Murdoch opened and read the words written upon it.
"If you are Stephen Murdoch's son, I must see you. Come with the child."
There was no signature—only these words, written irregularly and weakly. He had never met with an adventure in his life, and this was like an episode in a romance.
"If you are Stephen Murdoch's son, I must see you."
He could scarcely realize that he was standing in the narrow, up-hill street, jostled by the hands shouting and laughing as they streamed past him through the gates to their work.
And yet, somehow he found himself taking it more coolly than seemed exactly natural. This morning, emotion and event appeared less startling than they would have done even the day before. The strange scene of the past night had, in a manner, prepared him for anything which might happen.
"Who sent it?" he asked of the boy.
"Th' woman as lodges i' our house. She's been theer three days, an' she's getten to th' last, mother says. Con tha coom? She's promist me a shillin' if I browt thee."
"Wait here a minute," said Murdoch.
He passed into the works and went to Floxham.