"Hold on a minute. Here's su'thin' fur you, Ensign Russell."
We had all turned at the first sound of the man's tread, fearing we had been spied upon and discovered. But I now knew there was no danger of that kind, for the voice belonged to old Bill Meadows.
"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, annoyed at the interruption.
"Nothin'. Read this here. I've follered yuh all evenin', thinkin' to ketch yuh alone. I gev my word to get it to yuh, fust thing; an' fur my own sake, I tried to do it unbeknownst. But now I must do it anyhow I ken. So take it, an' my compliments, an' I trust yuh to keep mum an' ask no questions, an' furget 'twas me brung it. And I'll keep a shet mouth about these here goings on. Only read it now, fur God's sake."
He had handed me a sealed letter. My curiosity being much excited, I turned to Falconer, and said:
"Will you grant me permission? 'Twill take but a moment."
"Certainly," said he.
"Ay," added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, "it can be allowed, as you're not like to read any more letters."
I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt I could soon answer by deed. The doctor having handed me his lantern, I held it in one hand, the letter in the other. The writing was that of Philip Winwood, and the letter read as follows:
"DEAR BERT:—I have learned what sad things have befallen. You will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment thereof. And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray (or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private one.