XIX
It seemed as though fate had decreed that there should be but two more acts in the career of Lord Farquhart. All London knew that he was to be condemned to death for highway robbery at ten o’clock on the Friday morning. All London knew that his hanging would quickly follow its decree, and all London, apparently, was determined to see, at least, the first act in the melodrama. The court was crowded with society’s wits and beaux, with society’s belles, many of the latter hooded and masked, but many revealing to all the world their ardent sympathy for the prisoner at the bar.
Lord Farquhart’s habitual pose of indifference, of insolent indifference to the world and its opinions, stood him in good stead on that October morning. He had passed through moments of blackest agony, of wild rebellion against the doom in store for him. He had gibed and mocked and railed at fate, at the laws of his country that could condemn an absolutely innocent man to so grewsome a death. He had struggled and fought with his jailers; he had appealed in vain to man and God, but now he sat quite calm and still, determined only that the world that had so incomprehensibly turned from him should not gloat over his despair. Only once had his lips twitched and his eyelids contracted, and that was when he recognized in a figure hooded, cloaked and masked in black, the Lady Barbara Gordon. He had turned his eyes from her instantly, but not quickly enough to miss, the sight of the pathetic white hands she’d stretched toward him. Was she asking for pardon, he wondered. No word from Barbara had reached him in his confinement.
A moment later a faint smile flickered across Lord Farquhart’s face. He had caught sight of Harry Ashley occupying a prominent place near the judge’s stand, and his conviction that Ashley was responsible for his imprisonment and for the sentence that was so soon to be pronounced strengthened his determination to hide his anguish from the world. For the rest, his eyes traveled impersonally over the crowded room. He would greet no one of the intimate friends who crowded as close as they dared to the place where he sat.
Lord Grimsby had not yet entered the room, but from behind the curtains that covered the door of Lord Grimsby’s private apartment rolled Lord Grimsby’s sonorous voice. It reached the first circle of inquisitive ears, and the meaning of his words slipped through the courtroom.
“Ay, but I tell you it was the same. I’ve had dealings with the fellow before. I’ve seen him at close quarters before. I know his voice and his touch and his manner. He’s like enough to Lord Farquhart in size and build, but he’s not like him altogether.”
“And you say he stopped you, my lord?”
“Stopped me not two hours’ ride from Padusey!” roared Lord Grimsby. “On the darkest bit of the road, the fellow sprang from nowhere and brandished his sword in front of my horse. And then he took my purse and my seal and my rings. You’ve questioned all the guards most carefully? They’re sure that the prisoner did not leave his quarters last night? That no one entered his room or left it?”
“Why, yes.” The answer was low and deferential. “He had visitors asking for him in plenty, some with permits and some without, but no one saw him save the guard.”
“And the guard is sure he did not leave his room?” Lord Grimsby’s roar was heard again.
“They’re sure, my lord. And, in very truth, would the prisoner have returned had he once escaped? Lord Farquhart’s presence here argues Lord Farquhart’s innocence of this latest outrage.”
“One can argue little of the devil’s doings,” raged Lord Grimsby.
“But will this not free Lord Farquhart?” asked the deferential voice.
“How can it free him, fool?” demanded the roaring voice. “How could I prove that the fellow I met was not the devil trying to save one of his own brood? And would there not be fools a-plenty to say that I’d met no one, that I’d invented the tale to save myself from the devil’s clutches, if I freed Lord Farquhart on such evidence? The whole affair from the beginning has savored of the devil’s mixing. Who else would have driven his majesty on to demand such hot haste against the fellow? ’Tis all most uncanny and most unwholesome. I’ll be thankful, for one, when my part in it’s over.”
“I wonder on what we wait. ’Tis surely long after ten o’clock!”
It was Ashley’s voice that made this statement loud enough for all the room to hear, loud enough to penetrate even to Lord Grimsby’s ears; loud enough to force that timorous jurist back into a judicial calm.
It was then that Lord Farquhart’s lips parted in a second smile. It was then that some fifty hands sprang to their swords, for there were fifty gentlemen there who resented Ashley’s unseemly eagerness to hurry on Lord Farquhart’s fate.
“And ’tis like the devil, too, to make me finish his black work,” commented Lord Grimsby’s natural voice, ere his judicial voice took up the opening formalities of the sentence he was to pronounce.
’Twas well known that the crown left naught to the court save the announcement of the crown’s decree. Thus was Lord Grimsby hiding himself behind his majesty, the king, in order to protect himself from his majesty, the devil, when he was interrupted by a commotion that would not be downed, by the cries of silence from the court’s servants.
“I tell you I must speak! I will be heard! I will speak! Will you all stand by and hear an innocent man sentenced to be hanged merely for the sake of custom, of courtesy to the court; merely on a question of privilege to speak? I should have been here before. I was detained. Now I will speak. I will be heard, I say. Will be, will be, will be!”
It was a girl’s voice that rang out sharp and clear. To Lindley it seemed faintly familiar, and yet the girl who spoke was a stranger to him; a stranger, apparently, to everyone in the room. She stood in front of Jack Grimsby. It was Jack Grimsby she was haranguing. She was, evidently, a woman of rank and quality, for she carried herself as one accustomed to command and to be obeyed. She was gowned in blue velvet, and her russet hair, drawn high in a net – a fashion in favor in France – was shaded by a blue velvet hat, over which drooped heavy white plumes. A thin lace mask veiled her eyes. Only her small, red mouth and delicate chin were visible.
“Is an oath nothing to you, then?” she cried, impetuously, still addressing Jack Grimsby. “You’ve sworn to do all in your power to save this highwayman. Now is your chance! Gain me but five minutes and I’ll have Lord Farquhart freed from, this absurd charge against him.”
And then it was Lord Grimsby’s voice that answered her.
“Ay, madam, the court will willingly grant you five minutes. Nay, I will grant you ten, in the cause of justice, for I like not the way this matter has been handled.” And even Lord Grimsby himself could not have told whether it was the devil who had prompted him to so interfere with the decorum of the law.
The girl bowed her thanks with informal gratitude, then hurried from the room. She passed so close to Lindley that he seemed enveloped in a strange perfume that floated from her, and after she had passed he, and he alone, saw a tiny scrap of paper lying at his feet. As carelessly as possible he picked it up, and saw that it was written on. He read as follows:
Mistress Judith’s Star is at Cavanaugh’s inn, three squares away. Fetch him to the end of the lane with what speed you may.
Johan.
In the tumult that followed the curious interruption of the morning’s work, Lindley’s exit was unnoticed. It was less than five minutes before he returned, and in that time he had delivered the white horse, with its starred forehead, to Johan, who was waiting, apparently at ease, at the end of the lane. Lindley stopped not to question the boy, so anxious was he to see what was happening in the court.
There were a clamor of voices, a rustle of silks, a clanking of spurs and swords. Many averred that the lady was some well-known beauty infatuated by Lord Farquhart, playing merely for time. Others thought she might be lady to the real highwayman, whoever he was, and that she was about to force him to reveal himself. Some suggested that she might even be the highwayman himself. Lord Grimsby was trying to recall if ever he had heard of the devil guising himself as a young red-headed girl, covering himself, from horned head to cloven hoof, in azure velvet. Lord Farquhart still sat quite unmoved, seemingly as indifferent as ever to the world, apparently unmindful of his champion. Ashley’s face was black with rage, and he stood all alone in the midst of the crowd. Lady Barbara had flung aside her mask; her loosened cloak and its hood had fallen from her, but her white face was hidden behind her white hands. Jack Grimsby, Treadway, all of Farquhart’s friends, were watching eagerly, intently, the door through which the woman had disappeared, through which she or the real highwayman must reappear. There had been a movement to follow her, but this had been checked by Lord Grimsby’s voice. The word of the court had been given. Its word was not to be violated. The stranger should not be followed or spied upon. Lord Grimsby’s lips were working feverishly, and those nearest to him heard muttered imprecations and prayers, but prayers and imprecations were alike addressed to the ruler of the nether world.
Through the window that faced Lord Farquhart fluttered a faint breeze, and, suddenly, on its wings, floated a song caroled gayly by careless lips.
Lips that vie with the poppy’s hue,
Eyes that shame the violet’s blue,
Hearts that beat with love so true,
Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!
As the last line was reached, the window framed a figure; a figure that seemed as familiar to all as the voice that crossed the figure’s lips. And yet the figure was cloaked and hatted and masked in black.
“Lord Farquhart!” shouted a hundred voices, looking from the motionless prisoner to the picture in the window.
“Percy, Percy!” screamed the Lady Barbara, and it was to the window that her arms were stretched.
“The devil!” shouted Lord Grimsby, wavering back from the thrice encountered fiend.
“Yes, the devil, the Black Devil,” laughed the voice in the window. “But not Lord Farquhart, not your Percy, Lady Barbara. For he sits there as innocent as all the rest of you. But there’s your purse, Lord Grimsby; your purse and your seal and your rings that I took last night!” He flung the articles toward Lord Grimsby. “And there’s your broidered gauntlet, that you gave somewhat easily, my Lady Barbara.” The glove fell at Lady Barbara’s feet. “And here’s one of my lord bishop’s rings that I sent not back with the rest. I have five minutes more by your own word, Lord Grimsby. After that I’m yours – if you can take me!”
XX
The king’s guards, and the motley crowd that followed them, found no one on any road round about the court save Johan, the player’s boy, riding in most ungainly fashion on Mistress Judith’s nag in the direction of the Ogilvie woods. He had seen naught, he had heard naught, of any fugitive highwayman. He shivered and crossed himself when the Black Devil’s name was mentioned. He even begged one of the guards to mount and ride behind him until they should be beyond the danger zone, assuring the fellow that Mistress Judith would reward him well if he saved her favorite horse from the highwayman’s clutches.
At practically the same moment, Master Lindley came upon Johan, the player’s boy, stupidly asleep at the end of the lane, quite unmindful of the commotion that surged about him.
When Lindley had shaken him into some semblance of wakefulness, he only stammered:
“Ay, ay, Master Lindley, I know you. But I know naught of last night save that I sat late over my supper. I’ve not seen Mistress Judith to-day, at all. Yes, she’s spoken much of Lord Farquhart, but I know naught of him. Now I – ” And he had already drowsed off into sleep.
It was the first time that Lindley had ever seen the player’s boy by the light of day, and he was shocked by the sickly pallor of the lad’s face. The thin lips were feverishly bright and his black curls straggled across his brow. It was a stupid face, too, but Lindley could not stop then to marvel at the discrepancy between the clever brain and its covering. Instead he hurried eagerly after the throng that was in vain pursuing the gentleman highwayman, who seemed to possess the devil’s luck, if he were not, in reality, the devil himself.
XXI
Lord Farquhart’s imprisonment, his trial, his escape, had suffered the fate of all nine day wonders. There were some busybodies in London who occasionally commented on the fact that the Black Devil no longer frequented the highways, but they were answered by others who declared that, doubtless, the gentleman was otherwise amused. And those who commented and those who answered might and might not have had double meanings in their words.
As it happened, Lord Farquhart was otherwise engaged. His marriage to the Lady Barbara had been solemnized quite simply down at Gordon’s Court, and Lord and Lady Farquhart were enjoying a honeymoon on the continent. Harry Ashley was balked not only of his lady but also of his revenge, and his own black looks seemed to encounter naught save black looks in others, so he had taken himself out of the way. No one knew or cared whither.
Otherwise, the life and gossip of the town had returned to its wonted serenity. Everyone was moving on quietly and calmly in dead level ruts save Cecil Lindley. He found serenity in nothing. He could do nothing quietly or calmly. Twice he had communicated directly with his cousin, Mistress Judith, and twice she had returned his communications unread. In a personal interview with his uncle, Master James Ogilvie, he fared no better. Judith’s father shook his head over Judith’s obstinacy, but declared he could not shake her will.
There seemed nothing in all the world for Lindley to do save to wander back and forth on the roads that lay between Ogilvie’s woods and London, hoping to meet thereon some chance that would lead him to his lady’s feet or something that would open his lady’s heart to him. And then, quite suddenly, when he had almost given up hope of ever winning word with her or look from her, he received a note written in her round, clerkly hand, saying that she would meet him at two o’clock of the afternoon of Thursday, the twentieth day of November, at the tavern known as The Jolly Grig, the tavern hosted by Marmaduke Bass.
As it happened, by chance or by Mistress Judith’s own will, the lady was first at the inn. The room was quite empty and deserted. The hour named for the tryst savored little of conviviality. The rotund innkeeper slumbered peacefully in front of his great hearth, and small patches of November sunshine lay on the floor, while merry November motes danced in the yellow beams.
Johan, the player’s boy, had said that Mistress Judith was no beauty; but no one in all England would have agreed with that verdict had they seen her lightly poised on the threshold of the old inn, the gray plumes of her high crowned riding hat nodding somewhat familiarly to the motes in the sunshine. Her gray velvet riding skirt was lifted high enough to reveal her dainty riding boots; her hair, bright and burnished as a fox’s coat, fell in curls about her shoulders, and mischief gleamed from her tawny eyes, even as mischief parted her red lips over teeth as white as pearl. It almost seemed as though she were about to cross the room on tiptoe, and yet she stopped full in the doorway, sniffing the air with dainty nostrils, before she turned back to meet her father, who followed close on her footsteps.
“Faugh!” she cried, shrugging her shoulders, holding a kerchief to her nose. “Why, the place reeks of wine and musty ale. A pretty place, I must say, for a lover’s tryst.”
“But, Judith, my love,” remonstrated her father, “the place is of your own choosing. You stated that ’twas here you’d meet your cousin Lindley, and nowhere else. Surely you’re not going to blame him if a tavern reeks of a tavern’s holdings.”
“In truth, I fancy I’ll blame my cousin Lindley for whatsoever I choose to blame him,” answered the girl, her small mouth seeming but a scarlet line over her dainty chin, under her tilting nose. She was still standing in the black frame of the doorway, her merry eyes noting each detail of the room within, still excluding her father from the place.
“I hope, Judith, my dear, as I’ve said a hundred times, that you’ve not induced your cousin to meet you here merely that you may flout him.” The words evidently cost Master Ogilvie great effort. “For my sake – ”
“Flout him!” laughed the girl. “Flout my cousin Lindley!” Then her voice grew suddenly serious. Turning, she put both hands caressingly on her father’s shoulders. “Let us pray Heaven, rather, that there be no flouting on either side!” She bent her head slightly and kissed him on either cheek. Then her serious mood fled as quickly as it had come. “Though I’m in no way bound to give my reason for choosing a wayside inn for this meeting with my cousin – you’ll admit, sir, that I’m not bound so to do? Well, I’ve no objection to telling you that I meet him here so that, if I like him not, I can leave him on the instant. If I had him come to my own house, if I met him anywhere save on the common ground of a public place, and liked him not, or saw that he liked me not at all – why, there would be certain courtesies due from a lady to a gentleman, and I choose not to be held by those. And – and I may have had another reason for choosing The Jolly Grig, and then – I may not. But I think, sir, that the innkeeper solicits your attention.”
Marmaduke Bass had, for several moments, been hovering officiously in the wake of Master James Ogilvie.
“It’s many a day since I’ve seen your honor at The Jolly Grig,” murmured Marmaduke, with a certain obsequious familiarity that he reserved for old and well-known patrons.
“Ay, I’ve had little time for jollity this many a year,” agreed Master Ogilvie, with a ponderous wink behind his daughter’s back. “My hands and my head have been full.”
Judith’s small nose was still sniffing the air while she moved lightly about the long, dark room.
“I – I like not the smell of your place, Master – Master – ”
“’Tis Marmaduke Bass, my love,” interrupted her father.
“Ah, yes,” she assented. “I’d forgotten for the moment. This hearth has an air of comfort, though, and as for this chair – ” She had seated herself in the chair that fronted Marmaduke’s settle. “Ah, Master Bass, I should say that your chair would induce sleep.” She yawned luxuriously, and her feet, in their dainty riding boots, were stretched over far in front of her for a well-brought-up damsel. But it must not be forgotten that Mistress Judith Ogilvie had been brought up quite apart from other girls, quite without a woman’s care. “If I were only a man, now,” she continued, “I’d call for a glass of – what would I ask for, Master Bass? Would it be Geldino’s sherris or Canary Malmsey, or would I have to content myself with a royal port lately brought from France?” She sprang to her feet, laughing gayly, while old Marmaduke scratched his head, wondering of what her words reminded him. She touched his shoulder lightly and added: “If my father calls for wine, later – later, mind you, we’ll have the sherris, Geldino’s own.”
Her words and Marmaduke’s efforts to collect his thoughts were interrupted here by the clatter of horse’s hoofs in the court. The next instant Lindley was entering the room.
“I’m not late?” he cried. “Surely, I’m not late?”
“No, my boy, ’tis not yet two,” Master Ogilvie answered, hurriedly, but Judith answered nothing. She still stood in front of the deep hearth. “Come, come, Judith, girl,” cried her father, “surely you need no introduction to Cecil Lindley?”
“No, surely I know my cousin well.” The girl’s voice fell soft and full of singing notes as a meadow lark’s. “But I think he questions if he knows me.”
Her brown eyes were on a level with his, and he was remembering at that instant that Johan had said Mistress Judith’s lips would be level with his. Ay, they were level with his, and they were near his, too, for she had come straight to him and given him both her hands.
“Judith!”
That was all he said, and it seemed to the girl that he drew back, away from her. And possibly he did, for he knew that he must not draw her close, not yet, oh, not yet, anyway.
And after he had spoken that one word, after he had said her name, he seemed to find no words to offer her, and she looked for none. He still held her hands, however, and she still looked straight and deep into his eyes.
Once the red line of her mouth widened into a smile, once it twisted into a mutinous knot. But she would not speak, nor would she help him to find words.
Master Ogilvie and Marmaduke Bass had passed into the room behind the hearth. The girl and the man were alone.
“You are as familiar to me as my own self, Judith,” he said at last. “It seems to me that I have known you always, that we have never been apart.”
“And even to me, we seem not quite strangers,” answered the soft, singing voice that held the meadow lark’s notes.
“You wrote me that love lay all in the chance of meeting, Judith!” The man’s voice was tremulous with desire.
“Ay, so I believe it does,” she answered, her eyes falling for an instant before his.
“You said that you might meet me and find me the man of your heart’s desire, Judith.”
“Well, if love lies in chance, why might I not chance to love you?” Her words were brave, her eyes were again steady, were again deep in his, but the red line of her mouth was tremulous.
“When will you know, when will you tell me that I am the man of your heart’s desire, Judith? I – I love you, Judith.”
“Must I tell you unasked? Might you not ask me now and see?”
Her white lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and just for an instant the red lips that were level with his met his.
But suddenly the girl drew back, withdrew her hands from his. She had not meant to yield so easily. She had not meant to give so much. She had not meant to yield at all until Cecil knew – until he knew – why, certain things that he must know before he could take what she so longed to give.
“I – I must speak, my cousin, there is something I must tell you,” she faltered, and no one would have known the trembling voice for that of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.
“Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you will,” cried Lindley. “Your voice is music in my ears. Say that you love me, say it over and over, for whatever else you say, whatever else you tell me, that is all I’ll hear.”
“Nay, but, Master Lindley – ”
Cecil’s brain sprang to the sound, and all at once he seemed to recognize a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.
But then there fell upon their ears a clash of swords in the court. Lindley and the girl, standing near the window, were thrust aside by Master Ogilvie and the innkeeper.
“Mr. Ashley and his servant are quartered here,” sputtered the latter, “and like as not ’tis one of them. The man’s as quarrelsome as his master.”
“Aie!” cried Judith, suddenly, “’tis Johan, the player’s boy, and Johan cannot fight. He will be killed! Stop it, good Marmaduke. Have a care, boy! Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay, now, to the left! ’Fend yourself, Johan!”
“But if ’tis Johan, the player’s boy,” cried Lindley, “he needs no instructions. He’s master of the art of fighting.”
But Judith was heedless of the meaning in his words.
“He knows not one end of the sword from t’other,” she cried, impetuously, the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning far from the window, it seemed almost as though she fought with Johan’s sword, so fast her instructions followed one the other, so exactly her motions portrayed what he should do.
The fight in the yard was summarily stopped by the intervention of Marmaduke and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith, drawing back into the room, met Lindley’s eyes for just a second.
“Ah, what have I done?” she cried.
“Oh, Judith, Judith!” he exclaimed. “Johan, Johan, and I never for an instant knew it!”
“Ay, Johan, the player’s boy,” she answered. The words were almost a sob, and yet Lindley heard the same tremulous laugh that had rung through the woods the night when Johan had killed the highwayman. “Johan, the player’s boy, and Judith, the play actor!”
“But – ”
“No, there is no but,” she answered, quickly. “’Twas that, too, that I was trying to tell you. But I’ve been Johan to you for all this time, though I’ve had to play so many parts. And love did lie in the chance of meeting, too. I loved you when first I laid eyes on you, when I lay feigning sleep in that chair by the hearth, when Lord Farquhart entertained his guests, when you took my part and begged that I might be let to sleep, when you vouched for my conscience. And I think my conscience should have wakened then, but it did not. And I loved you even more that same night when we rode through the moonlit roads together, when you vowed to win Judith’s love in spite of Judith’s hate. See, I’ve the golden crown you threw to Johan to bind your bargain with him.” She drew from her bosom the golden piece of money strung on a slender chain.
Her words had poured forth so tumultuously that Lindley had found no chance to interrupt. Now he said, almost mechanically, the first words that had occurred to him.
“You were the lad asleep in the chair that night?” He was holding her close, as though she might escape him.
“Ye-es,” she answered, faintly, “and – and, oh, Cecil, shall I tell you all? I was Johan all the time, you know. You only saw the real Johan twice; once that night at the edge of our woods, when he told you that I had gone to London, and – and once on the day of the trial, when you saw him asleep at the end of the lane. And – and – of course you know that I disguised myself as the Lady Barbara that night in hopes of gaining a word with Lord Farquhart. I did that well, did I not, Cecil?” There was a touch of bravado in the voice for a second, but it quickly grew tremulous once more. “’Tis harder to be a woman than a man, I think, harder to play a woman’s part than a man’s. And – well, I was the woman in the court who stopped Lord Grimsby’s sentence. ’Twas Lady Barbara’s gown that she had ready for her wedding journey with Lord Farquhart. It was a beautiful gown, did you not think so?” Again the bravado quivered in and out of her voice. “I ruined it outright, for Johan and I shoved it, gown and hat and all, under Star’s saddle cloth, and I rode on it all the way from London to Ogilvie’s woods, with a king’s guard mounted behind for part of the way. I’ve played all those parts, Cecil, and it’s been a wearying, worrisome thing, part of the time, with quick work and rapid changes, but it’s all over now. I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve done with mumming forever.”
“And those are all the parts you’ve played?” Lindley’s question was almost careless, for he was tasting again the girl’s sweet lips.
“No,” she answered, slowly, with long hesitations between the words. “There was one other. But – but must you know all, every one?” For an instant the eyes and lips were mutinous.
“All, every one, sweetheart,” he answered.
“Well,” she said, slowly again and with still longer hesitations, “there was one other, but – but ’twas – well, the blackest kind of a black devil that tempted me, that led me on, that showed me the excitement of it all, that taught me the ease of escape and flight!”
“A – a – black devil!” Cecil was echoing her words, and yet Judith was well aware that not yet did he know the truth.
“Ay, a black devil,” she answered. “The Black Devil himself. I was the Black Devil. I was that black highwayman. But ’twas only a joke of a highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when I held up all those stupid, cowardly lords. Only a joke when I frightened the poor old bishop. Only a joke when I made Grimsby come to poor Jack’s rescue. Only a joke to frighten Barbara. It was all a joke, until I knew what a scrape I’d got Lord Farquhart into. And then I knew I had to rescue Farquhart. And rescue him I did. So I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never injured anyone. I robbed no one really, you know, and, oh, Cecil, Cecil, can’t you see that ’twas only done for fun, all of it? And it’s all gone from me now, gone from me forever, every bit of it. And, Cecil, it’s love, love for you, that’s exorcised it. Even the devil himself can be exorcised by love. Even the Black Devil himself can be exorcised by the kind of love I have for you.”
It was not only her words that pleaded. Love itself pleaded in the tawny eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging hands, and in very truth it is doubtful if the devil himself could have found place between her lips that clung to his, within his arms that clasped her close.
And in Geldino’s sherris, opened by Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only repeated a former toast, offered in the same place; for, with laughing eyes on Judith’s, he said:
“Shall we drink once more, and for the last time, to the Gentleman of the Highways?”