Tom could be concise and to the point in speech as well as Mr. Neeven, and having recovered his usual sang-froid, he explained his appearance in Boden in few plain words.
It was the first Gaun Neeven had heard of his young relative turning Viking, and he was surprised to find a strange something within himself leap and stir warmly at the tale of Yaspard's adventures, even though told in Tom's unvarnished matter-of-fact style. Was it not a like "craze" which had rioted within his own blood when he was a boy, and had sent him out into the world to fight and jostle men, to win renown, and prove his manhood by risking life and limb in all kinds of mad adventure? Nothing had so moved that self-contained, moody man for years, and even obtuse Tom could see that his story had touched some hidden spring of feeling. The stern lines had relaxed, and there was a softer though more intense light in the man's eyes.
Taking advantage of what he would have styled "a melting mood," Tom begged to be allowed to carry his father's letter to its destination. "And after that," he said, "on the honour of a gentleman, I will come back to you, and you can make of me what you please."
"The letter shall go to Mr. Adiesen at a proper hour," replied Mr. Neeven. "He is asleep at present, and I happen to know he is not uneasy about his nephew. You had better lie down on this sofa and finish your own nap, while I finish my walk. Later I will tell you what I require you to do."
He walked out of the room, shutting the door with a key, and leaving Tom a veritable prisoner.
"He might have trusted me," muttered Tom; "but since he hasn't put me on my honour, I shall do my best to escape—— Gracious! what's that?"
The lad was very wide-awake, and not the least inclined to go to sleep again. His exclamation had been caused by a curious sharp barking noise, mingled with plaintive crying, which roused Tom's pity as well as astonishment. He ran to the window, fancying the sounds came from that side, and hoping to see something to explain what they meant. He was not disappointed. The window of the haunted room was not far from that of Mr. Neeven's sitting-room, and at that window Tom saw the same unearthly visage which had startled Yaspard and the Harrisons.
"Whe-e-ew!" whistled Tom, thrusting his fists far down his pockets, as was his wont when the solution of any difficulty penetrated the somewhat "thick skin" which enveloped his remarkably sound and shrewd understanding.
He stood some time staring thoughtfully at the creature, who stared back at him as no lady of modest demeanour ought to have done; but we must not forget that she was a captive, and looking for a deliverer, and therefore to be excused in part.
"Poor soul!" muttered Tom, as the baby's wails once more broke the beautiful silence of that smiling, sun-watched night-time. "It's a horrible shame. I wish I could let them out. It would serve the old boy right. But it's too risky a job for me to undertake by myself. Oh, well! when I get back to Lunda—if I'm not going to be shut up as she is—I'll get the Manse boys to help. Bet Harry Mitchell will devise a way of circumventing both Mr. Neeven and Mr. Adiesen."