Out of the hollow quill I drew a spiral of paper, like what people used to light pipes with—spills, they call them—only quite little, for such pipes as fairies might smoke. And there, written in my father's hand, in a sort of reddish-grey ink, were the words—
"To whoever finds this.—Please to inform Mrs. Yarrow, Breckonside, that her husband has been assaulted, carried off and confined, to compel him to sign papers. Otherwise not unkindly——"
It broke off there, as if something had occurred to bring the writing to a close.
"How did you get this, Peter?" I asked of the Rushworth gamekeeper.
"I will tell you, Joe." (It was marvellous with what suddenness people resumed the "Joe," after calling me "Mister"—or "Master," at least.) "I got 'un off the tail of a jackdaw when I was thinnin' out them rooks up at our old ellums by the hall. Jackdaws flock with them sometimes, you know, Joe."
"But that's no jackdaw's feather," I said; for, indeed, it was much bigger.
Peter Kemp scratched his head.
"No, Joe, it ain't," he said; "and that made me wonder myself. It's a rook's wing feather; but, true as truth, it was sticking out of the daw behind, like the tail of a comet. Perhaps it was that which made me pepper him. It sort of drew the eye, like."
"Well," I told Peter, "that's a message from my father. He's hid somewhere—kept hidden, that is—against his will."
"So I was thinkin'," said Peter Kemp uneasily.