knew not even now whether this man were friend or foe.

“I am come for the mare,” he said briefly; “you remember your promise?”

Lord Claud gave him a swift, keen glance, as though he heard a new note in Tom’s voice.

“I do.  I will not fail you,” he said very quietly.

Then to the man standing by, “Bring out Nell Gwynne.  You have your instructions.  See that nothing is forgotten.”

The man vanished into the dark stable.  Lord Claud turned to Tom.

“What has befallen?”

“There is a warrant out against me.  They would have taken me in Master Cale’s house half an hour back, but for the shrewdness and quick wit of his daughter.  This is no place for me.  My head is in danger.  I must forth with all speed; but whither?”

“I should take to the forest, Tom.  Captain Jack will welcome you gladly,” said Lord Claud, as calmly as though discussing some indifferent project.  “It is just the life for you.  You will make a great name there.  And that you will never do, my friend, in the gay world of London.”

“I have thought of that,” said Tom between his shut teeth; “but it means the life of an outlaw—­and a death on the gallows, perchance, to end it!”

“Pooh, nonsense! not for a fine strapping young fellow of your thews and your wits!  It means a few gay years of excitement and peril, a little influence in high places, which can always be bought with gold, and a free pardon and a return home.  Leave that part of the business to me.  I have played the game often enough to understand the moves.  Meantime, you will be free and safe there.  Elsewhere, the gates of a prison may yawn for you at any moment.”

Tom shivered in spite of the warm night air.

“Death rather than that!  But is it the only way?  I had thought the secret service might find me some task.”