"Let's push on a bit," suggested Ralph. "We are trespassing, and we may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Perhaps we shall find shelter somewhere. Come on, you two, and keep to these open paths. If you get right into that undergrowth, you may do some damage—disturb some nests, or something."
"Right you are, Ralph. I don't think it is much good, though; there seems no sign of life here."
"I will soon see if there is." Ralph paused as he spoke. He put his hand to his mouth and gave a ringing call—one he had learnt from the Indians on the plains. "If any one is about, they will hear that; and, at any rate, they cannot say that we are trying to hide from——"
He stopped and started back, turning as white as death; for from somewhere, ringing through the silences of that preserve, there came a sound, muffled, but clear. It was Ralph's call repeated!
What wonder that he trembled. What wonder that he looked so white. There was but one other person whom he knew who would answer that call in that way; and that one person was his own father!
CHAPTER XXIII THE RUIN AND THE LONELY HOUSE
Just that one cry, ringing wild and plaintive through the wood; and then silence, broken by a loud, angry rumble of thunder.
Ralph stood there trembling, too agitated to speak; and his two chums turned anxiously towards him, bewildered at the change which had come over him.