"My dear Paul,—I received your first letter, but was away from home at the time, so was unable to answer it. Pardon my delay. You need not worry about the man Zuker. I am kept informed as to his movements."With regard to your master Mr. Weevil, I quite agree with you—I cannot think that he has anything to do with a traitor to his country, though appearances may be against him. At any rate, till anything is distinctly proved, give him the respect due to a scholar and a gentleman."To turn to other and more agreeable matters. I trust that Harry is getting on well. He seems too busy to write much. And when he does write, it's nothing but 'Plunger, Plunger, Plunger,' from start to finish. You would fancy there was nobody else but Plunger in existence. Tell him that when he can get away from Plunger we shall be very glad to hear from him again."I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew Stanley. I only hope that Harry will find as good and worthy a friend. Tell Stanley that he has to come here during next vacation, and bring you with him. I think we shall be able to provide you with plenty of amusement, though I can't promise you it will be of so exciting a kind as you had last vacation.—Your sincere friend,"Walter Moncrief."
"My dear Paul,—I received your first letter, but was away from home at the time, so was unable to answer it. Pardon my delay. You need not worry about the man Zuker. I am kept informed as to his movements.
"With regard to your master Mr. Weevil, I quite agree with you—I cannot think that he has anything to do with a traitor to his country, though appearances may be against him. At any rate, till anything is distinctly proved, give him the respect due to a scholar and a gentleman.
"To turn to other and more agreeable matters. I trust that Harry is getting on well. He seems too busy to write much. And when he does write, it's nothing but 'Plunger, Plunger, Plunger,' from start to finish. You would fancy there was nobody else but Plunger in existence. Tell him that when he can get away from Plunger we shall be very glad to hear from him again.
"I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew Stanley. I only hope that Harry will find as good and worthy a friend. Tell Stanley that he has to come here during next vacation, and bring you with him. I think we shall be able to provide you with plenty of amusement, though I can't promise you it will be of so exciting a kind as you had last vacation.—Your sincere friend,
"Walter Moncrief."
A great feeling of relief came over Paul when he read the first part of this letter. There was nothing to worry about Zuker. Mr. Moncrief was kept informed of his movements; and yet, and yet——If Mr. Moncrief knew of his movements, why, in the name of wonder, did he not arrest him? But perhaps there were reasons against it. In any case, the answer was satisfactory, and he felt relieved.
It was with far different feelings he read the last part of the letter.
"I know the great friendship existing between you and Stanley," Paul read again, with sorrow. "I only hope that Harry will find as good a friend."
And the message? What was he to do with the message Mr. Moncrief had asked him to deliver to Stanley? He turned the letter over and over in his hand. He must deliver it to him somehow.
"Stanley must answer it; not I. I will give it to his cousin."
As he passed along the corridor a deep groan came from one of the dormitories. It sounded like some one in pain. He stopped and listened. A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. He opened the door softly and looked in. The dormitory was to all appearances empty.
"Strange! My ears must have deceived me," thought Paul.
He was on the point of retreating when the sound came again to his ears.
"No; I wasn't mistaken," he said, stepping softly into the room and closing the door after him. "It was somebody, but who?"
He looked round, puzzled. There was no one visible. He stood perfectly still and waited. A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. But this time he detected whence it came. It came from under one of the cubicles. He crossed to it and looked underneath. A boy was huddled up on the floor. One glance was sufficient to tell him who it was—it was Master Plunger.
"Here. Plunger, come out of that!"
Plunger did not attempt to move.
"Come out of that, I tell you!"
As Plunger still refused to move, Paul took him by the leg and hauled him out.
Such a woebegone Plunger it was! His wiry thatch was more dishevelled than usual. The eyebrows seemed to have made a more desperate attempt than ever to invade the territory of the forehead. The self-assurance which had been the distinguishing mark of Plunger's manner had gone.
"Le' me go—le' me go!" he groaned. "I want to die!"
"Die!" Paul could scarcely refrain from laughing. "There's not much of that about you! You're not one of those whom 'the gods love,' so you'll never die young, Plunger. What have you been up to? I believe you've been smoking."
This accusation brought Plunger to a sitting posture on the bed.
"I haven't been smoking—I haven't been smoking! It's the flag!"
"What about the flag?"
"I angled for it, and thought I'd hooked it; but I hadn't. Some other fellow had; so instead of hooking the flag I got a beastly swishing. That's not all. I shall get roasted all round, and, of course, the Two J.'s will be poking fun at me in the 'Gargoyle Record.' I'd like to know who the fellow was who got the flag. Have you heard?"
"I have heard, but I haven't time to go into it just now. Your friend Moncrief minor can tell you all about it. Cheer up, Plunger, and don't talk any more about dying."
Paul hurried off, leaving Plunger to digest the scanty information he had given him as best he could.
"Now for Stan!" he said, as he made his way to the common room, but little dreaming what was there in store for him.
As Paul approached the common-room, the sound of voices came through the open door, and clear above the hubbub rose the voice of some one making free use of his name. He knew the voice well enough. It was Stanley's. Why were they discussing him?
On entering the room, the voices ceased as by magic. Every eye was turned in his direction. Several boys were gathered round the fireplace. Foremost in the group were Newall, Parfitt, and Stanley.
"I thought I heard my name?" Paul exclaimed, as he stepped into the room.
"Quite right," said Stanley, coming from the group and confronting him. "I've been looking for you."
Paul was on the point of saying that he also had been looking for Stanley, but the silence that followed Stanley's words, the concentrated gaze of that group of boys, and, above all, the face of Stanley himself—white, yet with a burning, feverish light in the eyes—kept back the words.
"Looking for me?" he repeated.
"Yes; I did hope that I should never have to speak to you again, but one or two things that have just happened make me. All the fellows here know how much it's against the grain."
Paul's face fell. He had come in search of Stanley with the hope of bringing about a reconciliation. That hope receded in an instant to the far distance.
"If it's against the grain, I wonder you should trouble," he could not help answering.
"Oh, we have to swallow things we don't like sometimes." Then he broke off into a tone of banter. "So you've brought the flag back to Garside?"
Paul did not answer. He was only conscious that the group had drawn closer to him, and that Stanley's eyes were burning at a fiercer heat. It seemed some other than Stanley who was speaking. He had assumed the tone and manner of Newall; but he was forcing himself into a part which did not suit him, so that he acted it badly.
"The worst of Percival is that he's so modest. He doesn't know what a smart thing he's done," went on Stanley. "It isn't to be wondered at that the kids of the Third and Fourth have been cheering him like mad. Why should we be left out in the cold, eh?"
"Why?" echoed Parfitt. "Let's give him a rouser."
Parfitt led off the cheers—cheers which fell with a hollow sound on Paul's ears, for he knew well enough they were only mocking him.
"When we hear about a smart thing, we're naturally anxious to know how it was done," jeered Parfitt.
"Naturally," echoed Newall, followed by cries of assent from the rest.
"Order! Order for Percival!" exclaimed Stanley, holding up his hand for silence.
Silence instantly reigned. You might have heard a pin drop as they waited for Paul to speak; but they waited in vain. He neither spoke nor moved. He was not thinking of himself, nor of the boys that stood around him. He had ears and eyes for Stanley, and no other. It was a transformed Stanley—not the Stanley he had once known.
"Lost your tongue?" cried Stanley, breaking the silence. "Come, out with it. We can't wait here all day! How did you manage to get hold of the flag? Who had it, and how did you get it back to Garside? Don't be so awfully modest? You've hidden your light under a bushel too long."
"The flag is back at Garside," answered Paul firmly, ignoring the taunt. "For the rest you had better ask Mr. Weevil. I don't owe any explanation to you or any other fellow in the Form!"
He turned away, but Stanley sprang between him and the door.
"That won't do? You do owe us an explanation, and I mean having it!"
"You?"
There was more of sorrow than anger in Paul's voice, but to the sensitive ears of Stanley, strung to the highest tension, it sounded strangely like contempt.
"I! What were you doing with the Beetle we saw you with near the sand-pits this afternoon?"
"The Beetle you ran away from, you know," added Newall. "The Beetle you left Moncrief to fight for you!"
This wholly unnecessary piece of information sent the scarlet back for a moment into the white face of Stanley. His hands opened spasmodically; then closed in a firmer grip than before.
The gibe acted differently on Paul. He recalled that Stanley had really suffered for him; he recalled too, the note of warning that had been left for him in his dormitory. Perhaps, after all, it had been written by Stanley? The Stanley he had once known as a friend. And there came over him the old longing to clasp him by the hand.
"I will try to explain to you if you will meet me somewhere alone," he said, drawing near to Stanley, and speaking in a little more than a whisper.
"Speak out! I want no secrets!" cried Stanley.
"All the fellows in the Form have as much right to hear as I have! What I can hear they can hear! I don't want to go about sneaking and whispering in corners!"
Murmurs of applause greeted this expression of opinion.
"If that's the way you look at it," answered Paul sorrowfully, "the thing's ended. I've nothing more to say."
"But I have, and you must hear—must!" repeated Stanley, with emphasis, as Paul tried to pass him. "It's your honour I'm thinking of, as much as the honour of the school. Do you know what they are saying?"
"I don't know or care," came the swift answer. "As for my honour, it can very well take care of itself."
"Like it did at the sand-pits," put in Parfitt, amid an outburst of laughter.
Paul bit his lip to keep back the angry words that sprang to his tongue. And the gibe went again as a poisoned shaft to the wound that was lying as a canker in the breast of Stanley.
"Well, we'll leave your honour out of it, if you don't care to stick up for it. But there's the honour of the school, and do you know what they're saying? They're saying that the flag business was all a dodge—that it's been engineered between you and the Beetle you would not stand up to in the sand-pits!"
"Engineered! How do you mean?" demanded Paul, staggered by this fresh accusation.
"That it was all arranged between you and the Beetle."
"I—I can't quite see. I don't understand. Do you mean——"
"Let him have it straight; so that he can't wriggle out of it!" exclaimed Newall, as Paul paused, unable to get out the words that came as a torrent to the lips.
"I mean that the theft of the flag was arranged between you and that fellow at St. Bede's; and that it's come back again by the same clever piece of trickery."
"Is that what they're saying?" demanded Paul.
"That's what they're saying."
"And—and—what do you say, Stan?" The name came out in a gulp.
Had Stanley only followed his better impulse, he would have answered:
"I don't believe it. Though appearances are against you, I cannot believe it. I still have faith in you, as I used to have. We have wandered apart, but Garside has never been what it was since we ceased to speak. I have been unhappy—miserable."
But the gibes of Newall and Parfitt were still rankling in his breast. He seemed to feel again the blows of Wyndham on his face. So instead of answering as his better nature dictated, he replied:
"I stand by the Form. I say the same."
"Then it's a lie—a dirty lie. Let me pass."
Paul was choking. It would not so much have mattered what his Form said. He could trust to time to bring them round again; but that Stanley could have believed him guilty of such mean, despicable trickery—there was the sting. Stanley had felt the blows of Wyndham on his face, but that was as nothing to the torture endured at that moment by Paul. It was as a flail cutting deep down into his very flesh.
Stanley still barred the way to the door, and did not move.
"Let me pass!" came again the hoarse, choking cry.
Stanley did not budge. Neither did he answer. He was as dumb, as immovable, and as white as a block of marble. Paul could endure it no longer. He caught him by the arm to turn him aside. His touch started the statue before him into life. As though it were an insult to be wiped out, Stanley struck out blindly with his fist. Paul received the blow full on the face, and fell to the ground like a log.
It was a cruel blow. Stanley knew it the moment he had struck his one-time friend, and he would have given all he possessed to have recalled it. But it was too late.
"Well hit!" applauded Parfitt, as though Stanley had just made a brilliant drive in the cricket-field instead of striking his best friend.
"First knockdown and blood to Moncrief!" exclaimed Newall. "Oh, he's all right, Waterman. He doesn't want any help from you."
Waterman, who had been standing in the background, leaning in his usual indolent manner against the most comfortable corner of the fireplace, shook on his lethargy as Stanley struck the blow which felled Paul to the ground, and at once left his favourite spot by the fireplace and went to his assistance.
"Hurt, Percival?" he asked as, heedless of Newall's remarks, he wiped away the blood that was trickling down Paul's cheek.
Paul had been momentarily dazed by the unexpected blow; but he was strong, and soon shook the feeling off.
"Thanks, Waterman. No; I'm not hurt," he whispered, rising slowly to his feet.
The boys gathered round. The excitement had grown from the moment Paul had entered the room. From that instant the storm-clouds had begun to gather, and with the blow struck by Moncrief major they had burst.
What would happen?
"Steady yourself, Percival," whispered Waterman. "So—Are you sure you are all right?"
"Quite."
Waterman let go his arm. The blood still trickled down Paul's face, but he walked steadily up to Stanley, who had thrown up his arms in defence, as though expecting a return of the blow.
"You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said Paul calmly.
"He's moulting again—more feathers!" cried Newall.
"And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt.
"I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in the face; "but I'll pay you back again—some day."
Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back to his room, and sank upon his bed thinking. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek, and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above.
He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, strode indolently in—just for all the world as though he were coming to a picnic.
"It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs—ugh!" said Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat."
And without waiting for Paul to answer, Waterman dropped down, with his hands still in his pockets, beside him on the bed.
"It was very good of you to give me a helping hand just now, Waterman."
"Oh, humbug! I've got a wretched sort of memory. Fact is, it's too great a fag trying to recollect half the things crammed into you at school, but I seem to have a better memory than most fellows for some things. And there's one thing I can't forget—I can't forget you coming across the ground with that little chap, so like a drowned rat, in your arms. I shall have to be blind, deaf, and silly before I forget it."
Waterman spoke in his usual drawling tone, but its underlying note of earnestness was quite unusual. Strange that Paul, too, had just been thinking of Hibbert, but in a scene far different from that to which Waterman had referred. God had been very good to him after all. He had been thinking how utterly lonely he was, and yet a friend—true, a somewhat indolent one—had come to him in his hour of adversity.
"And look here, Percival," went on Waterman, "there's something else I remember. I don't know why, you know, but I do."
"What's that? Seems to me your memory's improving," said Paul.
"Oh, my memory's fairly good when it's not grubbing about amongst Latin roots, or making a fellow bald-headed worrying over problems invented by a fiend calling himself Euclid ever so many years ago. Why the undertakers couldn't have buried them along with old Euclid, or stowed them away with his mummy, is one of those things I could never understand. Then if people wanted to dig them up again, they'd have been in their right place—in the mummy department of the British Museum. Where was I? Oh, on memory. Yes, there's one thing I remember, in spite of the Latin roots and weary old Euclid. I recollect what you told me on that day when you surprised every one by turning tail at the sand-pits. I've kept it to myself all this time. Is it necessary to keep it a secret any longer?"
"Yes, Waterman," answered Paul firmly.
"Why? Let me set you right with the Form? It'll be an awful fag, I know. Still, the vac's coming on, and one can have a good long rest after one's pulled through."
"No, Waterman," said Paul, shaking his head; "I'm not going to curry favour that way. You've been a friend to me—a friend where I least expected to find one. Bear with me a little longer."
"But you don't understand the dust that Newall, Parfitt & Co. are kicking up? Can't you see that they've got Moncrief major completely under their thumb? They'll make Garside too hot to hold you."
"We'll see. I'm not beaten yet."
"Better let me speak," persisted Waterman.
Paul shook his head.
"I give you up. You are worse than old Euclid!" exclaimed Waterman, plunging his hands deeper into his pockets.
With a yawn he strolled towards the door, edged his shoulder round it until he had opened it wide enough for his body to pass through, closed it by a like man[oe]uvre, and with the same measured step went on his way.
"After all, I've got one friend at Garside," thought Paul, with a smile, "though he does like to take his time over things."
He looked in the glass. His cheek was swollen and bruised. His appearance was very much what Stanley's had been when he had returned from the sand-pits after his encounter with Wyndham.
"I hope Stanley is satisfied," he said, smiling grimly at himself in the glass.
Then he remembered that he hadn't carried out the purpose for which he had gone to the common room. He had gone there for the purpose of speaking to him about Mr. Moncrief's letter. It was useless to think of doing so now. He would put the letter in his desk till a more convenient season. His hand went to his pocket. The letter had gone!
The old feeling came over him that had come over him on the day when he had lost that other letter on his way to Redmead. It had disappeared from his pocket just as mysteriously. He looked around. There was no trace of it in the room. Then he remembered that he had pulled out his handkerchief in the common room to staunch the blood from his cheek. He must have pulled out the letter with it.
It would not have mattered much had it been an ordinary letter. But it was not an ordinary one. Far from it. It contained references to Zuker and Mr. Weevil which might cause no end of mischief were it to get into the wrong hands.
He did not like the idea of returning to the common room; it was like swallowing a nauseous draught of medicine. Probably the boys were still there, laughing over his discomfiture. Yet, nauseous though the draught was, it had to be swallowed, and it was best to swallow it quickly.
So he again descended to the common room. He faintly hoped that it might be deserted, but that hope vanished as he reached the room. This time he heard the voice of Newall. He paused for a moment; then went boldly forward.
Stanley had gone—he saw that at a glance; so had most of the others; but Newall, Parfitt, and two or three more had remained, and were evidently discussing recent events.
They could not have been more startled had a ghost entered, instead of a being of flesh and blood. Paul searched round the room in the hope of finding some trace of the missing letter, but found none.
"Dotty!" came the voice of one of the boys, who had by this time recovered from their surprise at the unexpected return of Paul.
"Looking for the courage that oozed out at his heels," sneered Parfitt.
"I've lost a letter," said Paul, on whom these facetious remarks were quite lost. "You don't happen to have seen it?"
No one answered him. They stared blankly at him. They did not mind speaking at him. Speaking to him was quite a different thing.
It was perfectly useless to expect an answer from them; so Paul went out, feeling far from comfortable. He could only hope that no bad use would be made of the letter, supposing it had fallen into their hands.
The Gargoyle Recordcame out next day. Among other items of information were the following:
"Old flag back to tower. Brought back by 'two P's' of the Fifth. Great enthusiasm—little waddlers of the Third cheering like lunatics; big cacklers of the Fifth hissing like geese. Mystery in three volumes. Vol. I.—How the flag disappeared from Garside. Vol. II.—Where it went to. Vol. III.—How 'two P's' got it back again. Snorters of the Fifth getting excited. A commission of inquiry into the conduct of 'two P's.'
"Rumours of a scrum in common room. 'Two P's' again distinguishes himself. Still living up to his old motto:
"He who fights and runs awayWill live to fight another day."
"He who fights and runs awayWill live to fight another day."
"What has become of that promising junior whose name rhymes with hunger? Nothing has been seen or heard of him for the last day or two. What has come over him? His native modesty seems to have left him. He has retreated to a back seat. Is he projecting further adventures in desert islands, or giving lessons in punting? Anxious inquiries are being made at the offices of theRecord. Colonial papers in the neighbourhood of desert islands, please copy."
Paul, on reading these paragraphs, knew well enough who was meant by "two P's." They were the initials of his own name—Paul Percival.
But his mind was taken from these happenings by a message from the sick-room. Hibbert had been up for a few hours each day, and had pleaded hard with the doctor to be allowed to go out; so the doctor at last gave the nurse permission. On two days the invalid went out with the nurse.
On the third day he asked Paul, as a special favour, to take him out. Paul willingly consented, only too pleased to feel that he could be of some help to him again. There was one favourite spot to which the solitary boy used to go when he was well. It was in the garden attached to the schoolhouse, apart altogether from the playing-fields. It was marked "Private," and the boys, as a rule, were not allowed there. It was chiefly used by the masters.
It was because it was so tranquil, so different from the playing-fields, and because the sun seemed to linger around this old garden longer than anywhere else, that the dreamy boy loved it, and used to steal there when he was well.
"I'm so glad to feel you on my arm again, Hibbert!" said Paul, as he led him to a basket-seat, with cushions, beneath a wide-spreading elm.
"I feel better now than I've felt for a long time, Paul. How I must have wearied people lying up there!"
He glanced in the direction of the school.
"Don't say that, Hibbert. It sounds as though there was no one in the world who cared for you."
"I know it sounds ungrateful; but even when we care for people, we must get weary of them when they're ill a long time. I don't mean you, but the nurse, and doctor, and—other people."
Paul knew that Hibbert was thinking chiefly of his father, who, absorbed in his own schemes, had only been to see him once since his illness—on that afternoon when Mr. Weevil had introduced him to Zuker.
To turn the boy's mind from these sad thoughts, Paul told him some of the latest exploits of Plunger, winding up with his recent discovery of him under the bed in his dormitory. Hibbert was amused and interested.
"Plunger's a funny lot. He makes me smile to think of him. I hope he's never worried himself much about that raft accident?"
"Plunger's not the sort of fellow to worry himself much about anything for long; but he's often asked me about you."
"I was thinking a good deal about what happened on the raft last night. I could not sleep for thinking of it; and then, when I went to sleep, I dreamed—dreamed that my mother was standing by me all in white. She was smiling down at me, and held out her arms to me. I tried to get to her, and in trying to get to her I awoke. Do you know, I was so disappointed! The dream was better than the awaking. I so wished my mother had lived, for then you would have known her, Paul. I'm sure you would have liked her, and that she would have liked you. But perhaps it is best as it is."
"I'm sure it's for the best, though it seems hard to say so. Everything is for the best, Hibbert. We don't see it, because we're only blind people leading the blind. But God sees, and God knows. That's what my mother has told me so often that I've never forgotten it. It has helped me a lot—more than I can tell you. You've talked about your mother, let me tell you a little about my own."
And Paul talked to Hibbert about his own mother. The boy listened eagerly, with one hand resting in Paul's, a smile upon his lips. Suddenly he drew a deep sigh of content; the fragile head fell back upon the chair; the hand in Paul's grew suddenly cold.
Paul looked into the boy's face. The smile still hovered about his lips, but he saw something in the face he had never seen there before.
"Hibbert!" he cried. But there was no response.
Paul gently withdrew his hand and ran to the house. He met Sedgefield, and sent him for the nurse, while he hurried back to Hibbert.
The little fellow was still lying back in the chair. A wren had perched itself lovingly upon his shoulder, but Hibbert knew nothing of its presence. He was fast asleep—in the long, last sleep that knows no waking.
Hibbert's death caused a lull in the storm that recent events had raised at Garside. Notwithstanding his illness, it was thought that he was getting better. It came, therefore, with a shock to the school when he was found sleeping that afternoon in the garden. The little fellow was laid to rest in a country churchyard, at some distance from the school, by the side of the mother whom he had so loved.
No one in the school, with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Weevil, missed him so much as Paul did. He had a great pity for Hibbert, and that pity had grown to love. He never forgot that last scene in the garden—in the warm sunshine, with the shadows creeping over it, and the Great Shadow of all drawing nearer and nearer, until it at last rested on the boy's head.
Nor did he forget the interview he afterwards had with Mr. Weevil, when, with tones that were strangely uneven for Mr. Weevil, he had questioned him about all that Hibbert had said in those last moments before he had fallen asleep. When Paul told him what the boy had said about his mother—of his dream, and the awakening—the master's eyes blinked as he had never seen them blink before.
"Ah! He has his wish; he is with her—with his mother," said the master, as one speaking to himself rather than to Paul. "He is at rest and—happy."
Then he remained silent for so long, as one buried in deep thought, that he seemed to have quite forgotten the presence of Paul. Paul knew of whom he was thinking; that he, too, was thinking of the boy's mother—the sister whom he had loved and reverenced; so he stole quietly from the room.
During this time Paul saw nothing of Hibbert's father. He wondered whether he was still carrying on his schemes in the cave, or whether the death of his son had altered his plans in any way. In any case, Paul felt no cause for alarm. The letter of Mr. Moncrief had removed all cause for anxiety. None the less he could not help feeling anxious as to what had become of the letter itself. Where had it gone to on that day it had fallen from his pocket? Into whose hands had it fallen? Had it fallen into the hands of the enemy, Newall and his lot? If so, what use were they making of it?
He was still left pretty much to himself, so he was able to put the finishing touches to his essay on "The Invasion of Great Britain," a subject, as the reader knows, which had occupied some share of his time and attention. Then the essay was sent in with others for the competition.
The breach between him and Stanley, as may be imagined, had not been lessened by what had happened between them in the common room. Stanley avoided him as much as possible, and they never spoke.
After the momentary lull in the storm caused by the death of Hibbert, it broke out again more violently than ever. This was due to the fact that Mr. Weevil had made no inquiry, or seemed to have made no inquiry, into the circumstances which had brought about the return of the flag. Newall and his parasite Parfitt said it was a disgrace to the school.
Thus the storm, which had momentarily lulled, broke out with fresh vigour. While it was at its height, the Fifth once more assembled in the Forum. Hasluck presided, as usual, and the rest of the Form, with one exception—Paul—were present. Arbery and Leveson guarded the door against invasion from "the little beggars of the Third and Fourth."
Hasluck mounted the rostrum, and brought his mallet down with a bang as a signal that the meeting had commenced.
"Now then, you fellows, order! I'm not going to spout a lot——"
"Couldn't if you tried!" put in Devey.
"Look here, Devey, are you in the chair, or am I? If you don't keep quiet, I'll chuck the mallet at you," said Hasluck, raising it threateningly. "As I said before, till I was interrupted by an ass braying, I'm not going to spout a lot. What we've got to do is to get to business, and most of you know what that business is."
"Hear, hear, hear!"
"Most of you were present in the common room when certain charges were made against Percival by Moncrief major. He told Percival to his face that the flag business was all a dodge; that it was engineered between him and the champion of the Beetles. Percival denied it; but you know what happened after that. Moncrief struck him, and Percival went away with his tail between his legs just as he did at the sand-pits. We were all disgusted——"
"All!" echoed the others, with the exception of Waterman, who was reclining languidly on a box, apparently quite unconcerned in what was going on.
"We were all disgusted, and decided to take some action which would bring matters to a point. Unfortunately, Hibbert died just then, and we could do nothing. We were obliged to wait a decent interval. The time for waiting's past." (Cheers.) "We've got to get to business. Moncrief major will explain."
Stanley, with white, set face, was standing between Newall and Parfitt. After the charge he had made against Paul at Newall's instigation, and the blow that had followed it, he had been forced into a position from which it was impossible for him to retreat. First he had been adroitly forced into the position of being Paul's accuser; and now, with no less adroitness, he had been compelled to take a step which struck more cruelly at his friend.
"Oh, I haven't much to explain," he said, in a thick, unnatural voice. "As Hasluck has said, we all decided to take action after what happened in the common room. Hibbert's death prevented us. I think you know what that action is. We're going to call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school."
A loud cheer greeted this announcement. There could be no doubt as to the feeling of the Form, and that Stanley had voiced it.
"Move, move!" came from several of the boys, when the cheers had subsided.
"Yes, we must have everything in order," said Hasluck. "It's about the first time that we've ever called upon the masters to expel a fellow."
Stanley hesitated. How was it possible for him to strike at Paul again—this time behind his back!
"Get on—move! What are you stopping for?" demanded Parfitt, nudging him with his elbow. "I'll back you up."
"Get on," repeated Newall, nudging him from the other side.
"I—I move," said Stanley, in faltering tones, "that we call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school."
"And I second!" cried Parfitt.
"And I support!" exclaimed Newall.
"Hands up for!" demanded Hasluck.
"One minute before you vote," came the languid voice of Waterman, as the hands shot up. "You don't want to be in such a hurry. It's bad for the nerves. People in a hurry have fits. They get themselves into knots and tangles which take no end of time to get out of, and leave them with a lovely headache into the bargain. That's what you're going in for—fits, tangles, headaches. I gave Moncrief major credit for sense. You're not going to follow his lead, are you?"
The arms that were held up fell. The boys stared at Waterman in astonishment. It was not often that he took the trouble to speak at these meetings, but when he did it was usually to the point.
"Of course we are. Why shouldn't we?" exclaimed Parfitt.
"You'll be bigger asses than I took you for—and that's saying a good deal, you know—if you do. I didn't hear all that took place after Moncrief struck Percival. The atmosphere was getting bad, you see, and I don't like breathing bad atmosphere, if I can help it; so I don't know what passed between you fellows. I've no doubt it was something choice, and that I lost a great deal; so perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me why Percival's to be expelled."
This demand on Waterman's part, made in the most innocent manner, was met with howls of derision. They could never quite tell from Waterman's manner whether he was serious or poking fun at them; but this time it seemed quite clear that he could only be poking fun.
"Yes, that's very musical," proceeded Waterman calmly, when the howling had subsided. "I couldn't do better myself, if I tried. You're going to expel Percival because you believe he engineered the flag. That's it, isn't it?" (Cries of assent.) "Good! I like to get at things," retorted Waterman, still keeping his languid position on the box. "Engineering the flag means—what? It means that Percival, by trickery, got it away from Garside. Is that it?"
"Yes, yes!" came the approving shout.
"Well, vote as you like. Here's one that's going to vote against you."
"Why? What's your reason?"
"Because I happen to remember what happened on the day the flag was lost. Seems to me most of you have forgotten."
Waterman had started up from his languid position on the box; his face had lost its wearied, languid expression, and had become quite animated.
"I haven't, and never shall, though I never pretend to remember things; they're so beastly uninteresting, as a rule. This wasn't. That's why I remember, I suppose. Well, on the afternoon the flag was lost I was going from the school, when I nearly ran full tilt against a fellow who was carrying a little chap, dripping wet, in his arms. The fellow was Percival; the little chap was Hibbert. You know what happened, though you seem to have forgotten it. Percival, at the risk of his own life, saved the little chap from the river."
Stanley's head fell to his breast. The scene came to him as Waterman was speaking. Had he not met Paul on that day staggering along with his burden? Had he not avoided him, when he might have given a helping hand?
"What's that to do with it?" demanded Newall. "Supposing Percival did pull the youngster out of the river, what's that to do with the flag?"
"What's that to do with the flag!" repeated Waterman. "It's this to do with it—how could Percival be playing tricks with the flag, and fishing at the same time a poor little chap out of the river? Besides, would a fellow who'd done a splendid thing like that stoop to such a mean thing as the other?"
"Yes," retorted Newall boldly. "A fellow who would turn tail like he did at the sand-pits, and again in the common room, would do anything. It's you who forget, Waterman. We've asked Percival for an explanation. If he's innocent, why doesn't he explain?"
"I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. What I've seen of Percival is quite good enough for me."
"Vote, Vote!" cried Parfitt. "We don't want any more twaddle."
Hasluck brought down his hammer as a signal that discussion was at an end. Then he put the motion moved by Stanley—"That the Form call upon the Head to expel Percival from the school."
Stanley would have voted against his own proposal had it been possible. But it was impossible; so his hand went up with the rest—all save one.
"Against!" cried Hasluck.
Up went the hand of Waterman, amid the derisive cheers of those around him.
"Phew! The atmosphere of this place is getting beastly, just like the common room on the day when the shindy was. Phew! I don't wish to be unpolite, but I'm sure you fellows won't mind if I get out of it."
And thrusting his hands into his pockets, Waterman sauntered out.
So the vote was carried that Paul Percival should be expelled from Garside.
For one who had professed himself as beastly hot and fagged, Waterman did a strange thing after he had left the Forum. He walked with a speed that was simply amazing for him in the direction of St. Bede's; and what was still more remarkable, he did not stop until he had reached it. None of the Beetles were about at the time, but he had not long to wait before he caught sight of one of the junior form.
"Will you tell Wyndham I wish to see him—as quickly as possible."
The boy stared at him, as Murrell had stared at Paul when he had visited St. Bede's. It was not till he had repeated his message that he seemed to comprehend.
"Quick, there isn't much time to lose!" exclaimed Waterman, as though it were a matter of life and death.
Then the boy hurried off, and a minute or two later Wyndham appeared. Waterman was unknown to him; so that he was just as much astonished at seeing him as the smaller boy had been.
"I'm a Gargoyle, you can see that. My name's Waterman, and I've come here about a fellow named Percival. Spare me the fag of explaining too much."
"Percival! What about him!" demanded Wyndham, at once interested.
"There's a strong movement on foot to get him expelled from Garside. It's chiefly over the flag. His best friend, or one who was, has turned against him; and things are looking as black for Percival as they can look. I'm afraid that he'll get the worst of it, unless something's done. I can do nothing; so I've come to you. There's some beastly mystery about the whole business. Percival won't explain because of somebody else, and that somebody else is you. I'm certain you won't see Percival kicked from Garside, if a few words from you will set things right."
"Kicked from Garside!" exclaimed Wyndham. "Tell me what happened?"
Waterman, feeling that the time for speaking frankly had come, told Wyndham all that had happened—from the day Wyndham had fought and conquered Stanley in the sand-pits.
They remained a long time in conversation, and when Waterman at length returned to Garside, Wyndham returned with him.
In the meantime an interview of a different nature was taking place at Garside. After the meeting in the Forum, Stanley, feeling very wretched, had retreated to his dormitory, where in a few minutes he was joined by his cousin Harry, who was looking just as miserable and uncomfortable.
"I say, Stan, is it right what I hear—that Percival is to be kicked out of Garside?"
"Well, what if he is? Doesn't he deserve it?"
"I don't know. It's a puzzle. I can't make things out. Look at this letter. I picked it up while the shindy was going on between you and Paul in the common room. All the fellows were crowding round you. No one saw the letter but me. Paul dropped it when he was mopping the blood from his face. I ought to have given it back, but I saw that it was father's handwriting; so I sneaked off with it, and read it; and then—then I knew that I'd done a mean thing and did not like to give it back to Paul."
He handed Stanley the letter—the letter in which Mr. Moncrief had answered Paul's inquiries about Zuker and Mr. Weevil, and concluded by inviting him and Stanley to Redmead at the next vacation.
"What does it all mean?" demanded Stanley, when he had read the letter.
"I can't make out. I thought, perhaps, you might be able to throw light on it."
"I'm afraid not; but you might leave it with me. I'll think it over."
"All right; but I say, Stan, you must do something to prevent Paul being chucked from the school. That's going it a bit too strong. I know whose working that beastly dodge—Newall and his jackal Parfitt."
How could Stanley tell his cousin that it was he—Stanley Moncrief—who had actually moved that Paul should be expelled from the school? If it were possible for Stanley to have felt more wretched than he had felt when Harry came to him, he certainly did so when he was once more alone. "I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew Stanley." Those were the words which stared him in the face. Friendship? What mockery! How had he proved his friendship? By doing his best to get Paul expelled from the school. What would his uncle say to him when he next visited Redmead? It was to show him this letter Paul had doubtless come to him that day in the common room. And he had met him—with a blow. It was dastardly.
He must do his best to undo the mischief he had done. Stanley started up, and went to the door; then he paused, and his heart began to harden again.
After all, if mischief had been created, Paul was alone responsible. It was he, and not Stanley, who had acted in a dastardly manner. It was he who had run away at the sand-pits, and left him to fight his battle with the beastly Beetle; it was he——
His meditations were cut short by the door being opened, and the entrance of Waterman.
"Hallo, Moncrief. The very fellow I've been looking for. Horrid bore looking for fellows. Phew! Close in here, isn't it? You look a bit off. Come for a little stroll. I've got a fellow who's dying for an introduction to you."
Waterman slipped an arm through Stanley's, and before Stanley was aware of it, had led him through the door.
"A fellow—wants to be introduced to me! What fellow?" he demanded.
"Ah, that's it. What fellow? You'd never guess. It's a pleasant little surprise I've got in store for you. Think of all your rich uncles and aunts, and people of that sort. Ha, ha! A pleasant surprise, lovely, delightful. Mustn't spoil it by telling you. Come along."
Waterman's reference to uncles at once reminded Stanley of the uncle whose letter he had been reading. Could it be that his uncle Moncrief was paying him a surprise visit? But Waterman did not take him to the visitors'-room. He took him out of the grounds to some elms which flourished not far from the school. Here a boy was leaning against one of the trees. Stanley glanced at him; then turned white. It was Wyndham.
"Told you I had a little surprise," said Waterman. "Wasn't I right? I like little surprises—don't you? Explanations are an awful bore. I never like explanations if I can get out of them. Wyndham's got something to tell you. You'll find him very decent for a Beetle."
And Waterman vanished with a speed which was really marvellous for him, leaving the two together. The last time they had met face to face they had met as antagonists, and had fought hard. The memory of that time was present to both of them, for neither seemed anxious to break the silence.
"Do I understand that you wish to see me?" Stanley presently asked.
"Yes; it was kind of you to come."
"You needn't compliment me, for I mightn't have come had I known whom I had to meet," answered Stanley coldly. "Waterman misled me."
"Anyhow, I'm glad you have come, and so will you be, I think, before you go back. I hope you don't look upon me as an enemy?"
"How else can I look upon you? Have you sent for me to mock me?"
"That's my last wish. I've sent for you to prevent you doing a great wrong to a friend of yours—Paul Percival."
"A friend of mine!" repeated Stanley, scornfully.
"Well, one who was your friend, and who, I hope, will soon be your friend again."
"You have more reason to be thankful to him than I have," laughed Stanley, bitterly. "He ran away from you, and left me with the work he hadn't the courage to go on with. I know that I didn't come very well out of it, but I didn't run away."
"No; you did well—much better than I did. I'm sorry, very sorry, I fought with you. More so, as by fighting you I separated two friends. Often and often I have prayed to be forgiven. It has all been a ghastly mistake."
"Mistake? Percival running away—there wasn't much mistake about that, I'm thinking."
"That is the greatest mistake of all. All of you put it down to fear of me; but it wasn't—far otherwise. I don't believe that Paul Percival knows what fear is; and you, who were his friend, ought to have known that as well as I do."
"So I thought—up till then. After, what could I think? What could any of us think?"
"Your best of him, instead of your worst. Haven't you ever suspected the reason why he would not stand up to me?"
"Never! Why?"
"Blind—blind! Do you remember that Percival on one occasion—during last vacation—helped a gentleman in distress by acting as his messenger?"
"Quite well, seeing that that gentleman was my father."
"Your father? Yes, that was the gentleman, I believe, for whom Percival did this kindness. He was set upon by the way by two ruffians, but managed to escape. Did he ever tell you how he managed it?"
"By hiding down a well."
"Right! But there was a boy who helped him to this queer hiding-place. That boy was me!"
"You?"
"Yes. On the day Percival came to the sand-pits to meet the champion of the Beetles, he little knew whom he was to meet. I knew as little whom I was to meet. He looked upon me as one who had saved his life. How could he fight me? So he turned away."
"Why didn't he explain?" asked Stanley.
"And give away his secret, or, rather, your father's secret, before that mob of boys? You—you ask that?"
"But after——"
"After? From what he has told me, he made more than one effort to explain to you, but you would never listen to him."
It was true enough. Stanley remembered it all—the effort Paul had made to speak to him immediately after the fight, and later. Everything was now clear. How noble Paul had been! How he had wronged him! He covered his face with his hands. He could not speak. Wyndham respected his silence.
At length he placed his hand upon the bowed shoulder. Stanley did not shrink from it.
"I'm sorry if I've caused you pain; but it was the only way. Mischief is being done. You must prevent it from going any further."
"I will—I will! You can trust me," cried Stanley, fervently. "Paul, Paul, how I've wronged you!"
"I'm glad you see that. You will make it up with him—you will be friends with him once more?"
"Yes, yes; if he will have my friendship. But I don't deserve it. I deserve kicking. It was kind of you to take so much trouble."
Wyndham turned on his heel, but as suddenly turned round again.
"Would you mind taking my hand, Moncrief?" he said.
Stanley took it in his, and shook it heartily.
"Thanks; I am very sorry it was raised against you. But we understand one another better now."
Stanley wiped away the mist that had somehow gathered in his eyes, and when he could see clear Wyndham had gone.
Then he went in search of Paul, anxious to ask his forgiveness, and undo, as best he could, the mischief that had been done. But he could not find him.
He searched everywhere with the same result. And, what was still more astonishing, his cousin was also missing.
Night came on, and still Paul and Harry were missing from the school.
Mr. Weevil began to get alarmed. It was past ten, and still no news of the missing boys. What had become of them?
What had become of Paul? What was the cause of his absence from the school? Had he heard of the decision come to by his Form, and instead of waiting to be expelled, had he left of his own accord? That was the view of Newall and others of the Fifth.
"About the best thing he could have done," said Parfitt. "It wasn't only the flag business, but there were other things in the background. The Black Book business has never been cleared up, you know."
Parfitt made this remark in his most significant manner, with uplifted eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders.
"That's right. Kick a man when he's down," drawled Waterman. "Parfitt's better at a drop kick than any fellow I know."
The Third were just as much concerned over the disappearance of Moncrief, jun., as the Fifth were over the disappearance of Percival. Stanley was doubly anxious—anxious for Paul, anxious for his cousin.
Could they have gone away together? That was scarcely likely. They were hardly on speaking terms for one thing; and even if the idea of running away from Garside had suddenly come into Paul's head, it was not at all likely that he had induced Harry to run away with him. What, then, had happened?
While the school was thus anxiously awaiting news of the missing boys, we will try to explain what had really happened.
Paul knew that a meeting of his Form had been called, and that he and his doings were to be discussed, probably censured. When would the time arrive that he might take steps to defend himself? When would his lips be unsealed? How much longer would Mr. Moncrief keep him in suspense, and what had become of Zuker?
Unconsciously Paul had strayed from the school to the garden where Hibbert had, not so long since, fallen asleep—in the sleep that knows no waking. He sat for a long time under the tree, thinking of these things, with no one to disturb his thoughts, save the birds that fluttered around him as they used to flutter around Hibbert.
What had become of Hibbert's father? Again and again the question came to him, and he could not dismiss it from his thoughts. He thought of the strange circumstance under which he had last seen him—of that weird scene in the cave with the man Brockman. All that had happened at that interview was fixed indelibly on his memory. He could see Zuker tracing with his finger on the chart the passage of the Dutch to the Medway—could hear his voice as he described all that had happened as they broke the chain on the river and advanced on Upnor Castle. Then—then had followed the strange appearance of the master, and the still stranger interview between him and Zuker.
Was the cave still there? Often and often a strong desire had seized Paul to go there again, but he had resisted it. Now, however, as he thought of all that had happened on the evening he went there, the impulse grew so strong upon him that he could wrestle with it no longer. He must respond to its call.
So, as one under some mighty spell, Paul passed from the garden, and was soon on his way to Cranstead Common.
It was beginning to get dusk as he followed the trail along which he had once followed in the footsteps of Mr. Weevil. After travelling some time in the direction of the river, he came to the thickly-wooded part, where the master had disappeared.
Searching amongst the brambles, he found the curious division which marked the centre, and placing his hand beneath the bushes as before, he was not long in finding the ring that was attached to the circular opening. Raising it, he entered again the sloping tunnel cut in the sandstone.
Though he had only been in that tunnel once before, he had travelled along it so often in imagination since that it seemed to him he was on familiar ground. He had hesitated when he first entered it. He knew not whither it would lead him, what dangers might meet him on the way. He hesitated no longer. Still he walked cautiously, with his hands before him, like a blind man in the darkness, until it began to broaden. Once he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and he came to a sudden pause. Was some one really following him, or was it only the echo of his own footsteps?
He listened attentively, but could hear nothing. It was as silent as the tomb.
"My ears must have deceived me," he told himself, as he continued his way.
Presently he came to that part of the tunnel where a faint film of light penetrated into it, and again the fantastic shadows he had before seen seemed to menace him at every footstep he took. The cave, then, was not deserted. It was still inhabited by some one. Who? Zuker and Brockman—the same tenants as before, or had some one else come into possession?
Yes, there was the curtain, partly concealing the main entrance to the cave. To reach it, he crawled on hands and knees as before, and peered through the space between the curtain and the wall.
There was no anthracite fire burning this time. It was dimly lighted by one of the lamps suspended from the roof. There was no sign of life. The place seemed deserted.
Paul waited for a long time listening. No sound came from the cave. It was as silent as the tomb. But as he listened, he thought that he could again hear the sound of a light step behind him, coming along the path he had travelled.
Was it possible that some one else had entered the tunnel? Surely the master had not again followed unconsciously in his footsteps? Paul turned his head and listened, but it was as silent in that direction as the other.
"I'm getting as nervous as a kitten," he laughed to himself. "My ears have again deceived me."
No one appeared to be in the cave. Mr. Moncrief had said in his letter that he knew about Zuker's movements. Could it have been that he had been arrested? It was just possible. Anyhow, he would like to have a nearer view of the cave. There could be no danger, and if there were, it was worth the risk.
So Paul rose from his hiding-place behind the curtain, and stepped cautiously into the cave. The guns and cutlasses were still hanging on the wall, but the models and designs had gone, and the photographic camera had gone from its niche.
There was a passage on the other side of the chamber similar to the one through which he had come.
"Where does that lead to, I wonder?" thought Paul.
There could be no harm in exploring it a little way. He might just as well know where it led to, if it were possible to find out. The information might be useful. Paul was animated with the adventurous spirit of the explorer, which knows no rest until it is satisfied. He crossed to the opening. At the moment he reached it, a figure emerged from the darkness, and confronted him. It was Zuker.
It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Paul could not move. He stood there as one rooted to the spot. Before he could move, the man had sprung upon him with the swiftness of a tiger, and seizing him by the throat, dragged him to the light.
"You!" he cried. "The boy from Garside. Your name is——"
"Paul Percival," gasped Paul, as the fierce grip relaxed.
"Paul Percival.Ach Himmel!It is Fate itself."
He had in turn shrunk back, as though Paul were no longer a being of flesh and blood, but a phantom. Then he murmured hoarsely to himself: "Weevil was right. The hand of a Higher than man is in it."
In the uncertain light he had not at first recognized Paul; but now he saw him, and knew that just as he had once been face to face with the father at a supreme crisis in his life, now he was face to face with the son. Had Paul seized that moment of stupefaction, he might have escaped, but he made no effort. And the moment passed.
"Who showed you this place? Who brought you here?" demanded Zuker, himself again.
"No one; I found it out myself."
"How?"
"That is my secret."
Zuker's hand went to his breast, to a weapon concealed there.
"Be careful how you answer, boy. You're not now in school, and you haven't a school-master to deal with. Is this the first time you've been here?"
"No."
Zuker started in spite of himself.
"Not the first time! How many times have you been here before then, may I ask?"
"Once."
"Ach!Now I understand. It is through you my plans have been defeated. It is through you my man—meinBrockman—has been arrested. It is through you that I have scarcely dared venture from this hole for two days past. You have been a mean, dirty spy."
"As you were to my father when I was a child." The words were upon Paul's lips, but he forced them back. Then aloud, "I've not been a spy. I've told no one."
Zuker looked searchingly into Paul's face.
"Who has told, then—who has given information to the police, to what is called your Secret Investigation Department—if it is not you?"
Paul was silent. He now understood Mr. Moncrief's letter. It must have been Mr. Weevil who had given information to Mr. Moncrief, it must have been he who had kept him informed of Zuker's doings. Mr. Weevil was not a traitor to his country, after all. Nay, it seemed as though he had striven, in his peculiar way, to defend it against traitors.
"Silent, eh? I can see what you've told me is false. You have worked against me from the first. It was you who outwitted me once before. It was you who got that packet through to the man who has always stood between me and my plans, the Admiralty man, Moncrief. All would have been over; I should have got all through had it not been for that.Ach Himmel, you will not have the chance of blabbing any more secrets! I have you now—tight in the Fox's Hole—and you will not leave it alive. Let me see what your school is good for. I will give you five minutes to get ready forsterblichkeit.Ach, it is a long word! Do you know what it means?"
Paul knew what it meant. It was the German word for mortality.
"Thank you," answered Paul simply. "That is longer than my father had when he was called upon to die, and it should be enough for me."
Zuker's hand trembled as it fingered the weapon concealed in his breast. Paul closed his eyes, and repeated in a low, yet clear voice:
"'Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us——"
"Halt! Stop!" cried Zuker hoarsely. "You spoke of your father just now—how he died. Tell me quickly how it was."
"He was drowned, in saving the life of a man who had robbed him."
"Ach!And do you know who that man was?"
No answer came from Paul's lips for several seconds, seconds that seemed as hours. Deep silence reigned in the cave, then it was broken by the clear voice of the boy:
"Yes; I know who that man was. He called himself Israel Zuker."
Zuker could not repress a movement of astonishment as Paul pronounced his name.
"Knowing this—knowing that it was through me your father lost his life, you could yet say that prayer—'As we forgive them that trespass against us'? You are as brave as your father was," came hoarsely from his lips.
"I could wish no greater praise than that," answered Paul. "But I had not finished. Shall I go on?"
"You need not be in so great a hurry. Wait till I tell you. I have one or two more questions to ask you. How did you come to know that I was the man who spied upon your father—the man through whom he lost his life—the man——Ach!" He stopped himself suddenly. His brow darkened; the veins stood out in knots upon his forehead. "Fool! Why didn't I guess it? I see it all now. It is your master—it is Weevil who told you. It is Weevil who has betrayed me."
His hand went to the weapon in his breast again.
"No, you are mistaken; Mr. Weevil has told me nothing. He has not betrayed you."
"You are telling me false. You are trying to mislead me. Beware! No one else knew my secret. Who else could tell you?"
"I learned it from a little fellow whom I loved as a brother, and who loved me as a brother, too. Alas, he is now dead! We called him Hibbert."
"Hibbert—my son!" Zuker's voice softened wonderfully as the words passed his lips; then it hardened again, as he demanded: "How was it my son came to betray me?"
"It was after that accident on the river. Perhaps you have forgotten? It was I who helped him back to the school. And the dear little chap was always so grateful for it—always made such an awful fuss about it. That was his way—ever so much too sensitive and grateful. Poor little chap!"
Paul brushed the back of his hand quickly across his eyes; and somehow the man did the same.
"Well, I was often with him after that," he presently continued. "He felt that he would never get well, I think, and I could see that he suffered a good deal from something he had on his mind. I never guessed what it was; but one night, when I was sitting beside him, he told me that he could not sleep because of it, and he felt that if he didn't speak, God would never forgive him. That's how it was he came to tell me that you, Israel Zuker, were his father."
"I see—I see! Now I understand!"
Zuker strode across and across the chamber, as though uncertain how to act. At length he disappeared into one of the recesses of the cave, evidently used as a storehouse, and almost as instantly appeared again with a coil of rope in his hands.
"For all you did for my son, I spare your life; but I must keep you here for a few hours. My safety depends on it."
Paul knew that it was useless to protest. He knew well enough that Zuker had the power of shooting him as a dog, and he was not the man to stand any nonsense. So he allowed himself to be bound; and when he had bound him, Zuker brought out some cushions from the recess, and placed Paul on them.
"There! I am making you as comfortable as circumstances will permit," he said. "Gute nacht—good-night. Remember Israel Zuker again in your prayers.Ach!it was good of you to be kind to my boy when others so mocked and hated him. Adieu!"
With these words, he passed swiftly out by the way he had come. Paul rested for a few minutes, thinking quietly over the strange interview through which he had just passed. It was kind of Zuker to spare his life, but he did not much appreciate the prospect of lying there, bound hand and foot, for several hours—nay, it might so happen that Zuker would never return.
His last words had an odd sound. It was difficult to know what he meant by them. He might have an intention of returning, or he might not. Perhaps he was uncertain himself. He knew well enough that he might be arrested at any moment, just as his confederate had been. In that case he (Paul) might lie there, bound hand and foot, for days and nights, gradually getting weaker and weaker, and finally dying of starvation. The prospect was not a very agreeable one.
So Paul determined to do his best to free himself of the coils that bound him. He was a strong boy, and struggled might and main to loosen them; but Zuker seemed to have tied them with devilish cunning. Struggle as Paul would, he was unable to loosen them. And the more he struggled, the more the rope cut into his flesh.
"My! The tightest knots I've ever struck," said Paul, as he lay back gasping.
"Paul!"
What was that? An echo, or some one calling him by name?
"Paul!"
There it was again. Surely it was some one calling him. He tried to turn his quivering limbs in the direction whence the voice came. Was he awake or was he dreaming?
The figure of a boy was creeping towards him—creeping, as it seemed to him, from the shadows in the tunnel. Who—who was it? Was it really a being of flesh and blood? At first it seemed to him that it must be the wraith of the little fellow about whom he had been speaking—Hibbert—but even as the thought filtered through his mind the boy was kneeling beside him, looking anxiously into his face.
It was Moncrief minor.