M. O. OF BEETLES.
M. O. OF BEETLES.
in other words—The Mystic Order of Beetles.
Plunger rubbed his eyes. Was he awake or sleeping? He was wide enough awake, but he could not at once grasp the situation. What did it all mean?
The reader has doubtless made a better guess at what had happened than Plunger. It was in this way. Mellor and Crick, the two boys who had gained possession of the Garside flag, had found a good deal of amusement at first in making surreptitious visits to the barn, and dancing round their capture, but they soon began to long for something more exciting. Truth to tell, the capture had not made the sensation in the ranks of the enemy they had anticipated—so at least it seemed to them. They had expected early reprisals, but none had come. So, after they had performed a war-dance round the flag with their companions five or six times, Mellor yearned for something more exciting. So did Crick. So did the others.
"The Gargoyles don't seem to worry much about the flag after all," said Mellor, thoughtfully wiping his brow, after the last of these spirited exercises round the Garside standard.
"Not a bit. Seems to me they're only too glad to get rid of the wretched thing," remarked Finch, one of the boys who had been envious of the daring capture.
"Are they? That's all you know, Finch," retorted Mellor, angry that his remark should be taken so literally. "If we could only see them, we should find them tearing their hair and gnashing their teeth."
"Then why don't they come after their property and try to get it back again?"
"Because they don't know for certain who's got it. They're lying low."
"Well, we'd better do the same. I can't see much fun in hopping round the wretched rag. Why the Gargoyles should make so much of it I can't make out."
"That's because you've never been at Garside. I dare say if we'd been left a flag like that by an old school-fellow who had made a name for himself, we should have been as proud of it as they are. It was worth getting just to set those bounders back a bit. I should like to see you do what Crick did, Finch!"
There were murmurs of approval at this, and Finch subsided into silence. Nevertheless, when Mellor began to reflect, there seemed to be a good deal of force in Finch's observation. There wasn't much fun, after all, in hopping round "the wretched rag." So he thought of a way to improve matters. Once or twice the idea had occurred to him of establishing a society calling itself the "Mystic Order of Beetles," and using it for the benefit of the rivals who had bestowed upon them so contemptuous a title.
Directly he mentioned it to his companions it was hailed with enthusiasm.
What could be better than making some of those wretched Gargoyles eat humble pie under the very flag they were so proud of? So amongst them they designed an appropriate costume for the "Mystic Order of Beetles," and the meeting-place and dressing-room were arranged in the barn.
So the society was started. Having started it, the next thing was to capture some of the enemy. In order to accomplish this interesting purpose, a band of scouts was established for the purpose of reporting on the movements of the enemy at the first favourable opportunity. It so happened that this was on the very day that Paul went to Wyndham to make inquiries about the flag.
The scouts were rather disappointed when they found, from their post of observation on the other side of the hedge, that the boy making his way to St. Bede's was Percival. There had been already one trial of strength with him which had not been entirely successful. Besides which Wyndham had championed his cause, and they were bound to respect Wyndham's opinion. Furthermore, the fame of Paul's heroism had reached St. Bede's, as the reader has seen, and they had lost their former contempt for him. They were therefore on the point of turning disconsolately away when their eyes were gladdened by the sight of Plunger and Harry following Paul.
Here were the prizes they had longed for. The enemy was delivered into their hands.
So the scouts had carried off their prisoners to the barn, where their comrades were waiting them. What followed we have seen.
Plunger and Harry looked on the extraordinary circle which surrounded them in wonder. No word fell from the Beetles. They stood perfectly still, as though enjoying the surprise which their extraordinary appearance had created in the breast of their prisoners.
"I say, you are a rum lot!" Plunger at length burst out. "Mystic Order of Beetles! Ha, ha!"
He burst into a wild fit of laughter, but his laughter was suddenly checked by a resounding thud upon the shoulders. He then discovered that the Beetles standing around him were armed with sheepskin bladders attached to sticks. They did not hurt much, but the noise they made was considerable.
"Silence! Thy mirth is unseemly," came from the chief of the circle, who was no other than Mellor. "Remember, that thou hast been admitted to the Mystic Order of Beetles, and hast promised by the sacred emblem above thee to be true to the cause."
The sacred emblem above! The prisoners looked up. There was a flag hanging from the roof of the barn—a tattered flag. Plunger rubbed his eyes. Surely it was the old flag—the flag of Garside?
"Why—why—that's—that's——"
"Silence!"
The bladders came down in a perfect shower on Plunger's head and shoulders. As for Harry, he could not speak. The sight of the flag had smitten him dumb.
"Thou hast promised to be true to the cause," repeated the chief solemnly. "Should'st thou ever dare to break the vow, thou wilt be haunted for the rest of thy life—haunted sleeping and waking by the Beetles thou hast betrayed! Describe the mystic circle."
Describe the mystic circle! What in the name of wonder was that? The bladders descended upon Plunger as he stood in the centre of the ring with his companion, wondering what was expected of him.
"I—I don't know any mystic circles," he stammered in despair.
"On hands and knees—quick!"
Plunger hastened to obey the command.
"Crawl round the mystic circle three times."
Plunger would have refused had he dared, but he dared not; so, amid a good deal of suppressed laughter from the Beetles standing round him, he crawled round the circle three times.
"Rise, brother!" commanded Mellor, when he had accomplished this feat.
Plunger gladly sprang to his feet.
"Give him the mystic tap."
Thwack—thwack came the bladders on Plunger's devoted head. And Plunger almost regretted that he had risen. Harry went bravely through the same ordeal. This accomplished, the Beetles joined hands, and galloping wildly around the two boys, chanted:
"Beetles of the mystic band,Wind we round thee, hand in hand;Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's callRest not, pause not, hither crawl;Or to the realms of creepy-crawley,Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee!"
"Beetles of the mystic band,Wind we round thee, hand in hand;Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's callRest not, pause not, hither crawl;Or to the realms of creepy-crawley,Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee!"
As this incantation went on, Plunger and Harry had a lively time inside the mystic circle. By the dexterous application of a knee or a shoulder, Plunger would be sent with a run in one direction, while Harry would be sent flying in another. They were whirled about from this side to that like indiarubber balls. Then of a sudden they would find themselves closely embracing each other in the centre of the ring, only to be sundered again, and sent flying in another direction.
At length the "Brethren of the Mystic Order" stopped breathless, much to the relief of Plunger and Harry.
"Keeper of the Portal conduct our newly-made brothers to the door."
The Keeper of the Portal, Crick, conducted them to the door.
"The time has come to say farewell—for the present," said Mellor, as they all gathered round the door. "Don't forget that thou art pledged to us by the bonds of our noble order. In token whereof, give them the mystic wallop."
The bladders came down with a resounding thwack on the newly-made brethren, during which the Keeper of the Portal opened the door. Plunger and Harry darted through. Roars of laughter followed them, but they did not look back. They did not pause till they were well on the road to Garside.
"I say, Moncrief minor," said Plunger, drawing up breathless, "we've dropped in for a fine thing."
The same idea had occurred to Harry, but he was not so ready to admit it.
"How do you mean?"
"Why, we've joined hands with the enemy—the Beetles. There's no getting out of it."
"I suppose there isn't," answered Harry gloomily.
They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then Harry glanced round, as though half fearful that some one was following, and whispered:
"I say, Plunger."
"Well, what is it?"
"Did you notice the flag we were standing under?"
"The flag we were standing under?" repeated Plunger innocently. "Well, not particularly. What was it like?"
"Like! I believe it was the school flag!"
"You don't say so. Never!"
"I'm positive it was."
"The school flag? This is awful! Couldn't you have let me know? What a duffer you are! I would have sacrificed my life to get that flag! I wouldn't have stood their nonsense like I did had I thought that was our flag. I would have fought them till my last breath. Why—why didn't you let me know?"
"I thought you did know."
"And to think that I crawled to them—crawled, with the flag of the old school looking on. It's nothing to you—you're only a fresher from Gaffer Quelch's; but to me, Plunger, it's—it's——" Not being able to find a word strong enough to express his meaning, Plunger suddenly turned on Harry again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Moncrief minor, letting me make such an ass of myself."
"How could I help it, Freddy. They made an ass of me too."
"There you go again, always poking your wretched self in. What does it matter to you? You don't count at Garside. I do—that's the difference. I wish you wouldn't look at these things from such a selfish point of view. You're always thinking of yourself—a miserable fresher, as I've said, from Gaffer Quelch's. If it ever gets about the school that I've been made a Beetle under the Garside flag, what will the fellows think of it? I shall never hear the last of it. I shall be roasted all round."
"And serve you right, too!" cried Harry, losing his temper. "A jolly good roasting will do you good. It'll take some of the bounce out of you. If it hadn't been for you, we shouldn't have got into this mess."
"What do you mean?" demanded Plunger hotly.
"It was all through playing the spy on Percival. If it hadn't been for following him, those Beetles wouldn't have got hold of us."
"Come, that's good. Your cheek's superb. That's the only thing you seem to have brought with you from Gaffer Quelch's. Who was it suggested we should follow Percival? Was it me, I should like to know, or one of the little prigs from Gaffer Quelch's?"
Harry could not immediately respond. He had forgotten for the moment that the suggestion to follow Percival had come from him. But after a moment's reflection he answered lamely:
"Yes; but it was you who caught sight of Percival as he was on the road to St. Bede's and put the suggestion in my head."
"Well, of all the bosh——Oh, shut up, or put on a strait-waistcoat. You're getting dangerous," said Plunger crushingly, seeing that he had "scored."
Harry, indignant with himself, Plunger, and all the world, went on ahead. But after a bit Plunger caught up to him.
"You needn't get into a wax because I set you right just now. I flatter myself there aren't many chaps can score over me when I choose to set about them. It's not your fault that you've got too much of Gaffer Quelch's seminary for boys and girls about you. I had it for the first term at Garside, but I soon grew out of it. And you'll grow out of it, too. Fact is, Harry, neither of us is to blame for falling into the hands of the Philistines—Beetles, I mean. Let's put the blame on the right shoulders."
"And the right shoulders are——"
"Percival. It was through following him we fell into that beastly trap, and it seems to me—though I don't like to say it—that Percival has a good deal to answer for. What was he doing at St. Bede's? What was he doing with that fellow, Wyndham, who knocked about your cousin so unmercifully at the sand-pits? Did you notice what good terms they were on—Wyndham with his arm tucked through Percival's."
Harry had seen it all, and as Plunger was speaking he recalled that other scene he had striven so hard to forget—when he had seen Percival and Wyndham together near the school. He had tried to put that from him, especially since the heroism Percival had shown on the river. But now it all came back with a rush. There was not the slightest doubt that Percival and Wyndham were on terms of friendship. No one who had witnessed the scene that he and Plunger had witnessed could question it. What did it mean? There was something behind it all.
"Yes, I noticed it, Freddy," he slowly answered. "It puzzles me, and I don't know what to make of it." Then looking up quickly, as though a sudden suspicion had come to him, he blurted out: "I say, is it possible that—that——No, I can't say it—it's too horrid."
"Out with it. There's no one to hear you but me. Remember, we're both in the same boat."
"No one to hear me but you," said Harry, looking quickly round. "And I shouldn't like anybody to hear but you; it's a horrid suspicion that came into my mind just now. There must be something between Percival and Wyndham, that's certain. I've tried not to believe it; but it's no use trying to shut our eyes to facts. Can it be that Percival's plotting against his own school, can it be that he is betraying us to the enemy—those beastly Beetles?"
"Funny! Just the same thing's been running through my mind. Can it be that he's betraying us to the enemy, and can it be"—here Plunger's voice dropped to a whisper, as though he feared the very hedges might overhear him—"that it was he who hauled down the school flag and handed it over to the Beetles?"
"No, no; I can't believe that," cried Harry, clasping his hands over his face, as though to blot out the suspicion.
"And I've been trying not to believe it, but what else are you to make of it? A Beetle couldn't have got to the turret and taken the flag off his own bat. There must have been some one helping him who knew all about the school. If it wasn't Percival, who was it? What are we to think after what we've seen?"
So it came about that while Percival had been doing his best to trace out where the school flag had gone, so as to return it to its old place of honour on the turret, the suspicion came into the minds of these two boys that he was betraying the school.
Even at the moment that this suspicion was born, Paul was sitting by the bedside of Hibbert, with the boy's hand in his. Hibbert had been talking, but the tired eyes, which shone out so brightly from the wan face, had begun to close. Yet the hand still held fast to Paul's. And as Paul looked down lovingly on the face, he murmured to himself the words he had spoken to Wyndham that afternoon—"The link between us kept me strong when all Garside was against me."
And Paul had need of strength, for the battle had not yet ended.
The improvement in the school's attitude to Paul did not last long. The Garsiders who had come over to him with a swing, for some reason swung back with the same alacrity. The juniors who had cheered him to the echo in the dormitory now passed him without a word.
Fortunately, Paul's mind was too much occupied just then with other matters to take much notice of this change. First and foremost in his thoughts was Hibbert. Would he pull through? The progress he made was very slow—if, indeed, it could be called progress. One day he seemed stronger, the next found him as weak as before. A curious thing had happened on the afternoon Paul returned to the school after his interview with Wyndham. Mr. Weevil had sent for him to his room. Paul thought that it was to reprimand him for something or other. He was agreeably surprised, therefore, when the master motioned him to a chair, and in a kindly voice, altogether unlike his "school voice," bade him sit down.
"I understand that you've visited Hibbert once or twice," he began, regarding Paul through his half-closed eyes.
"Now it's coming," thought Paul. "He's going to forbid me visiting Hibbert." Then, aloud: "Yes, sir. I hope you've no objection."
"I did object at first to visitors of any kind, because I thought it would do the lad more harm than good. But I think the objection may be withdrawn as far as you're concerned."
Paul could scarcely believe his ears. Had he heard Mr. Weevil aright?
"He seems to look forward eagerly to your visits, more than to the visits of anybody"—a sigh, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, escaped the master's lips. "It would be cruel to debar the poor little fellow from any pleasure we can give him. Therefore, Percival, I hope you will understand that you are quite at liberty to visit him when you feel inclined."
"It is very kind of you, sir, and I am deeply grateful."
"You will be careful, of course, not to make your visits too long, or not to unduly excite him."
"Oh, yes, sir; I'll be careful of that."
Paul rose to go, thinking the interview at an end. As he did so, the master placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"You have been very good to the boy—God will reward you! The fear sometimes oppresses me that he will not get over this illness."
The half closed eyes were blinking in a curious fashion. Indeed, Paul saw what was suspiciously like a tear slowly making its way down the cheek of the master. His emotion was no longer a mystery to Paul. Hibbert's revelation had thrown a light upon it. He now knew that the man whom he had regarded as without emotion—as one wrapped up completely in his equations and scientific formulæ—had yet a deeply human side. Hibbert was the son of his dead sister, and he loved him—loved him with a love that was a hundred times greater than that which the boy's own father had ever bestowed on him. And Paul learnt a lesson in that brief interview which he never forgot—that lying deep down in the hearts of most men, sometimes overladen by rust, sometimes in the midst of decay, may frequently be found a vein of purest gold.
"Don't say that, sir. He was looking better the last time I saw him. He will pull round as soon as he can get out a bit."
"I hope your words will come true, Percival; but he's so frail. If he were only strong like you—but there, it's useless talking. It must be as God wills." Then his voice changed to its old frigid tone.
"You can go, sir."
Thus abruptly dismissed, Paul went out.
"Weevil's a puzzle," he said to himself. "I'm as far off knowing him as ever I was; but there seems to be some warm blood in him, and that's something. I thought he was all pothooks and hangers at one time; but he can't be as bad as that. That shows you shouldn't go by appearances. He's not half as black as I painted him."
Paul was very pleased that he could now visit Hibbert without restriction, and that same night he visited him, much to the boy's joy, and sat by his bed, as we have seen, till he slept.
Thus it was Paul took little heed of the school's attitude towards him for the next few days. Then an incident happened which was to absorb his attention still more. Thinking of Mr. Weevil, and his recent interview, his mind went naturally back to that evening when, devoured with curiosity, he had followed him to Cranstead Common. The more he thought of it, the more he wondered what could have become of him on that night he had so strangely disappeared from view before his very eyes. The ground had not swallowed him up, for he had returned to school that same night. What, then, was the meaning of it?
Paul had promised himself that he would make an effort to find out; so, as he had heard nothing from Wyndham, he seized the first opportunity that occurred to visit that part of the common where the master had disappeared. He followed the trail which the master had pursued in the direction of the river until he came to the thickly-wooded part where the trees, furze-bushes, brake, and bramble grew in wild profusion.
This was the spot where he had lost sight of him. At first Paul could see nothing but the brambles. Examining the place more minutely, he found the bushes curiously divided in the centre. Feeling beneath them, his hand came in contact with cold iron. It was a ring, attached to a circular piece of wood, rusty and moss-grown, so that in appearance there was little to distinguish it from the undergrowth. He found little difficulty in moving it.
He thought at first that it would prove to be the entrance to a well, similar to the well in the ruins where he had hidden on the night he had fled from Zuker; but to his amazement he discovered that it was no well, but led to a sloping tunnel cut in the sandstone. That then was the place where the master had so suddenly disappeared. For what purpose? And where did it lead? It was impossible to tell without exploring it. Should he make the venture? Should he enter it?
Paul hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. The next he entered the tunnel, cautiously drawing over the lid which concealed it. The passage in which he found himself sloped downward, and was at first scarcely large enough to allow him to walk upright. Little of light penetrated into it, and he had, therefore, to walk cautiously along, like a blind man, making sure of every step he took.
Presently the path seemed to broaden. Extending his arms to their full extent Paul could just feel the walls on either side. He proceeded still more slowly, straining his ears to catch the sound of footsteps. All was silent. It was the silence of the tomb.
"My stars, what a queer place! I wish I could only strike a light, so as to have a peep at it," thought Paul. "What can Mr. Weevil do down here? It isn't a cheerful place, even for a man who happens to be very much in love with his own society."
He came to a sudden pause. What was the use of exploring the tunnel further? He could see nothing, hear nothing. So where was the use of groping along in the darkness? It was folly, especially when he might be precipitated at any moment into some hidden chasm. But folly though it might be, Paul could not turn back. A mysterious voice within him seemed to be urging him on. If Mr. Weevil had passed along that tunnel in safety, why shouldn't he? It must have an outlet somewhere, and Paul grew more and more curious to find out what that outlet could be.
"I feel very much like an explorer in darkest Africa," he smiled to himself. "Shall I be coming across an unknown lake presently, or a race of pigmies? Hallo! What's that? Light at last."
Light it was but of the faintest. It came with a faint streak into the tunnel. The darkness was only darkness before, but now fantastic shadows seemed to menace Paul at every footstep he took. Feeble though the light was, it was enough to show him that the tunnel had broadened considerably. Stepping warily along, the light grew stronger at every step, until he at length discovered that the path along which he was so cautiously travelling led into a cave lit with oil-lamps.
Then he came to a sudden pause again, and his heart beat wildly against his ribs, as he caught the sound of voices. The cave was not empty. There was some one inside. Who?
As he approached nearer he saw that a curtain was partly drawn over the entrance. Paul knew that a false step might betray him.
To lessen the risk of detection, therefore, he crawled on hands and knees to the curtain, and eagerly peered through the space nearest the wall.
The cave looked quite warm and comfortable. A fire of anthracite, which sent out plenty of heat but no smoke, burnt on a hearth cut out of the sandstone. Two or three lamps suspended from the roof diffused an Oriental glow, while several warm bear-skin rugs were scattered over the ground.
A couple of guns and two or three cutlasses were hanging on the wall; and what was more astonishing to Paul, several maps and designs. The nature of these it was impossible for him to ascertain. He further noticed that in one niche of the wall was a photographic camera. In another were ship models, in the third the models of torpedoes, engines, and machinery of various kind.
Paul had taken all this in at a glance. He had not yet seen the occupants of the cave, but there appeared from what he could hear, to be only two. They were conversing in low tones at the far end, where the lights from the lamps dimly penetrated. After a while the conversation became more animated, and the two moved to a table at the centre.
"I think we've succeeded in quieting suspicion," said the foremost of the two. As he spoke the light from the lamp fell full upon his face.
It was Zuker, the German Jew!
Paul's glance turned from him to the other man. It was Brockman, the burly ruffian who had seized the bridle of Falcon on the night of his flight to Redmead—the ruffian who struck the blow which caused the gallant horse's death.
"We've succeeded in calming suspicion for the time being," Zuker was saying, "and that is a great point in our favour; but still we must move cautiously. A false step, and down would fall all my plans like a house of cards. We've been very near discovery once or twice, the nearest was when that youngster got ahead of us with the packet. You remember?"
"Remember! I'm never likely to forget it," said Brockman. "I could never understand how it was the youngster slipped through my fingers."
"Well, it doesn't matter so much as it has turned out, for those Admiralty men—the Hansons—have gone to sleep again. They think that danger is passed, that Zuker, the man they so fear and dread, is out of England."
He chuckled softly to himself. Paul grew colder. He knew well enough the youngster they were referring to, no one better, for it was himself. It was quite clear that the letter he had sent from the school to Mr. Moncrief had never reached him. A staggering suspicion flashed into his mind. He recalled that he had entrusted the posting of that letter to Hibbert. Could it have been that Hibbert had failed him, or worse, could it have been that Hibbert had deceived him? Was he not the son of Zuker? But the suspicion only dwelt in his mind for one brief moment, and he felt indignant with himself that it had rested there so long.
How could he doubt Hibbert, the one boy at Garside who had so clung to him and who was at that moment lying on a bed of sickness?
"Heaven forgive me!" he said to himself; then he caught the voices of the men as they again spoke, and listened eagerly.
"They really believe you're out of England. You're quite sure of that?" questioned Brockman, in his thick, guttural voice.
"As sure of it as you're standing there," answered Zuker. "The search for me went on actively for a fortnight, and then dropped. How should they suspect a hiding-place like this? How should they suspect that when the hounds were in full chase of the fox, he had a hole to retreat to where they could never follow?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled Brockman; "we ought to call it the Fox-Hole. I only wish we had the youngster in it who slipped through my fingers that night on the road to Redmead."
"Do you really?" said Paul to himself. "Well, the youngster's obliged you, and yet you don't seem to be grateful to him."
"Zut! zut!Don't worry about him. He's only a cipher—a pawn in the great game we have in hand. If we win, it'll be for a prize worth winning—fame and fortune," went on Zuker, as he strode to and fro with rapid strides. "Yes, fame and fortune, and we shall have dealt a staggering blow at a country that we hate. The risk is great, but the stakes are greater still, and each day makes our position surer."
"Surer? Do you think so? Sometimes it seems to me, master, that we're standing on the very edge of a deep precipice, and that one day we shall make a false step, and then——"
Brockman did not finish the sentence, but gave a significant shrug of the shoulders which was much more eloquent than words.
"Das ist recht—that is right; I have never hidden from you the danger. It is true that one false step might spoil all my plans, but that only makes the game more worth the winning. And listen, Brockman, we must not make that false step. We made one on that night we let the boy get through with the cipher to Redmead. We must not make another."
Paul's ears tingled as he listened. Notwithstanding the peril in which he stood, his heart beat with joy. The words of Mr. Moncrief came back to him: "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, Paul, but for your country." He had almost forgotten those words in the whirl of events that had since happened at Garside, but now they came flashing back, shining out vividly as a beacon in the darkness around him.
"No; we must not make another," answered Brockman, sending his fist vigorously into the palm of his hand to emphasize his words. There was silence between the two for a moment, then it was again broken by Zuker.
"Those ancestors of yours were dull dogs, Brockman, but there must have been some grit in them to have got up to Chatham. See, they got to this point." Paul could see that a chart was spread out upon the table, and that Zuker was pointing with his finger to a place on it. "Here is the River Medway, which, as you know, can be reached through this tunnel."
The river through that tunnel! Was he awake or dreaming? Paul could scarcely believe the evidence of his ears. His heart thumped so loudly against his ribs that he feared the conspirators might hear him.
"A chain had been drawn across the river, for all England was in a state of alarm at the approach of the Dutchmen," went on Zuker. "Fortifications had been added to Sheerness and Upnor Castle just here."
Brockman bent over the chart and followed the finger of Zuker.
"Just there. And the chain—what happened to the chain?"
"Sheerness was first taken, and then, taking advantage of a spring tide and an easterly wind, the Dutch broke the chain."
"Broke it? But wasn't it fortified?"
"It was guarded by three ships, but the Dutch took them. They played havoc with several other vessels, and advanced with six men-o'-war and five fireships as far as Upnor Castle, where they burned three more. That was good, wasn't it?"
"Splendid! Real pluck! Dull dogs and slow, as you say, but real grit. I'm proud of my Dutch fore-fathers."
It was clear that Brockman, if not himself a Dutchman, was of Dutch descent.
"The Dutch," continued Zuker, "then fell down the Medway—see, in this direction." His finger again went to work over the chart. "They sailed next to Portsmouth; they assaulted Harwich, and then sailed again up the Thames as far as Tilbury—this point here—where they were repulsed. What has been done once can be done again. Why not?"
Zuker, in his excitement, strode over in the direction of the curtain. Paul drew back and waited. Had he seen the curtain move? Did he suspect there was a listener behind? For a moment Paul scarcely breathed. Then he heard Zuker pacing back to the table, and breathed freely again.
"You forget the difference in the times," answered Brockman. "Then there were no ironclads."
"I'm forgetting nothing. Ironclads are useless without the brains behind them. Battles nowadays are won not so much on the battlefield as by the Intelligence Department—the Secret Service"—his voice went almost to a whisper—"the service to which you and I belong."
A cold feeling of horror and repulsion stole over Paul as he listened. He felt as he might have felt in listening to the rattle of a deadly snake. These men were in the Secret Service of another country—spies, collecting material for the enemy—material which might be used at any time with deadly effect against England, dear old England! And as he looked, a mist seemed to rise before him, and suddenly out of the mist he saw a strange picture—the cabin of a ship, a man bending over a dispatch-box, and rapidly turning over the papers within. Then the door of the cabin opened. An officer, with a bronzed, noble face swiftly entered, and seized the spy at the dispatch-box. The spy threw himself at the officer's feet and pleaded for mercy. Paul saw it all as clearly as though it were on a screen before him. Looking at the spy's face, he knew it for Zuker. Looking at the officer's face, he knew it for his father's.
As the scene faded, he felt that he, too, must spring out on Zuker and denounce him. "Spy—traitor! You're the man who tried to betray my father! You are the man who would betray Britain!" By some impulse over which he had no control he tried to shriek out the words. His lips moved, but fortunately no sound came from them.
The next instant he was brought to his senses by the sound of footsteps—footsteps in the tunnel by which he had entered. Instantly he realized the position in which he stood. The new-comer, whoever he was, was probably a confederate of the two spies inside, and would be bound to pass into the cave through the curtain behind which he was hidden. Quick as thought he retreated a pace or two, well out of the light of the lamps, and drew himself close up to the wall.
Nearer and nearer came the footsteps. Presently Paul could just see the shadowy outline of a man's figure. Then he passed him, coming so close that his coat brushed against him. The figure paused. Paul held his breath, and for one brief instant thought that he had been discovered. The next, the curtain was lifted aside, and the new-comer passed inside the cave.
"Ah, Weevil! What news?" came the voice of Zuker.
Weevil! Paul crept again to the curtain, and peered through the side. It was the master, sure enough. He wore a cape, with the collar turned up and buttoned tight round the chin.
"Still the same," answered the master.
"No change?"
"No change to speak of. Sometimes he's a little better; then he goes back again, and is worse. Poor little chap! it makes my heart bleed to see him."
Then Paul knew they were speaking of Hibbert.
"Your heart! What of mine?" exclaimed the man fiercely. "You always speak as though you were the only one who cared for the boy. And a lot of good you've done for him. It was through you I had him trained as an English boy. His mother was English, said you. It was through you he went to Garside, because you could take greater care of him, said you. What care? Himmel, himmel! You let those imps of Satan torture him; through you he has been brought to the door of death."
"Cease, man—cease to torture me!" cried the master.
Paul listened in wonder, not unmixed with awe. He had heard that note of anguish in the master's voice before—on that night when he had seen him by Hibbert's bed; but the face, with the light of the lamp flickering on it, might have been hewn from the limestone. It was as stern and rigid as Fate itself.
"I have no wish to torture you; but it sickens me to hear you speak about that boy as though it were no concern of mine—as though you were the only one who cared for him. I tell you again, I was a fool to let him go to Garside."
No answer came for a few moments. It seemed as though Mr. Weevil were struggling with his feelings. When he at length spoke, his voice was calm again. It had resumed that calm, deliberate tone with which Paul was so familiar.
"I would like to speak to you for a few minutes alone, Israel."
Brockman took the hint, and retreating at the other entrance of the cave, left the two together.
"I wished to speak with you alone, because I have discovered one or two matters which will interest you. You were struck, you may remember, with the name of the boy who saved Tim's life?"
"Yes; what of it?"
"You thought that he might be the son of that Captain Percival who years ago saved your life at the risk of his own. I knew that the boy's father was dead, and on examination of the school-books, I found that he was a naval officer. I was not aware of the circumstances under which he met his death, however. I have since discovered that he was drowned at sea 'whilst trying to save the life of a spy'—pardon me the word, but so the record runs."
"Ach!Is it possible?" came hoarsely from Zuker's lips. "I had my suspicions when I first questioned him."
Paul pressed his ear closer to the side of the curtain. He was anxious not to lose a word of what was spoken, for he knew that he was "the boy" to whom the master was referring; that "Tim" was, of course, Hibbert.
"I have discovered, further, that it was this same boy—Paul Percival—who got through with that letter to Redmead."
"The same? Ach Himmel! I caught but a glimpse of him in the darkness that night."
"The hand of a Higher than man is in it. You cannot escape it. Be warned in time. Give up this scheme of yours; if not for your own sake, for the sake of your son."
"Give up the scheme—the scheme for which I have worked so long. The scheme which, day by day, brings me nearer to fame and fortune. You talk like a madman. It is more to me than life itself—more to me than the life of fifty sons!"
A cry of pain came from Mr. Weevil's lips.
"I know you well enough—you have no love for my scheme. Your heart is in what you call science, and in the boy. You wish to frighten me—frighten me from the work which every day draws nearer to success. Shall I tell you what for? So as to drive me back to the Fatherland that you may keep all to yourself, my boy—the boy of your dead sister. Ach! I see through your scheming!"
"Hush, man—hush! Is it to hear reproaches from your lips that I have risked so much—that I have involved myself in these schemes of yours which may mean my ruin?" Mr. Weevil's voice was stern, fearless; but as quickly turned to a softer key. "Let us not quarrel, Israel. Heaven forbid that we should quarrel over the boy whom we both love in our own peculiar way. Remember that his life is still in jeopardy."
They shook hands, and then Mr. Weevil turned towards the curtain behind which Paul was hidden.
This time Paul did not move—he could not. He was as one rooted to the spot. Fortunately, Mr. Weevil did not come to that side of the curtain where he was crouching, but passed through on the other side. It was not till he had hastened past Paul that the power of movement returned to his limbs. To remain there longer was useless. He had heard enough—more than enough. But he was unable to think clearly in that tunnel. The air seemed to stifle him; he must get outside.
So he followed in the master's footsteps, taking care, however, to keep a good distance between them. At length he reached the entrance. He waited a minute or two, then cautiously lifted the circular piece of wood that covered the entrance, and made his way through the undergrowth to the open.
By that time Mr. Weevil had disappeared from view.
"Am I awake or dreaming?" Paul asked himself, as he drew a deep breath of relief.
It seemed, indeed, like a dream—or, rather, a nightmare—that cave, the two conspirators, the conversation he had overheard about the taking of Sheerness by the Dutch, the advance on Upnor Castle, and, lastly, the appearance on the scene of Mr. Weevil.
What was he to do? How was he to act? He was face to face with the same dilemma that had confronted him when Hibbert had confessed to him his relationship to Zuker. The more he thought of it, the more difficult it seemed to move. He was bound hand and foot by the promise he had made to Hibbert. How could he be false to that promise—how could he give information which might cause his death?
Strange to say, his confidence in Mr. Weevil had grown by what he had overheard at that interview. It was true enough that the master seemed involved in some way in the schemes of Zuker, but it seemed equally certain that he was against them. The words he had overheard were still ringing in his ears: "You wish to drive me back to the Fatherland, and keep all to yourself, my boy—the boy of your dead sister!" Things seemed clearer to Paul. The master's purpose seemed clearer. It was his love for his nephew—for Hibbert—which had involved him in the schemes of Zuker. Paul had disliked and suspected Mr. Weevil, but, curiously enough, he now seemed to understand better than ever he had understood before, and that understanding was to the advantage rather than the disadvantage of the master.
"The hand of a Higher than man is in it." Those were the master's words. They had been spoken from his heart; there was no doubt of that. Though they had failed to move Zuker, they had moved Paul strangely. Yes; the hand of a Higher than man was in it, and the designs of Zuker would certainly be overturned.
"I wish Mr. Moncrief had answered my letter, though," he said to himself, as he returned to the school. It must have miscarried. He determined to question Hibbert about it again that very evening.
So when the evening came he went to the sick-room, and the nurse, who was now in attendance, gladly vacated her place at the bedside to him. As usual, Hibbert had been looking forward to Paul's visit, and the thin white face was at once all sunshine.
"I'm feeling ever so much better," he said, in answer to Paul's inquiries. "I'm feeling quite strong. I shall soon be out again if I go on like this. Do you think the fellows will be pleased to see me?"
"Of course they will!"
"I was never very popular, you see," Hibbert went on thoughtfully. "It was all my fault. I never took any interest in the sports. I mean to be different when I get off this wretched bed—turn over a new leaf; go in for footer, cricket, and that sort of thing. I don't see why I shouldn't do as well as the rest of them, do you, Percival?"
"I don't see why," answered Paul cheerfully.
"And there's a lot of other things I mean to do. Do you know, I've been thinking over so much to-day about our being at the same school—how wonderful it all is that you and I should be at Garside. And when I get out again, do you know what I mean to do?"
Paul shook his head. He was looking at the face, which seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and wondering whether Hibbert would get out again.
"I mean to do my best to pay on that debt my father owed your father—the debt that never has been paid. That'll be something to live for and work for, and God helping me, I'll do it—do it! Don't say that you don't wish it—that you don't want it."
"Certainly not," answered Paul, very softly, falling in with his mood. "You shall do as you think best when you get out again."
There was silence between them for a few moments. Hibbert lay with his hands crossed on his breast and his eyes upturned to the ceiling.
"What have you been doing this afternoon, Percival?" he suddenly asked, as his eyes went back again to Paul's face.
The question took Paul by surprise. How could he tell Hibbert what he had been doing that afternoon—the discovery he had made, what he had seen and what he had heard in the cave?
"Doing?"
"Yes. Half-holiday, wasn't it? I still keep count of holidays, you see."
Hibbert smiled.
"Oh, I went for a walk!"
"By yourself?"
"By myself." Paul could see that the boy's eyes were scanning his face curiously, so he added quickly: "I'm rather fond of walking by myself."
"Have you heard anything about the flag?"
"How did you come to know that it was gone?" Paul asked, astonished, for he had thought it better not to trouble him with the information.
"Oh, Mrs. Trounce told me. I get her to tell me any special news. I like to know what's going on in the school. Matron's a good sort. It was a beastly shame to take the flag, whoever did it. Have they got any clue?"
"Not yet."
"I expect the Beetles had a hand in it. What do you think?"
"I scarcely know what to think. It's a mystery. You haven't been climbing to the turret in your sleep, and hauling the flag down just for the fun of the thing, have you?"
The idea quite tickled Hibbert, for he laughed outright.
"By the by," said Paul, turning the conversation to the purpose for which he had come to that room, "you recollect that letter I gave you to post a few weeks back?"
"Yes."
"You're quite certain you posted it?"
"Quite certain. I think that I said so at the time."
Paul noticed that though Hibbert was quite certain that he had posted the letter he spoke with some hesitation.
"Yes, yes; you said so at the time—that's quite right. But I was wondering whether by any chance you might have given it to some other boy to post."
"No; I put it in the letter-box with my own hands." Hibbert again hesitated for a moment, then added; "Something did happen, but I did not think it worth while to worry you about it."
"What was it?" Paul asked eagerly.
"I was blockhead enough to run full tilt against Mr. Weevil when I got outside, and—and he caught sight of your letter."
"Caught sight of my letter! And what did he do?"
"Made me go to his room. He asked me who sent me with the letter, and I was obliged to tell him. It didn't matter, did it?"
"It didn't matter," repeated Paul, his throat suddenly becoming parched. "Well, well, what happened then?"
"He took the letter to his room, but came back with it in a minute or so and handed it back to me. He said that you had broken the rules of the school in sending off a letter without the knowledge of the masters, but he would overlook the offence, for—for my sake. That's the reason I didn't make a fuss about it to you."
"He said that—Mr. Weevil said that? And he gave you back my letter? You're quite certain it was the same?"
"Oh, quite certain! I thought perhaps he might have opened it, as he said he had a right to, so I looked at it to make sure it was the same. It was the same—in your handwriting. I could tell that anywhere. But what makes you ask? Has it miscarried?"
"I hope not. I haven't had an answer yet—that's all. I dare say I shall get one presently, so don't you worry about it."
To prevent him doing so, Paul turned the conversation again to other matters, and then went out. The information Paul had given him about the letter set him thinking. What had the master done with his letter in the few brief moments he had had it in his possession away from Hibbert? Had he opened it and read it? If so, was the letter he had handed back to Hibbert to post the same letter that he—Paul—had written? to Mr. Moncrief? Hibbert was sure that it was—sure that it was in his handwriting. In any case, a letter had been posted to Mr. Moncrief. What letter was it?
In this state of perplexity, Paul determined to write briefly to Mr. Moncrief again. That was the only way in which all doubt could be ended.
So he wrote a note stating that he had written a letter of some importance a few weeks since, and wishing to know as soon as possible whether or not it had been received. This letter he directed the same as before—"W. Moncrief, Esq., Redmead, Oakville, Kent." He determined that this time he would post the letter himself; so the next day, watching his opportunity, he slipped from the grounds, and posted it at the village post-office.
"It can't go wrong now," he said to himself, as he retraced his footsteps.
Meanwhile, Plunger and Moncrief minor were thrown into a state of great excitement by finding letters awaiting them at the adjacent tuck-shop. Plunger tore the envelope open.
Immediately he drew out the letter and glanced at it he groaned. His groan was echoed by Harry. On the top of Plunger's letter was a rudely-designed facsimile of a cockroach. On the top of Harry's letter was a similarly grotesque design.
Beneath it, in scarcely less grotesque handwriting, as though one of the legs of the cockroach had been dipped in ink and made to trace words upon the paper, was the following:
"Brother of the Mystic Order,—Greeting from the Brethren. Meeting to-morrow afternoon at headquarters. Time, half-past three sharp. Be not absent at thy peril."
Then followed the lines which Plunger so well remembered—the words which had formed part of the incantation of the "Mystic Circle:"