SHADOWS OF THE EVENING
But too true—the letter had gone. No wonder Paul was bewildered, stupefied. He had risked so much to get that letter to its destination—had braved more than one peril, and come safely through—that it seemed heart-breaking to find the letter gone.
"Have you searched all your pockets?" asked Wyndham.
"All," answered Paul. "It was in this one—here"—he placed his hand upon his breast-pocket. "I put it here when it was given me, and I haven't shifted it."
"Where, then, can it have gone?"
Where? Paul knew well enough that it was in his possession when he left poor Falcon by the roadside, for he had felt in his pocket, and found it there. He must, therefore, have lost it since; but where—where? That was the question he kept repeating to himself without finding an answer. Of a sudden it came to him. It must have been jerked from his pocket at the moment Wyndham caught the handle of the windlass, nearly precipitating him from the bucket to the water.
"I believe it's in the well."
"What?" cried Wyndham. "In the well? How can that be?"
Paul explained.
"You must be right," said Wyndham thoughtfully, when the explanation was ended. "Well, there's one consolation—it's better for the letter to be in the well than you. It's a pity, but it can't be helped. What will you do?"
Paul had been thinking. He could go forward to Mr. Moncrief at Redmead, and explain to him that he had lost the letter, or he could go back, and explain to the other Mr. Moncrief that he had failed in his embassy. Neither alternative was very palatable to him. Duty was before him as a pole-star. A still small voice was ever whispering to him, "Paul, thy duty. Do that in spite of anything that may happen to you. Place that first and foremost, even before self." What, then, was his duty? To confess to failure and defeat? No, never! That was the coward's part. He would not rest satisfied until he had made an effort to recover the letter he had lost, and he told Wyndham so.
"I like your pluck; 'pon my word I do. Didn't think a Gargoyle had so much—really I didn't," said Wyndham; "but it's no use being foolhardy. If the letter's at the bottom of the well, how, in the name of wonder, are you going to get it up again?"
"I don't believe it's at the bottom. The water was pretty thick, I'm certain, by the odour. There would be vegetable stuff, and that sort of thing floating on the top of it. Well, if that's so, the letter wouldn't sink. The gravity of the water would be greater than the weight of the letter."
"Oh, the Gargoyles do go in a bit for physics—eh?" smiled Wyndham. "Fire away. I believe you're right. What's the next step?"
"The next step is to go down the well again, and prove whether I'm right or wrong. Is it asking too much of you to go back with me?"
"You mean going down the well again?"
"If you'll oblige me by again turning the handle."
Wyndham was by this time thoroughly interested in Paul and his mission, and he couldn't help admiring still further his pluck and determination. He never imagined that a despised "Gargoyle" had so much of those qualities. He willingly fell in with Paul's suggestion, and soon they were back again at the well.
"I've forgotten one thing," said Paul. "I haven't a light."
"Luckily I can lend you one. Wait here for a moment."
Paul waited while Wyndham disappeared among the ruins. Presently he returned with a lantern, which he lighted and handed to Paul. Thus equipped, he once more took his position in the bucket.
"Pay out slowly, and I'll tell you when to stop."
The bucket slowly descended till Paul was within a foot or two of the water.
"Stop!" he shouted.
The bucket stopped, then Paul leaned over the side, and flashed the light of the lantern on the water. There, to his great joy, was the missing letter, floating on the weeds. He cautiously leaned forward, and grasping the letter, returned it once more in safety to his pocket.
"Haul away!" he cried.
And Wyndham hauled away, so that a minute later Paul was again at the brink of the well.
"Found it?" asked Wyndham eagerly.
For answer Paul produced the letter. It was slightly damp, but little the worse otherwise for its immersion.
"Well, you deserve it. I'm jolly glad you've found it."
"I should never have got it hadn't it been for you. It was very good of you to turn back with me, and I hope if at any time I can do you a service, you'll let me know."
The two boys tramped on once more to their destination. Wyndham wished Paul good-night at the entrance to Redmead, his home lying in another direction. It was not long before Paul came in sight of Oakville. It was a fine old country house. A light was shining from its gabled front. By its light Paul could see that there was a man hovering about the house. He could not get a clear glimpse of him, but he was certain, from the man's figure and gait, that it was Brockman, the confederate of Zuker, the German spy. Knowing that Paul must come to the house, he had evidently been on the watch for him.
Now that he had come so far, Paul did not intend being foiled at the last moment. He saw that it was useless trying to enter by the front of the house, so he crept round to the back.
A light was coming from one of the windows. Paul made for this window, and looked through. He was scarcely prepared for what he saw. It was evidently a play-room. There was a large rocking-horse in one corner. A trapeze was slung up in the centre. There were single-sticks and foils on the wall, dumb-bells, Indian-clubs, a parallel-bar, and a vaulting-horse stowed away in another part of the room. But it was not so much these things which attracted the attention of Paul as the occupants of the room. A middle-aged gentleman was kneeling. He was praying aloud. Near him was a lady. On either side of her was a girl and boy—the boy about twelve, the girl a couple of years older. In line with them were a couple of maidservants and a governess. Paul could see that they were at family prayers. He guessed that the gentleman who was praying was Mr. Walter Moncrief, the gentleman he had come in search of by his likeness to his brother.
When they had finished prayers, the lady went to the piano, and the little group joined heartily in a hymn Paul had often heard at school:
"Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh,
Shadows of the ev'ning
Steal across the sky."
Paul listened reverently, with bowed head. How appropriate the words seemed to be. In very truth had the shadows been stealing across the sky that evening, and they had not yet dispersed. Brockman, the man without, was still hovering darkly, like a cloud, over that house. Again the singers within raised their voices:
"Through the long night-watches,
May Thine angels spread
Their white wings above us,
Watching round each bed."
Paul echoed those words very earnestly in his heart as his hand clasped tightly the letter for which he had risked so much. The room was an addition to the house, and led by a separate door into the garden. When the singing had ended, Paul stepped softly to the door and knocked gently on it with his knuckles. It was opened by one of the servants. The light of the lamp fell upon Paul as the door opened, and the eyes of all in the room turned to him as he stood there, with the letter in his hand.
"Can I see Mr. Moncrief?"
"I am Mr. Moncrief. What is it you want with me, my lad?" said that gentleman stepping forward.
