"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.