"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?